Later that same day, after the mysterious conversation between Emerson Cod and Olive Snook, the Pie Maker was informed of the latest case he was to investigate, the details of which surprised him greatly.
"What?" Ned blinked, surprised. Emerson, who was seated across from him in their usual booth, looked back at him quietly with what Ned could only describe as a look of glee in his eyes. "He was," Ned dropped his voice as Olive walked past them to greet a couple who had just entered the Pie Hole. "Tarred and feathered?" He whispered his voice cracking.
Emerson nodded. "Yep, found in the middle of the street, tarred and feathered, and naked as a jaybird. Heh, jaybird…"He let out a macabre sort of laugh. "Man I kill myself sometimes." He shook his head, amused by the unintentional wordplay he had made.
Ned grimaced. "We've investigated some pretty sick things before, but this is positively medieval."
"Ooh what's medieval?" A cheery voice asked and Emerson looked up to see the front door closing behind Charlotte Charles as she entered the Pie Hole.
Emerson groaned. "This is strictly P.I and Pie Maker business. Business for people whose jobs begin with the letter P. So you," He gestured towards her. "Need to leave. Scat!"
"I once had a job painting watercolors for a local gift shop," Chuck called over her shoulder as she breezed over to the counter to unload the armful of shopping bags she was carrying. She came back and plopped down next to Emerson, prompting him to scoot over till he was uncomfortably pressed against the wall. With a flourish she whipped off her wide brimmed sunhat and placed it on the table. "Mostly still life's. Cheese and fruit make lovely subjects." She pointedly eyed Emerson. "So there, a profession that begins with a P—painter. Oh and scat? Really? I am not a cat."
"That's not….."
"So tell me about the case?" Chuck asked eagerly, interrupting any chance Emerson had to protest.
"Emerson wants to investigate the tarring and feathering of a man."
Chuck's eyes grew wide. "Ooh, sounds exciting! But technically not medieval—even though it has its roots from that time, it was more of an American practice popular with the early colonists." She stated matter-of-factly.
Ned found himself chuckling; he still got a kick out of the fact that someone who had died quite the tragic death herself could have such fun investigating the tragic deaths of others.
"What do we know about this guy—besides the fact that he's now all sticky and feathery?" She asked.
The facts were these: A Mr. Herman Hawk, 39 years, 5 months, 24 days, 22 hours, 15 minutes, was attacked while walking home after attending a party with several of his friends, for which he provided the entertainment of the night. Or rather the partygoers, who were hypnotized by Mr. Hawk—a licensed hypnotist who regularly helped chain smokers and overeaters—were the entertainment as they pranced around the party convinced they were anything from ballerinas, to mimes, to sixties soul singers.
In the light of the morning, his body was found in the middle of his neighborhood street covered in a thick layer of black tar and yellow bird feathers.
"So what are we waiting for?" Chuck grabbed her hat from the table and plopped in on her head. "Let's go to the morgue!"
"We?" Emerson eyed her disapprovingly.
"It's pretty slow," Ned shrugged, ignoring Emerson's objection and looking around the room. The only customers had picked up an order and left, leaving Olive behind the counter humming dreamily as she wiped down the pie display case. "And I'm sure Olive can handle things here for a few hours."
"The sooner we go the sooner we solve this and the sooner you get paid." Chuck offered, knowing just what to say to Emerson who looked reluctant to leave knowing that she would be coming along.
Emerson smiled. "The dead girl makes a good point. Lets go."
As the trio headed for the door Olive caught sight of them and rushed over to tap Emerson on the shoulder.
"You said you didn't have a case?" She scrunched her face up in a most dissatisfied manner. "I knew it! I had a feeling you were lying to me." She pouted.
"Uh, it just came up this minute." He lied. "That's the biz—very unpredictable." Emerson turned his back to her and immediately felt himself being stopped by a strong tug to the bottom of his jacket.
"You're still gonna…um," Olive saw Ned and Chuck's eyes on her as they turned around in the doorway, waiting for Emerson. "Finish that little, uh, favor for me?" She whispered. "I mean, even with being busy on a case and all?"
Emerson nodded. "Yes, I won't forget." He whispered back hurriedly. "Trevor Trask Jr. Got it."
Olive looked relieved. "Thanks."
The trio wound their way to the coroner's office, leaving Olive Snook alone in the Pie Hole. Busy signing a song she had made up about sunflowers and sweeping the kitchen, she never noticed the tiny doorbell tinkle—as tiny doorbells do—as the door it hung from opened slowly, and the mysterious stranger that opened it slipped a familiar postcard onto the counter and left.