The Rusk-napping of Brendan Carmelle, a Biscuit Noir story – Part One

Late one Friday night, I was in my packet on the top shelf of Biscuit Cupboard, enjoying a little bourbon - the drink, that is. I'm no cannibal. I was mulling over past loves and past mysteries. Ah, those Viennese whirl sisters I used to hang around with. Where are they now? Should I give them a call?

All at once, my thoughts were interrupted as a beautiful custard cream walked into my office. The ornate pattern on her pale biscuit skin instantly mesmerised me.

"Are you Max?" she enquired breathlessly.

"Why, I certainly am. Private detective Max Bourbon at your service."

She was certainly anxious about something. I could smell her egg custard odour from my shadowy corner of the office.

"I need your help, Max! We do! Poor old Brendan has gone missing!"

Ah, Brendan Carmelle, an ancient brandy snap as rich as his own recipe, known for his taste in wafer girls and creamy broads. I wondered what he might have done that led to his own kidnapping, who's dream he might have unthinkingly crumbled.

"Are you Jammie?"

"What are you saying? I've had my good fortune, but now my husband has been kidnapped!"

"I meant is your name Jammie?"

"No, that's my sister. I'm Rocky, Rocky Carmelle."

"Well, Mrs Carmelle. I charge fifty dollars a day plus expenses."

"That's fine," she said too quickly, "But call me Rocky."

"Well, Rocky, you'd better take me to the scene of the crime."

We travelled by taxi, its thick angular form and chipped chocolatey exterior swinging and screeching across the floor to Carmelle Mansion, a sprawling neoclassical biscuit tin high up in Kitchen City, well away from prying journos and the hoi polloi.

Up there in the biscuit tin, the moonlight shone through the domed glass lid, illuminating Rocky. I looked at her. She was afraid, and she was beautiful. I tried and failed to get her rich vanilla scent out of my mind. I couldn't afford to fall in love with a woman like that, so I started looking around for clues. However, instead of an imposing elderly brandy snap in the wheelchair, there was nothing but a few fragments of biscuit. It was a crummy clue, but it was all I had.

I examined the fragments. Interesting. There were pieces of fragile brandy snap and soft shreds of custard cream, but amongst them were specks of something else, something I didn't recognise.

I told Mrs Carmelle I'd be in touch as soon as I had any information. She looked at me imploringly. I realised she'd be alone at Carmelle Mansion for the first time.

"Real soon, Rocky. I'll be in touch real soon. Here's my wrapper if you need to get in touch."

She thanked me and kissed me tenderly on my upper left corner. I left quickly before, well, you know. Every case has its cost. I charge my clients in dollars, and they cost me in my bourbon heart.

There was one place to go at a time like this: the drinks cabinet. Reading my mind, another taxi pulled up next to me, its dark and heavy form growling softly. I jumped on, and we sped away from Carmelle's lonely manor and into the night.