"Well, this is it." Ned announced as the trio stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the large house that loomed before them.
The house was a Victorian style home—though one could easily mistake its size for that of a mansion—with crumbling paint, large pillars, and a rusted spear-tipped fence encircling its overgrown yard. The Pie Maker had many adjectives to describe it, but he could only verbalize one.
"This place is interesting." Ned grimaced, noticing the dark, dirty windows and the shutters that barely clung to them as they approached the porch.
"Yeah, it looks like it's the house of a killer." Emerson said, rubbing his chin proudly. "I can already see the money in my pocket. Hello money."
"Let's not jump to conclusions just yet." Ned argued. "I mean we don't know anything about this house. And you know how I feel about judging things on first appearance." Ned reached out and touched the large, bronze door knocker, but hesitated to knock it. "It's fine to call it interesting —because it is—but anything more than that is just hurtful to the house."
Emerson rolled his eyes, clearly aware that Ned was somehow referring to himself through the house as he did through Trevor Trask.
"Uh huh," Emerson nodded. "But unlike some houses, this house seems to have a pretty thick shell and won't cry like a baby when someone insults it even if they are not talking about that house at all but instead something completely unrelated to the house." Emerson let out a large breath and looked quite annoyed.
"I think it looks like the Adams Family could live here." Chuck giggled, spinning around to get a good view from the porch.
"See," Emerson boasted. "Even Chuck agrees with me….."
"No. I didn't really agree. While technically mysterious, spooky and all together ooky, the Adams family never really killed anyone."
Emerson threw his hands up in disgust. "Let's just get on with this, shall we?" Emerson pushed the door knocker from Ned's hand, slamming it twice on the large, oak door.
After a few moments the door swung open and the three were met by a short, plump woman wielding a rolling pin like a saber. With a fire in her eyes, and flour in her hair, she looked ready for battle.
"Who are you? What do you want?" She lunged forward, raising the pin over her head. Her face and frazzled hair gave her the appearance of a startled cat.
"Whoa! Whoa!" Ned jumped back, placing himself in front of Chuck as Emerson did the same. He waved his hands wildly. "We're investigating the murder of Herman Hawk and we're here to ask some questions."
The woman's face dropped, as did the rolling pin. It clattered to the floor, and she stood there dazed, her face as white as a sheet. "I'm—I'm sorry." She said through choked tears. Suddenly she was aware of her appearance and wiped her face. "Come on in." She gestured for them to enter as she fussed with her apron.
Ned bent down and picked up the rolling pin. "Thank you." He handed it back to her. "This won't take much time." As they entered the house, his eyes swept around the dark, empty foyer, in through the dark, empty living room and down the dark hallway. "Is your husband home?"
"My husband?"
"Yes." Emerson leaned forward; producing the business card from his coat pocket, he slid it into her hand. "We heard he was a colleague of the late Mr. Hawk and had put out a reward. We were hoping to speak with him."
"You are." The woman said, her eyes looking at the card. She shook her head and crumpled it into a ball. "That's what you get when you go with a printing company you find in the local Clip n' Save. A Mr. instead of a Mrs."
"Wait. So you're Oswald Cork?" Ned blinked.
"Yep."
"I think that's great." Chuck smiled, reaching out to shake her hand. "My name is Chuck—a guy's name too. Well, really it's Charlotte but they call me Chuck for short."
The woman seemed a bit taken aback. "I see. Well, no cute nickname here. My parents were just strange. Hated me, I think." She mused.
"Oh." Chuck's face fell.
"Alright, if you wanna ask me questions you have to follow me. I have a pie in the oven so I need to take it out before it burns." She gestured to them to follow, and they did, all the way down a long hallway towards the kitchen.
"See," Emerson whispered. "Her parents hated her. One of the marks of a sociopath."
"But she bakes pies." Chuck took a deep whiff of the air as they entered the kitchen. "Wonderful smelling pies—strike one against her being a killer. Pie makers don't kill."
An awkward silence passed between the three of them, as the Pie Maker looked at Chuck and Chuck looked at the Pie Maker and Emerson looked between the two of them at the realization of what she had said.
"Well," She cleared her throat. "Not on purpose anyways." She smiled a reassuring smile.
But the awkwardness was soon broken as they entered the kitchen. It was brightly lit—cheery even compared to the rest of the house—with sunny cherry blossom dotted curtains blowing in the breeze and bowls of various sizes dotting the flour covered counter. And the smell coming from the oven was heavenly.
"That smells heavenly." Chuck sighed, taking another whiff. "You know Ned here is a baker too."
"Oh, is he?" Oswald cocked a brow as she slipped on a pot holder. "A baker and a P.I? That's an unusual combination."
"I'm the Private Investigator," Emerson announced. "He is a pie maker, part time assistant." He stressed the word and puffed his chest a bit. "What's unusual is why you almost attacked my assistant here with a baking implement a few minutes ago?"
"Oh, that." Oswald said sheepishly as she pulled the pie from the oven. "I've been a little on the edge since—ya know—happened." She turned to place the golden pie with its bubbling cherry filling by the window.
"Woman tries to kill us. She's distraught over whacking her colleague." Emerson whispered quickly when her back was turned. "Killer." He stated matter-of-factly.
"Whacking?" Chuck whispered back. "What is she a gangster now? Of course she is distraught—her friend just got murdered!"
"Distraught because she did it." Emerson spat back.
"I've never had someone close to me be murdered." Oswald turned around and made her way back over to them. Chuck and Emerson snapped to attention. "You get all sorts of wild, irrational ideas running through your head—like what if I'm next." She stopped and started to knead a large clump of dough on the countertop. She reached into a bowl of flour and sprinkled a bit on top. "Anyways, baking always makes me feel better."
"I know how you feel." Ned said sympathetically.
"Do you have a reason to feel like you would be next?" Emerson asked.
"No. That's why I said it was irrational."
"So you were a colleague of Mr. Hawks then?" Emerson continued.
"You're the P.I." She quipped. "I thought that you already knew that and that's why you were here?"
"Would you say you two were close?" Emerson volleyed back, ignoring the sarcasm.
"Yes. Very close."
"I see." Emerson was now zeroing in on her like a hawk to its prey. "How close?"
"He was my best friend." She said sadly before quickly turning her back to them. She walked across the room to compose herself.
"See, they were close." Emerson whispered again to Chuck. "Maybe there was an affair that went wrong. Maybe…"
"Maybe," Oswald spun around quickly. "I know exactly why you three are here asking me these questions." She walked back to them and looked them up and down. "Maybe it's because it's my job to be able to read people, or maybe because you two," She gestured to Chuck and Emerson. "Are the two loudest whisperers in the history of time. You're here because you think I killed Herman."
"Did you?" Emerson asked boldly.
Oswald crossed her arms defiantly. "No, I did not." She made direct eye contact with Emerson
"Well it is a bit suspicious…" He began.
"What? That I am offering a reward for the killer of a man that has been my best friend and colleague for over fifteen years? That I would want that person to be brought to justice and be hurt in the same way that they hurt Herman? You find that suspicious?"
"Um." Emerson had nothing to say in return, his smug arrogance squashed by her emotional display.
Either she was an amazing actress or he had just falsely accused a mourning woman, but Emerson Cod suddenly felt guilty for being so eager to condemn Oswald Cork.
"No," Chuck slipped around the counter and met Oswald with a comforting hand. "You're just devastated, that's all. I'm sure everyone in this room would do whatever they could to bring justice for a friend." She stroked her arm gently and smiled up at Ned.
"I'm really sorry we came here." Ned waited for Emerson to chime in; after a moment he hit him on the arm.
"Yeah." Emerson mumbled. "Sorry."
"Wait," Oswald sniffed, holding back tears. "Is there anything I can do to help?" She looked back and forth between them all. "Not that I normally would help people who come into my home, interrupt my baking and accuse me of murder—but I'd do anything for Herman."
"Well," Chuck said soothingly, still stroking her arm. "You could give us a better picture into the man that is, er, was Herman Hawk. His work, his friends, anyone who might have had cause to hurt him?"
Oswald nodded and led the group over to the kitchen table. She pulled out a chair and sat down, gesturing for the others to follow suit. "Me and Herman worked together for years. We had a practice downtown—although he did most of his research at his home—where we would treat patients together. I treat patients through general Psychotherapy, while Herman's specialty was Hypno-Pychotherapy."
"His wife mentioned he was a hypnotist." Ned nodded.
"Well, when you say it like that it really doesn't cover the scope of his work." Oswald said, her eyes tearing up again. "He worked to cure people of their fears, addictions or traumas without resorting to medications or other treatments. He believed in desensitization—getting people to face their fears in order to overcome them." She sighed. "He was a genius in the field."
"Was there anyone who might not have had such a glowing description of him?" Chuck asked.
"No." She shrugged. "Everyone loved Herman."
"That's what his wife said." Emerson cut in. "But I find it hard to believe no one could have possibly had a reason to…."
"No." Oswald snapped, her tone icy toward Emerson. "He was a great guy. If anyone disliked him I never knew it."
"Do you know anything about the party he attended," Ned interjected. "It was the last place he was seen alive."
"I know. I heard he was killed coming home from it."
Chuck leaned as close as was safe towards Ned. "But I thought she wasn't at the party?" She whispered.
"I wasn't." Oswald answered. "I was invited but couldn't go."
"Oh?" Ned asked.
"Yes. The pipes burst in the basement and I was up to here," She brought her hand to her chest. "In water in the basement. I guess that's what you get when you buy a dilapidated house and try to renovate it yourself."
"Oooh." The trio chorused at the explanation for the state the house was in.
"But the parties were all the same." She continued. "The same people—a few work friends, a few social friends. Food, drinks and games."
"What kinda games?" Emerson asked, intrigued.
"Oh, the normal. Scrabble, Monopoly, Pictionary." Oswald sighed again. "Herman was really good at Pictionary. Oh and then there was the mind games."
"Mind games?" Ned and Emerson choked simultaneously.
"Those were Herman's specialty." Oswald smiled. "He would hypnotize willing guests for fun— make them do silly things. Once he made me think I was Barbara Streisand." She let out a raucous laugh. "Let me tell you I sang Memories all night long!"
"That sounds like fun." Chuck smiled.
"Yes it was." She agreed fondly.
Sensing this was going nowhere, the Pie Maker decided to wrap it up.
"Well, once again I'm sorry for you loss." Ned pushed the chair away from the table and stood up. "We'll let you know if we get any leads."
"Thank you. I wish I could be of more help, but really, no one would want to hurt Herman."
As Oswald Cork led the group back through the hallway towards where they had came, the Pie Maker had a feeling they would get the same glowing appreciation of Herman Hawk from everyone they visited, and that they would be at a loss to find any kind of lead. But as they were about to leave, Oswald Cork asked the one question that changed the course of the investigation.
"What happened to Herman?" She asked quietly as they filed out onto the porch. "I mean, I know what happened—that he died walking home from the party—but not the specifics." She steadied herself against the door frame and took a deep breath. "I want to know. I need to know."
"Are you sure?" Chuck asked.
"Yes."
"Well, all we know is this," Ned began. He hated to be the one to spill the gory details, but the resolve in her eyes let him know that it was truly what she wanted. "He was tarred and feathered to death."
"Oh my." All the color drained from her face, and her eyes closed for a moment in silent contemplation at the terrible way her friend had met his end.
"By someone who was clucking like a chicken." Chuck chimed in hoping that would somehow make sense or trigger something for her.
"Thank you. I needed to know." Oswald sniffed. As she went to pull the door closed behind her she stopped. "Clucked like a chicken you say?" She called out after them as they retreated down the sidewalk.
"Yes." Ned answered. Maybe this was it, he thought, maybe this would trigger something—anything—that could give them the lead they so desperately needed.
After a few moments Oswald spoke. "If I were you I would talk to Snevel—Richard Snevel."
And with that, they finally had a lead