From the coffee-colored skies, rain dripped incessantly on the
grounds of the deCroissant estate and on the upturned mugs of Link
Sausage private eye, and his girl friend Patti, who knew they had to
split this case - deCroissant may have been totally flaky, but his
French wife, Miette, had been the toast of three continents until
someone (either deCroissant himself or possibly Miette's hard-boiled
lover, Poche) had cracked under the pressure of shelling out for the
lady's expensive tastes and had scrambled her brains sometime early on
this tart spring morning, leaving Link and Patti no choice but to grill
both men before either had a chance to waffle his way out of the current
jam....
