It was a dark and stormy night and I was having a hard time walking home. Spending the night drinking at the local Irish pub, "The Four-Loaf Clover" had left me barely able to walk. I didn't manage to dig up any new information on the Croissant case either, so I wasn't in the best of moods. Jack Croissant was once a big name in the underground world of Baked Goods smuggling, but he'd pissed someone important off and he was found dead, stabbed in the bread basket. For the last few months I've been taking as many people related to the case as possible to dinner, trying to coax them into feeding me crumbs of information with fancy wine and upper crust meals. But sitting down and breaking bread with all these white cholla criminals had taken its tole on my wallet and I was reduced to drinking in dingy bars with real gangsters, the chaff of society. I had a real plan when I started this case, but at some point the whole thing went awrye. I was going to have a hard time making rent next month, you learn quickly in this business that bread in the oven is NOT as good as done, no matter what the storybooks say.

Anyway, it was becoming clear that I wasn't going to make it to my crummy apartment on the yeast side of town staggering like a fool, so I decided to hang a left on Ciabatta Drive and crash at my office. I paused at the bottom of the 13 steps to my door and tried to focus on the crusty lettering on the window; I was so toasted I wasn't even sure I had the right building.

-A. Baker, Private Detective-

"Man, I have GOT to get a new sign" I slurred, but I knew there was little point. That would be like putting expensive jam on a stale day-old. After all, my office was a total hole; freezer in winter, oven in summer. But hey, it's cheap and the location is nice enough, half a loaf is better than no bread at all, or so they say.

Some people might think that having 13 steps to your office door would be bad luck, but I've learned not to fear the "Baker's Dozen". Besides, I've always liked going against the grain.

I didn't notice that my door was open until I got to the top. I didn't realize that someone was already inside until I closed the door behind me. When I saw a figure in the shadows my heart stopped. I thought for sure I was gonna get burnt, until she stepped into the light.

This girl was a looker, they broke the mold when they made her, no joke. A real high class pure-bread gal dressed up like a million dollars. She looked so good I barely recognized her.

"Naan??" I asked.

"It's been a while, Adrian."

Naan Pitta, my high school sweetheart.

"How did you get in? What are you doing here? I haven't seen you since the prom back at Miller High."

"I know, I'm sorry to barge in like this."

"The prom... when you left me for that lanky Frenchman. What was his name...."

"Pierre... Pierre Baguette," she replied, "that's why I'm here. He's gone missing."

"The old French stick is missing, eh?" I asked. "And you want *ME* to find him?"

Me? The guy she left high and drye? She was going to have to cough-up some serious dough.

"Yes, I'm sorry but I don't have any choice."

"Any ideas as to where he's gone?" I asked flippantly.

"None, I'm afraid."

I shot her a rye look, "Baguette's been dealing with the Danish Mafia for months, Naan. How can you have no idea? He probably missed a payment and they send Guido over with a rolling pin."

"You....know?.... about the.... sourdough express??"

"The whole world does, baby. It ain't exactly on a knead to know basis."

"Oh God," she said "I'm toast!"

"Wait till you see my bill, Hon."

"What?"

"There's no need to worry about the sour dough, I've got no problem taking dirty money."

"Adrian! You'd charge me? We were together for 4 years!"

"Well I'd love to help, baby, but my time ain't cheap. We'll have to talk about currantcy, I've got pay roll to fill."

"I... I don't have any money, it all went missing with Pierre. Listen... I'm really sandwiched between a rock and hard-place here... I'm... expecting."

"So I'm supposed to give away my valuable time just because you've got a bun in the oven?"

"Oh God." She seemed really upset. "Is that what side your bread is buttered on? Charging old friends when they knead you?"

"Sometimes, but you're not an old friend anymore baby. When you slam the door on the oven, the cake goes flat."

"Adrian... what about all the good times we shared? Help me, it's the yeast you can do!"

"Good times?" I snorted, "All we did was loaf around and get baked."

"God... you've changed Baker. What ever happened to the man I loved... Remember 'flour power'?"

"Don't get me wrong baby, I used to think you were the best thing since sliced bread, but I don't buy that hippy whole-grain lifestyle anymore."

"Are you trying to get a rise out of me Adrian?"

"Of course not, try not to get your pantries in a bunch, Toots. I'm just saying it like it is, that's all." The fool, of course I wanted her to get upset, and I was on a roll.

"Doughn't you care about me anymore???? After all that I've bun for you."

"Look, if you're trying to ingraintiate yourself, it's not working..."

"Focaccia Adrian!! Focaccia and the horse you rode in on! I'm leavenin!"

And with that she stormed out and slammed the door behind her. I poured myself a glass of dark rye and put my feet up on my desk.

"A toast," I said. "Here's looking at you, kid."

I don't think I would have helped her even if I was sober. Some gussied up dame comes in with a half-baked story and expects me to help out for free? Not today, not ever. The fact that she'd crumbled my cookie in high school was... well, the icing on the cake.