Chapter 14: Forbidden Fruit
When Chuck spotted the button she froze. It was the color of a candy cane, and she had to check to make sure the buttons on her coat were simply red. They were more of a burgundy actually, now that she stopped to think about it…but still. Not at all like this one. This did not come from her…
She had stepped on it upon entering the room, which made her think someone had nudged it under her door. Or perhaps dropped it by accident…
Perhaps Lily and Vivian had been here looking for something. Looking for her most likely. Pretending to be fine with her newfound freedom, then discreetly checking up on her (as parents tended to do). Only for this incriminating bit of evidence to fall off one of them…
Chuck pocketed the button with an impish smile. She would get a confession out of them in the morning, and then they would have a very grownup talk about boundaries…
"Well, somebody had a late night."
Chuck jerked awake, realizing with dawning embarrassment that she had dozed off at the breakfast table. Her face hovered mere inches from her cereal bowl, but she sat up with as much dignity as she could muster.
"And how would you know?" she demanded extravagantly, determined not to miss a beat.
Aunt Vivian giggled over her pomegranate juice. "You almost took a nap in your oatmeal, dear."
"Okay…well…besides that lapse in consciousness...you weren't waiting up for me?"
Lily shook her head. "After our little chat I went back to bed and slept like the dead."
"And neither of you were in my room last night?"
"I didn't even know you went out until your mother told me this morning."
"Well, then what's this?" Chuck asked, producing Exhibit A with less flourish than she had intended.
"Uh…I believe that's called a button."
"And it didn't come from either of you? You're sure you've never worn anything like it?"
Lily rolled her eye. "In the fifty plus years of our existence, maybe. Since we got to Paris, definitely not. Now, is our word good enough for you or do you need to look through all our clothes too?"
The Alive Again Adventurer considered this for all of two seconds before shaking her head with all the earnestness her heart possessed. She had never honestly believed they would spy on her, then lie about it. But the alternative was almost as unbelievable…
"Why are you getting so bent out of shape about a button anyway?"
Because there was but one person who would leave behind a button for her to find. One person for whom it might have some meaning...
Could it be? Had Charles Charles followed her to Paris?
XXX
Olive Snook never thought she would find herself in a place where throwing out rotten fruit could be considered a bad thing. When the Pie Maker asked her to help him dispose of all their produce, dead and alive again, she felt dread flood her mind. Emerson had told her about the last time Ned decided to be powerless, but this was different. This was something much more severe...
Olive scratched at Digby's ear absentmindedly, as the Pie Maker carried a heap of fresh berries away.
When he returned and found her idling in the doorway, he frowned.
"Do you need help carrying anything?"
"Nope."
"Are you gonna help carry anything?"
"Nope."
Ned heaved a sigh and nudged her aside. He poured rotting apples into a trash bag and slung them over his shoulder. In that moment, she thought morbidly of a mobster dumping bodies in the river…
"I maintain that it's more than a little extreme to throw out the good with the bad," she said, following him out to the dumpsters.
"None of it is good. It all comes at the expense of something else. Probably some kind old lady's pumpkin patch."
"You don't know that."
She stood too close behind him, and when he turned round he walked right into her, nearly knocking her over.
"I don't know," Ned huffed, looking down at Olive with some impatience. "That's the problem."
She trailed him at a distance, trying to be tactful instead of forceful now.
"So you're saying there's absolutely no way you'd ever use your powers again. Not under any circumstances."
The Pie Maker ducked behind a shelf, gathering smaller bowls into his arms.
"Not even if Emerson couldn't solve any cases without you and his detective business went bust, and he ended up destitute."
"That seems like a highly unlikely outcome for him."
"Not even if running this place without your powers go to be too pricey, and then you whole life's work turned to dust."
"That happens to lots of normal people. Why should I be any different?"
Ah. And therein lay the problem. He wanted so badly to not be different. But different wasn't always bad. She would just have to remind him of that, in the most ruthless way possible…
"Not even if I died of unnatural causes?"
The Pie Maker finally stilled. "I'm not answering that."
"…why not?"
"Because if I say no, you'll be hurt. And if I say yes, you'll use that to further your argument."
The waitress regarded him in silence for a moment, not entirely sure how to feel. She knew it was an unfair question, considering what happened to the Poppy Temple People. If random proximity extended to more than one person, she was essentially asking whether he would trade her life for who knew how many others. Olive doubted he would have been able to bring back Chuck, knowing that. Never mind anyone else…
Digby nudged her hand with his nose and she was glad to turn her attention to him…
"But if anything happened to you, Olive, I would bring you back in a heartbeat."
Her head jerked up at that, but he was staring determinedly at the contents of his hands.
"So just…try not to die so I don't have to?"
And he left before she could think of what to say next.
XXX
There was a tiny window of time in which Treadwell could have been undeaded, since he was buried within a week of his death. Or at least, his coffin was buried. Leaving Clancy presumed dead, while 'Godfrey Gillard' lived on anonymously. But what had he been doing for thirty years while Dwight did time for his murder…?
Per the obituary, Treadwell was born and buried three hours outside of Papen County. And without his beloved Lincoln Continental, Emerson would have to subject himself to public transport. He could have done with some company on his work trip, but the Pie Maker was of no use right now, and Itty Bitty wasn't about to leave him alone.
Not that the PI minded. Prudence Clearwater was nothing he couldn't handle on his own. In fact, he quite liked her…
"I've handled a lotta funerals in my time. A lotta grieving family and friends. I don't remember many of 'em, but that Treadwell fella is among the few I won't forget."
Ms. Clearwater (of Clearwater Burials) carried herself like she was six feet tall, despite the fact that she barely reached his elbow. She had a face as round and brown as a sundried apple, with snow-white hair pulled back in a bun…
"Want another cookie?"
The PI obliged, accepting his third snickerdoodle. "What was so unforgettable about that funeral?"
"Well, he wasn't any ordinary doctor. The man served our country. But not a single civilian showed up to pay their respects. No family, no friends…I mean, he may not have been popular in life, but show him some respect in death." She sighed and stared out the bay window that overlooked her vegetable garden.
Emerson could see her losing herself in thought, and he attempted to bring her back on track. "Uh…Ms. Clearwater, was anybody ever alone with the body, after you put him in his coffin?"
"Besides me and my Pops? Not that I recall. Why, you think somebody burgled it or somethin'?"
"Not exactly. But did you get a look at Treadwell before you loaded him into the hearse?"
At that she stiffened, as if he had insulted her somehow. "Well, normally I would have. Just to make sure he looked all right. Even if nobody was ever gonna see him again. Especially if nobody was ever gonna see him again. But…I got a little distracted."
"By what? If you don't mind my asking," he hastened to add.
"…well, my Pops died that day."
Emerson tried very hard to reign in his reaction to this confirmation of his suspicions. That day would have been the last chance for anyone to undead Treadwell. Unless they were willing to resort to the messy, conspicuous business of grave-digging…
"How did he die? If you don't mind my asking…"
"Heart attack, we figure. Strange thing is he was healthy as a horse. Didn't smoke or drink or nothin'. Not that that guarantees you a long life but..."
She lapsed into silence, staring out the window again. After a long while (in which Emerson was tempted to request another cookie) she continued: "Well, the show had to go on so…the undertakers loaded up Treadwell and I stayed behind with my dad. They told me later how nobody showed up. I wonder sometimes if I should've just put on my big girl undies and gone to see him off."
The former funeral director seemed to feel some residual guilt for this, which Emerson thought unnecessary. He saw and spoke to dead people on the regular, and he didn't think a single one had ever cared much about their sendoff. After all, funerals were for the living…
"I wouldn't worry about it, ma'am," Emerson insisted. "Wherever he is, I'm sure he doesn't mind."