Ned the pie maker had a special gift. Though as the questions of from whom, for what purpose, and with what power the gift was given continued to lack answers, the years passed and he learned to accustom himself to this questionable life. He had quelled the anticipation of answers to any of life's questions, questions of any size and weight, and instead he embraced the uncertainty of this curious existence. Or rather, he begrudgingly cohabitated with uncertainty, but the two eschewed physical affection. It was an anonymously gifted life, and as such the gift was his to do with as he pleased.
Ned was a re-giver of life, and within a minute, a re-taker of life as well. One touch and a dead body would spring to life, second touch and it would fall back into a state of un-animation. The gift applied to other flora and fauna as well, to dead leaves and to dead dogs, the first re-giving of life having gone to his childhood dog Digby after an unfortunate encounter with a car. The dog happily bounded away as nine-year-old Ned grappled with the immensity of his gift, its implications posed against the most pressing philosophical problems of postmodern times, and as such he was too preoccupied to notice the roadside possum that had suddenly decided to play dead - permanently.
The price of resurrection of any living thing beyond the time of one minute, he later realized, was the taking of life from another living thing of approximately equal value. Plants for plants, animals for animals - and unfortunately, people for people. The life was taken within an undetermined radius of the resurrected thing, so as Ned's mother was re-gifted life after a burst blood vessel in her brain, Ned's neighboring friend Charlotte Charles lost her father sixty seconds later. And in the most tragic of ways, the final caveat to the gift made itself known in the soft kiss upon Ned's cheek as his mother bid him goodnight.
And so it was that two children of Coeurs d'Coeurs lost parents on the very same day, from causes unknown to all but the boy himself, and as Ned was shipped off to boarding school Charlotte Charles, known as Chuck, was sent to the care of two eccentric aunts. Nineteen years later in separate lives and separate states, Ned had faced the facts and turned his blues into a business, and Chuck's face turned blue in the business end of a bag.
Yet the latter would not transpire for some time, and as it stood, Ned was still a tightly wound man of meticulously maintained boundaries, with his issues neatly folded under egg-washed dough. He was in the business of making pies, fruit pies of all varieties, colors, and tastes, as the smell of a freshly baked pie carried him back to a simpler time - a time with live parents and his mother's affectionate confections. It was a passion and a therapy that he could not afford to lose, and when business dwindled he found himself in an unexpected yet fortunate arrangement. Though pie-craving customers came and went with time, there was one business that could always be accounted for - violent crime.
Emerson Cod, private investigator and pie-indulger, discovered Ned's secret by chance, and the two formed a partnership that served justice on the side. Touch the dead, ask questions, and touch again to let the dead rest as the duo collected the culprit and split the sum of the rewards. The side business augmented the pie maker's pie-making, and the detective was pleased to have a partner who lived and breathed a quietly contained discretion.
And such were the circumstances that led Ned the pie maker to a morgue at the heart of the Baltimore city district approximately nineteen years, forty-two weeks, three days, four hours, and sixteen seconds after unwrapping the mysterious gift that life had given to him. And as was customary, Emerson Cod stood by his side, however begrudgingly so.
"We're looking at a male college student, age twenty-nine, burned to death two nights ago in his apartment," Emerson began, "Police think it might've been arson but my money's on an unfortunate accident." He glanced over at Ned. "Aren't you twenty-nine?
Ned's brows furrowed. "What are you implying?"
Emerson rolled his neck which let out a series of small cracks. "Nothing - just making small talk. It's a nice thing you're on your feet now, finished school, got yourself a business and all that. Super senior here still hadn't cut the cord yet. Three guesses who ordered the investigation."
"I'm guessing he wasn't self-sufficient?"
"Nope."
"So, we're talking to an independently-challenged man with parent issues who probably forgot to turn the gas off himself?"
"And then lit up a little something," Emerson said, "They found more than a few things in his system."
Ned sighed and reached for the corpse-drawer, as Emerson not very subtly inched back, his neck craning away from the overpowering aroma that filled the room. The body slide out on its slab, and Ned looked down upon it with the faintest fascination.
"Brother smells like a barbecue," Emerson winced and lifted his sleeve to his nose. "Guess you wouldn't know."
"I've been to barbecues," Ned said, "I've been to many gatherings that involved the cooking of things that used to be alive, but I don't partake."
"What would happen if you ate meat? You ever tried?"
"It's one of those things that I don't mind going my entire life without knowing the answer to and I would be content and satisfied and not feel that I ever needed to know at all.
"Yeah, yeah, live and let live." Emerson jerked a thumb at the body. "Let's grill this kid and go."
Ned clicked the timer on his watch and the small hand began its furious ticking. Emerson let out a long sigh and leaned against the wall, before realizing it was indeed the wall of closed body-drawers and he stood himself upright in a hurry. Ned held his pointer finger poised in the air, and he considered where to touch this body. He decided that a small and relatively un-cooked portion of the elbow would do.
First touch, life.
The body sat bolt upright with a speed that startled both Emerson and Ned, the latter regaining his composure fairly soon, while the former brought a hand over his poor pattering heart.
The space where the lips should have been parted, revealing a row of chalk white teeth, and the man swayed in his seat on the slab.
"Hey, are you here to hang? I can smoke you two out." The charred form said, the ghastly grin becoming increasingly more concerning. He reached out with a lightly crisped fist for a friendly bump to Ned's arm, but the pie maker twisted away, eyes flicking back to his watch.
"You've actually been, ah, smoked out, so to speak." Ned nodded at the outstretched arm, and the man withdrew, eyes staring with lidless surprise.
"Damn," he said, "I mean, I thought I was dying but you know how it is. You think you're dying, but you're really not."
"Right," Ned sputtered, eyes glued on the timer, "Did you think you might've left the gas stove on in your apartment?"
"What gas? "I had electric, man. I don't trust gas."
"There were gas stoves in your apartment," Emerson said, "Unless you're telling us those weren't your stoves, or that wasn't your apartment."
"There was a gas hookup, but nothing plugged into it. Maybe someone put new stoves in."
"That doesn't make any sense," Ned muttered, "Why would someone go through the trouble of putting new stoves in if they could just open the gas line?"
"Hold up, are you actually buying that this is arson?" Emerson said. "You trust druggie Dan? He probably didn't even cook for himself."
"I trust him enough to know the appliances in his own kitchen and right now I'm toying with the idea that a very clever person wanted to make this look like an accident."
"Whoa," the man breathed, "You're all pretty smart. Hey, how long do I get to-?"
With a quick flick of his finger, Ned tapped the corpse on the head and the body fell back on the slab. Second touch, dead again.
Emerson reached past Ned and gave a hearty shove to the drawer to send it sliding back into the wall with a bang. The two turned to leave and the bigger man sighed as the other began a chatter again.
"Inebriated or incapacitated or not, I think it's worth noting that the state of the kitchen doesn't match how it was in his most recent memory. Did they check for tread marks? Dust? Did they see how long the stoves had been there or if they'd been moved?"
"I don't think fire would be all that friendly with dust," Emerson said, "But I'm starting to think that's it's worth noting. See if we can get in there tomorrow and take a look at the place before they close it down. But hey, let's grab something to eat before we call it a night."
"My place?"
Emerson grumbled. "Guess I can't say no."
The Pie Hole stood proudly upon a corner in the downtown area, a sweetly scented lighthouse guiding Ned home through the Ocean of Unnecessary Attachments and back to the rock-solid land of freshly baked goods. The irony here though, was that the same gift that led to his mother's re-death and the orphaning of Charlotte Charles was in fact the same method by which he made his pies. Rotten and fuzzed fruits became fresh at his touch for the small price of a potted plant. In this sense he could not consume his own creations lest they turn to mold in his mouth, but this was the least of his concerns, for it was the act of making the pies that brought him his much-needed comfort.
The establishment employed one waitress by the name of Olive Snook, a petite woman with a chirpy voice and even chirpier demeanor. For Olive Snook, the great big Pie Hole pie was a beacon as well that guided her one lonely night to her current career. She poured her heart into The Pie Hole, or rather, into Ned, though her advances and affections went predictably unreturned. For it was that Ned was too polite to flatly turn her away, and Olive was too cheery to notice, so the strange charade continued to both of their frustration. Nevertheless, she was a determined worker, and genuinely kind, maintaining a friendly rapport with the customers that Ned wouldn't otherwise have. She worked the stage while Ned worked behind the scenes.
"You're back!"
Olive chimed from behind the counter, her high voice harmonizing with the bell above the doorway. She had been wiping down the countertop, damp dish towel in hand, when Emerson and Ned sauntered into the shop. At the first sight of these partners in crime, she bustled out onto the main floor and regarded them with a wave of the towel. A small smatter of water droplets flicked onto their faces, and she stood akimbo before them.
"Sooo?" her mouth curled into an impish grin, "How was your little walk about town? Standing on your feet okay?" She winked at the two.
Emerson blinked furiously, whether on account of the water or his now escalating irritability, as Ned discretely wiped a sleeve across his face. "We're fine, we had a beer. Two beers. That's, one beer each. Two in total." Ned said, and Emerson rolled his eyes.
At the sound of the pie maker's voice, a familiar form emerged from behind the counter. Tail wagging, and tongue flapping, Digby the dog padded up to Ned to sit quietly by his heels. Ned's discomfort dissipated at the sight of his old friend, and with the tip of his left shoe, he reached out and patted the dog with as much tenderness and affection a shoe could convey. On some level Digby must have understood the nature of their friendship, one doomed to physical deprivation, as he more than tolerated this unconventional petting and rather seemed to appreciate it.
"I didn't know Digby was helping out today," Ned said.
"I brought the pooch down after I closed shop," Olive said, and she crouched down to coo at the dog, "And what a good boy he's been, keeping me company when I'm left all alone in here, with no one to talk to but the walls."
Emerson mumbled indistinctly under his breath, and left Ned to sit in a booth by the window, grabbing a newspaper off the table to bury his attention in.
"So," Ned wrung his hands as Olive began to ruffle Digby's fur, much to the dog's delight. "No late-night customers?" He offered.
"Nah," Olive rose to her feet and brushed her palms off on her apron. "I mean, other than the one." She scrunched her nose and trudged to a nearby table, plopping the towel down to wipe in lazy circles. Digby trotted after her, and Ned trailed after Digby.
"The key lime creeper?" Ned asked.
"No, the rhubarb rambler," Olive said, "I can't decide which one is worse - a person who keeps coming back over and over and dropping cheesy one-liners to grab some poor gal's attention and doesn't let up, or a person who talks on and on about every little thing that happens in their life even when everyone stops listening and they know and we know that nobody's interested in hearing it but they just won't stop yapping?"
"What about both?" Emerson muttered.
"Heyyy," Olive's face lit up, and she turned to face Ned. "You know what? We should do a girl's night out, just the three of us, I know a great bar downtown that serves cute little mixed drinks and it's all within your price range." She bumped Ned on the arm with a small fist, though this time he was unprepared to twist away.
Emerson lowered the newspaper and peered over its edge. "Wouldn't that not be a girls' night out if you have the two of us going?"
"I didn't say all girls, there just has to be the one girl who the night belongs to." Olive straightened her back and puffed out her chest proudly. "So it's my night, and I get to decide what we do."
"So you can go alone and still have your girl's night out." Emerson said.
Olive scoffed. "Well aren't you a big old stick in the mud. Ned and I will go and we'll have a spectacular time without you and you'll wish you'd gone."
"Yeah, good luck son," Emerson said, licking his thumb to turn the page of his paper. "Is someone planning on getting me that pie?"
"Right," Ned whirled around to the back of the counter, and barrelled through the door to the Pie Hole kitchen. His footsteps faded into the freezer room, as the dining area was filled with only the faint rhythm of Digby's tail swishing back and forth across the floor, of Olive's towel wiping circles across surfaces, and the sole of Emerson's shoe tapping against the floor to an unheard tune. The three waited in this strange synchronization; three souls brought together under the mysterious spell of the pie maker. None looked at one another, even Digby had lowered his snout to the floor although his tail remained expectant. That is, until another sound chimed in.
The bell above the front door jingled as an unfamiliar figure entered the Pie Hole. Digby rose to his feet with nose stretched and sniffing, and both Olive and Emerson craned their necks toward the after-hours interruption. A man stood in the doorway, immobile.
"Sorry, the Pie Hole is closed," Olive said, "But we open tomorrow bright and early, in case you want to come by and try a pie. I can get you one of our take-away menus, hold on just a smidge."
She disappeared behind the counter and rummaged through unseen cabinets with a kind of carefree faith in mankind that Emerson had unfortunately lost years ago. The latter had not resumed reading, rather, he fixated his prying gaze onto the man who still stood dumbstruck in the open doorway. Mid-30's, white male, of casual dress with no abnormal markings or features, and altogether unremarkable and unnoticeable if it weren't for the unsettling way in which he simply did not respond. With the opening of the door and the bell's jingle, he appeared to have startled and adopted an expression of profound confusion that made his silence all the more concerning. One of Emerson's hands had begun a slow withdrawal into the lining of his coat and toward a handgun sheathed in a holster he had proudly knitted himself. The other still gripped the newspaper, masking his movement.
Digby, however, was of a different persuasion. After a few moments of sniffing the air, the dog approached the man and began a thorough going-over of his shoes, trouser legs, and the hands that hung limp at his sides. The man's right hand was wound tight in white bandages, though his left was unharmed, and before the man could address this new inquirer Digby's tail took up a slow wag.
"Found one!" Olive sing-songed, and she strode out into the dining area with paper flapping in hand. "Guess we should print more - lucky you, you get the last one."
She held out the menu for the man, and Digby let out a bark.
"Don't give him trouble, Digby," Olive said. "Are you a dog person? He's all over you - aren't you, boy?" Olive cooed at the dog. "Be good."
The man had not yet made eye contact with Olive, let alone looked in her direction, but at another yip of the dog he snapped into focus. With a few forced blinks, his gaze met hers for a moment before it jumped elsewhere, and he took the menu from her outstretched hand.
"Thank you," he said quietly. His words had a graveled quality, throat strained under the weight of his voice. The man rolled his lips inward to moisten them, and then turned his attention toward the decor of the Pie Hole, which he appeared to only just notice for the first time. Digby brought a wet nose to the bandages on the man's injured hand, as the man absentmindedly folded the menu into a pocket.
"I, ah," the man blinked hard, and his brows furrowed, "I keep dogs, but sometimes it seems as though the dogs keep me," he replied. Digby cocked his head to the side, in the curious way that dogs sometimes do. The man breathed out heavily and rubbed his left hand across his stubble and around drooping eyes.
"I take in strays, and numbers have climbed to a veritable wolf pack," he added. His gaze wandered around the room until it settled upon the clock on the opposite wall, above the doorway to the kitchen. The man's jaw tensed - his eyelids flickered in the incandescent light as the lump in his throat began bobbing.
"Do you know where the nearest bus stop is?" he asked, voice cracking. The man motioned with bandaged hand absently into the air beside his head. "I seem to have been turned around."
"No problem," Olive swept out her arm in wide gestures, as if directing traffic, "Just walk two blocks down this street, hang a left, and you'll be at the intercity stop."
"Thanks," the man nodded with clenched jaw, then ducked out of the doorway with a sudden urgency. Olive shuffled to catch the door as it swung shut and called after the man into the dark city air.
"Have a good night! Don't forget to come by tomorrow for our three plum pie!"
The pie maker whirled into the dining area with plate of pie in hand, and strode on flying feet toward Emerson's booth. The detective withdrew his hand from his coat, absent firearm, and folded up the newspaper onto the table.
"Sorry about the wait," Ned said, "The apple pies were pushed all the way in the back behind the cherry pies and the ovens had cooled down since closing." He placed the plate with steaming slice in front of his eager companion, who took up the fork as soon as it hit the table. Ned's brows furrowed and he motioned over to where Olive was standing by the front door, scratching her pointed chin in thought. "Did someone come in?"
"Mm," Emerson spoke through a half-chewed mouthful, "Some confused creep needed directions."
"Oh," Ned slid into the seat opposite Emerson and leaned back against the booth. He watched as the detective dug into the dessert, his mind revisiting the tired train of thought of what it might actually feel like to consume the pies that he created. Ned shook the idea from his head, ascribing this flight of fancy to a lack of sleep, and let out a low sigh.
Olive clapped her hands together with an "Aha!" that startled both Digby and Ned, though Emerson simply glanced up from under heavy brows, then resumed his meal. She bustled over to the booth and perched herself on the seat beside Ned, and he scooted down to give her room.
Olive leaned over the table and addressed Emerson in a conspiratorial tone. "I know where I've seen that guy," she said, "He's been all over ."
Emerson set down his fork on empty plate. "You know that site's just a bunch of nosy never-do-wells who want to make a buck off real police work."
"Well, yeah, isn't that what you two do?" Olive asked. Emerson opened his mouth to reply, though no sound came out, and Ned frowned and tilted his head in a "fair enough" way.
"We actually solve the crimes," Emerson retorted, "We don't just kick up dust and make someone else's job harder. Bunch of unconfirmed rumors muddling up the FBI's way, and you do not want to get in their way."
"Have you gotten in the FBI's way?" Ned ventured.
"Let's not go there," Emerson said.
They've got an informant on the inside," Olive insisted, "They say that man with the puppy dog face shot a girl two days ago while the real killer got away."
"You're saying a trigger-happy FBI agent just walked through that door," Emerson said, veins puckering on his neck, "And you gave him a menu and told him to come back here?"
"Well, everyone could use a slice of pie," Olive said, "And he's not an agent, he's a special consulting investigator or something like that."
"Like it matters," Emerson grumbled. The detective rose to his feet and shuffled sideways out of the booth, buttoning his suit back up. "I'm going to head home, we're on for noon tomorrow at the kid's apartment. I'll see if I can call in a few favors to get us a private showing."
"Right," Ned made to exit the booth, though he found himself caught between Olive and the wall, the former of whom had not yet decided to move.
A flash of amusement appeared on Emerson's features, though he repressed any upwelling commentary and instead made quickly for the door. He derived, as it were, no small amount of entertainment from Ned's discomfort, or that of anyone really.
"Take it easy, you two" he said. The bell above the door jingled as he departed into the street.
Ned wrung his hands above the table, as Olive let out a small sigh. Digby had positioned himself by the booth at the first whiff of baked goods, and was now entreating Olive for pets. The waitress stared down at the dog, and though she sat beside the pie maker and their arms were mere inches away, she still addressed the dog as her proxy for her affections towards Ned.
"You're a needy boy," she said, reaching down to pat him on the head. "Distant, but needy."