Emerson Cod slid into his usual booth as he did on most days, to order a piece of pie and discuss the latest case with the Pie Maker. As soon as his behind hit the vinyl waitress Olive Snook appeared at his side.
"Hiya." She greeted him in her usual sunny manner, tapping her pencil against her pad in an erratic fashion.
"Hey." He grumbled in response, his eyes searching for sight of Ned. He spotted him bustling about in the kitchen. "Tell Ned I'm here and I need to speak with him."
Olive's eyes lit up. "Ooh you have a new case huh? How exciting! Whats the 4-1-1?"
"No, no case." He lied. "Just need to talk to him about, uh, stuff."
The sparkle faded from Olive's eyes and her tiny shoulders sagged the way they always did when she was not included in the trio's adventures. "Oh."
"I'll take a piece of blueberry pie while I'm waiting though." Emerson pointed to the chalkboard on the wall where it had been listed as Today's Special.
"Sure thing." Olive managed a smile and made a great point to scribble his order down on her pad before flouncing off towards the kitchen. When she returned, however, he wondered if he should have just bypassed the pie altogether and gone straight to talk with Ned.
"I said I wanted blueberry—this is boysenberry." Emerson pushed the plate across the table and scrunched his nose. "Boysenberry." He repeated for effect, hoping his displeasure was not lost on the perky blond waitress in front of him.
"Oh I know." Olive nodded, sliding into the empty seat across from him.
"Blueberry, Olive." He groaned. "All I asked for was blueberry."
"Oh, this is much better." Olive winked.
"Blueberry." Emerson growled slowly, like a tiger staring down its prey.
"This is much better." Olive smiled widely, her eyes betraying the confidence she possessed on being able to discern the best pie of the day. "Besides," She shrugged. "We're out of blueberry."
Emerson rolled his eyes. "Then why didn't you tell me when I ordered?"
"Oh," Olive sighed, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. "You looked so happy at the thought of blueberry pie that I didn't have the heart to ruin things."
Emerson Cod bit his tongue. By now he should have been used to the quirky ways of the Pie Hole waitress named Olive, but he was constantly surprised at the ways she managed to exasperate him on a daily basis. Begrudgingly he took a forkful of the pie. As soon as it hit his tongue he knew she was right—it was delicious. But he would never let on.
"Can I help you?" He grumbled, staring at Olive who was staring at him right back. "Or shouldn't you be saying that to other people? Ya know, since you're the waitress. And you're at work." Emerson hastily shoveled another bite into his mouth. "So maybe you should go do that then—work." He gestured his fork back towards counter where the only two customers were sipping coffee and reading newspapers lazily. "And leave me be."
"I am on my break." She replied, causing Emerson to groan. "So I thought we could, er, chat."
Emerson raised his eyebrows. The only thing Olive ever wanted to chat about was the Pie maker. "Listen, I ain't gonna be the Dear Abby to your little Miss Lovelorn anymore, got it?"
"Oh no. No." Olive waved her hands and shook her head, leaning in closer. "Trust me, this has nothing to do with—that." Her eyes flicked back towards the kitchen, to where Ned was clearly visible through the alcove, busy rolling out dough. "I need your expertise. Your P.I. prowess."
"And what makes you think I have the time to help you?"
"You just said you have no case."
Even though Emerson scolded himself for lying he couldn't help but be intrigued. "My expertise I see." He purred slowly, enjoying the expression of anticipation on her face as he drew it out. "And how much is my expertise worth to you?"
"I was thinking more like a favor?"
"I am not in the business of favors." Emerson crossed his arms in a huff. "I am in the business of getting paid."
"Fine, you can have a free piece of boysenberry pie later and consider that payment." Olive smiled triumphantly, eyeing the now empty plate. "I see how much you liked it."
Emerson Cod was secretly thrilled at the prospect of another piece of boysenberry pie, even though he would never let on.
"Fine. What's the problem?" He asked gruffly.
Olive fidgeted in her seat. It was quite clear she was uncomfortable talking about whatever it was that she wanted to talk about. "Well, the other day I got this in the mail." She pulled a postcard from the pocket of her waitress' smock.
"Sounds like a case for the Postal Service, not a P.I." Emerson barked as Olive shoved the piece of mail into his hand. The cover of the postcard now clutched in his hand revealed a sprawling, formidable complex with the words Trask's Track and Horse Course emblazoned across the top."This is a horse track." He stated blandly.
"That is not just any old track. That's the place where I trained to be a jockey. I spent some of the best times of my life there." Olive immediately perked up. "A horse is a horse of course of course when it runs round Trask's Track and Horse Course of course!" Olive sang out, bopping her hands on top of the table. "That was the unofficial track theme song." Olive blushed as Emerson shot her a look. "That I made up. Very unofficial."
Emerson flipped the card over. There was no return address on it, just the phrase "emevollliwuoy". Emerson read it out loud, doing his best to pronounce the garbled writing which had been scribbled across the card several times. "What is this, a bunch of gobbleygook?" He handed the card back to her. "I am a private investigator not a code breaker."
"I know that." Olive snatched the card away from him and tucked it back safely in her pocket.
"What is it exactly that you want me to do here? Some wacko sends you a postcard full of crazy pig Latin and you want me to investigate?"
"Somebody has sent me one of those cards everyday this past week, each with that so called goobleygook!" Olive exclaimed.
"One of these has been sent to you everyday?"
Olive nodded. "Yeah and I'm pretty sure I know who it is."
"Care to elaborate."
"No." Olive stated simply, much to Emerson's chagrin.
"This isn't gonna be another crazy-mother-of-a-dead-but-not-really-dead-jockey-gonna-come-kill-you thing, is it?" He groaned, remembering the debacle of John Joseph Jacobs.
"No, nothing like that." Olive's eyes searched out the small curtained window beside them, scanning the street nervously. "It's just someone I don't want to find me."
"Well it seems like he's already found you."
"I know, but he can't find me find me." Olive pleaded. "What I mean is I don't want him popping up unexpectedly. I want you to get to him before he gets to me."
This all sounded quite serious, and suddenly Emerson Cod felt a surge of protectiveness for the exasperating waitress. "Is this guy dangerous?"
"Well…"Olive was interrupted as Ned, wearing an apron covered in flour, approached them in the booth.
"Olive?" Ned asked his thick brow furrowed. He turned his head towards the two customers at the counter who were now looking up from their papers and clutching their coffee cups, their eyes searching for assistance. "I think we have customers who need some help."
"Right on that boss." Olive beamed and Ned cast the two a curious look as he stalked off back to the kitchen. As Olive began to scoot from her seat Emerson's arm shot out across the table and halted her.
"You didn't answer me."
"No. He's not." She sighed, and for the first time Emerson got the impression that she was more annoyed than afraid, and that made him glad. A much as Olive irritated him, he didn't wish her any mortal harm. "Just get him to stop harassing me, okay? Whatever you have to do—do it." Olive slid out of the seat, stood up and adjusted her smock.
"Uh, you forgetting something?" Emerson called as Olive walked away. "Like a name?"
As Olive turned around, her face went pale and her eyes narrowed, as if she was sickened to say the words. "Trask. Trevor Trask Jr."