A/N: So NaNoWriMo starts in a few days, and I'm going to be busy, writing-wise. But I'm going to try to finish this off as well, if at all possible. Thanks for reading and reviewing!
Part Two
Emerson Cod had not been seated on the well-graffiti'ed bench down the street from the Coroner's office for very long before the Pie Maker, lonely tourist in tow, pulled up in front of him. He had, however, been sitting there long enough to discover someone's discarded bubblegum stuck to the bottom of his shiny black dress shoe. He was in the process of trying to pull it off when the windows of Ned's car rolled down and the Pie Maker and Chuck spoke simultaneously.
"You really are a gum shoe, aren't you?" said one.
"Now that's what I call a gum shoe," said the other. They stopped speaking and smiled at each other in mutual realization of their similarly-phrased attempts at humor, which would undoubtedly have set the audience at the Last Dance Bar and Grill roaring with appreciation. Emerson merely grimaced.
"I see what you did there," he said drily, and stood up. "Is there a dead guy in that office right now?"
"Probably," said the Pie Maker, wincing, "but not necessarily the one that we were just talking to. I say that not because I caused another death, but because it is after all— the coroner's office. And dead people is his business."
Emerson pointed at himself. "Dead people is my business. And that guy you were talkin' to isn't dead. Why isn't he dead?"
"Can you get in the car and we can talk about this? I'm getting a crick in my neck."
Emerson heaved a sigh of long-suffering and self-denial, and joined the Pie Maker and Chuck in the car. "So what are we thinkin', here? You wake this guy up, you ask him some questions, bing goes his minute. So why didn't he go back to taking his dirt nap when you touched him again?"
"Technically speaking he wasn't taking a dirt nap, yet," put in Chuck from the backseat. "He was taking a stainless steel nap, with a sheet."
"And it wasn't much of a nap," said Ned, staring at the road as he pulled back onto it, fingers clenched on the steering wheel. "More of a lie down. I've read of magicians who can put themselves into comas, slow down their heartbeat and breathing till it appears that they're dead. It's a trick. A dirty, low-down trick. They do it to scam insurance companies."
"Enough of a lie down that his girlfriend called Emergency Services on him," snorted Emerson dismissively. "Edmund Hillary'd been dead for over 24 hours before we got to him. How long can you fake death without actually bein' dead?"
Ned, though he considered this question long and hard, did not have an answer for it.
"I don't have an answer for that," he said.
"Uh-huh," said Emerson, knowingly.
Chuck bounced in the backseat. "So we really are dealing with a real-life vampire? That's so neat! And seasonal."
"Don't get too excited," said Emerson darkly. "Just 'cause you recognize a kindred spirit, doesn't mean it's a friendly one. Vampires aren't exactly known for their even temperament and amiable nature."
Chuck did, in fact, feel that she was coming into contact with a kindred spirit. As someone who had been alive, then dead, and alive again, she did not know many who had gone through the same experience, and felt that she was in a rather exclusive club, all on her own. The only one who had not been twice-touched by the extraordinarily gifted Pie Maker was his dog, Digby; not someone that Chuck could have much of a conversation with. Although she had tried, Digby's responses had merely been a series of whines, which Chuck took to mean that the canine missed the comfort of the Pie Maker's embraces as she herself did. However, she was beginning to suspect that she might have been projecting.
"So where do we go, from here?" asked Ned, squinting at the road in front of him. "I need a direction."
"Turn left," said Emerson.
Ned obliged.
"We're goin' to see Edmund Hillary's long-time girlfriend," said Emerson, buckling his seatbelt and folding his arms. "See if she's got any light to shed on this case."
They drove on down the street. From the back, Chuck, with a tone of thoughtfulness, said, "What— happened when the vampire caught a cold?"
Ned tensed up momentarily, then relaxed as he realized she wasn't serious. Emerson just rolled his eyes.
"He went around a'coffin'," Chuck answered herself. The Pie Maker chuckled obligingly. That, he reasoned, was what boyfriends who couldn't touch their girlfriends were for: bad joke appreciation. No matter how awful the puns, he promised Chuck silently, their eyes locked in the rearview mirror, he would always laugh at her.
"Remind me not to go to Dead Girl for material," muttered Emerson.
"What?" said Ned semi-alertly.
"Never mind," muttered Emerson further. "Just you drive on, driver."
The driver drove on.
Meanwhile, the Coroner was on a mission, and the object was pie. Armed with the wad of bribery and freedom from Emerson Cod, he felt confident enough in his financial situation to expend a hard-won twenty on a fresh-baked dessert. He had a habit of trying a different bakery each time, being unable to settle on a favorite; his destination today was the Pie Hole, unwitting that the man who baked the pies was at present having vampire problems back at the morgue.
It was quiet this early afternoon, and the Coroner was one of only a few pie-eaters. Nevertheless he cast wary glances around him as he came through the door.
Olive Snook, possessed of a bubbly and optimistic nature that would not let her stay down long, had already gotten over her indignation at, once again, being left to man the counter while her boss, his untouchable girlfriend, and his colleague were out solving crimes; she took the Coroner's wariness for eagerness, and welcomed him to the Pie Hole.
"Welcome to the Pie Hole," she said, brightly. "Come on in, sit right down, open your mouth and surrender your wallet." She laughed the brittle, ingratiating laugh of someone attempting to sell something to someone else. The Coroner eyed her askance.
"Mmm-hmm," he said.
But he took a seat on one of the stools at the counter, and Olive planted her elbows and gave him a smile. "Want to hear our specials? Six Berry, Pumpkin Spice, Macaroon—"
"Macaroon?" said the Coroner.
Olive nodded enthusiastically. "It's like coconut cream, except without the cream."
"Where's the fun in that?" asked the Coroner. Olive stood quite still and looked at him, somewhat amazed.
"That's what I said! And Ned said sometimes you just don't feel like cream, which I disagreed with heartily, because I have never not felt like cream and I can't imagine a situation in which I would, but then Chuck backed him up so it was a done deal. Not that he ever listens to me anyway." The bubbly, optimistic nature subsided momentarily into gloom. Olive, as often as she would never not feel like cream, would never not feel the surge of love for the oblivious Pie Maker tugging at her heart. "Anyway it ended up being more like a cheesecake. So there goes that argument."
The Coroner placed both arms on the table, lacing his fingers together. "I'm looking for a pie to take to someone special."
"Oh yeah?" Olive, switching back into pie-slinging mode, leaned closer to him, as though sharing a secret. "Our pies make people special. Sometimes I swear they bring people back from the dead. Right from the brink of oblivion."
The Coroner knew a thing or two about the brink of oblivion. It was where people visited right before they came to his office. He leaned closer. "Tell me."
Olive blinked, somewhat taken aback. "Well, it's just a figure of speech."
The Coroner's excitement subsided. "Mm-hmm."
The pie-slinger faded slightly, and Olive set to match-making instead. "So who is this special someone who's so special they need a pie?"
"My momma."
"Oh." Olive held up an interrogatory finger. "Is she your momma in the traditional sense of you having sprung from her loins, or your momma in that odd and somewhat disturbing way that some people have of referring to their significant others as the gender-appropriate parent?"
If there was one thing the Coroner liked, it was attention to detail. He settled back in his seat and gazed at Olive pensively. Had he been anyone else, he would have beamed at her, but being who he was, the facial muscles that would be involved in beaming had long since atrophied beyond use.
"I like your style," he said, though nothing in his voice or expression correlated the statement.
"Oh," said Olive. "Well. Good."
Esmerelda Hannity, goth girlfriend of the late Edmund Hillary, though not the late Edmund Hillary that had anything to do with mountain climbing, was distraught. Her heavy mascara had run down her face as though trying to escape via her chin, creating streaks of blackness that echoed the depression of her soul. She answered the door sobbing, and let the Pie Maker and his colleagues in while crying. She led them to the living room, invited them to seat themselves, and inquired if they wanted anything to drink, all the while wiping tears away and emitting wails and whimpers. She retreated to the kitchen to bring them tea, and the three investigators exchanged glances.
"That poor woman!" hissed Chuck, keeping her voice down so as not to be overheard.
"She's gonna make herself dehydrated, she keeps carrying on like that," observed Emerson quietly.
"She's completely beside herself."
"I've always thought that was a weird expression," whispered Ned rapidly. "It conjures up the image of cloning, or of twins, in that you'd expect to see her actually standing beside herself when in fact all it means is that she's emotional, almost overly so." He paused to take in the looks that Chuck and Emerson were giving him. "But— I can see it's not an appropriate time for this sort of conversation, so I'll— save it."
"I'm going to go help her out," hissed Chuck, and stood just as Esmerelda Hannity came back into the room, still weeping. The upset girlfriend set a loaded tea tray down in front of Emerson, then collapsed onto an armchair in the corner. Chuck busied herself with comforting, sitting on the arm of the chair and putting her arms around the woman's shoulders. Emerson leaned forward, clasped his fingers together, and looked serious. Ned found a cookie.
"I'm sorry about this," said Esmerelda Hannity in between gasps and sighs, "but it all happened so suddenly, I can't seem to take it in."
"That's alright," said Chuck, comforting away, "we understand. Just let it out. Just let it all out."
"Or," said Emerson brightly, "you could keep some in, save it for later. We're here to ask you a few questions, see if you know anything about why your boyfriend Edmund died."
This, of course, made her cry harder, and Chuck glared at him over Esmerelda's bowed head. "Let me handle it," she mouthed at him.
"Fine!" Emerson mouthed back.
Ned mouthed something indistinguishable, as his mouth was full of cookie.
"What?" Chuck mouthed.
He finished chewing, swallowed, and said out loud, "We're just trying to help, Ms. Hannity. We want to find justice for Edmund."
"That's right," said Chuck, rubbing Esmerelda's arm. "Justice. Can you tell us anything that might be of use, Esmerelda? It's alright if I call you Esmerelda, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Esmerelda, wiping her eyes. "It's fine. I don't know how you expect to get justice. Edmund had a— had a—" She gave a little hiccup. "Had a heart attack."
"A heart attack?" repeated Chuck. She glanced up in consternation at Ned and Emerson. "Does that work with vampires?"
"He wasn't a vampire," said Esmerelda hotly. "He lied to me about that. He wouldn't have been able to die if he was a vampire."
"At least, not that way," put in Ned thoughtfully. "Though if someone had a silver stake, perhaps—" Esmerelda burst into fresh sobs and the Pie Maker stopped, looking chagrined and guilty. "Sorry."
"He always said he was part of an elite community," they managed to make out through the ex-girlfriend's tears.
"So he was online?" guessed Ned.
"The vampire community! There were a few of them, here and there. They were always being targeted by monster hunters, so they had to be careful who they told about their true nature. I always thought he trusted me, I didn't even imagine that he— he—"
Chuck rubbed again at Esmerelda's arm, but the non-vampire's ex-girlfriend refused to be comforted. "You'd better go. This is going to last for a— for a whi— for a—while—"
The investigative colleagues extricated themselves from the situation and regrouped outside on the sidewalk. Ned shoved his hands in his pockets. He always seemed to think better with his hands in his pockets.
"So he wasn't a vampire."
"Or she thinks he wasn't a vampire," put in Chuck. "She thought he was, but then he died, so she assumed that he wasn't."
"But he is now?" Ned questioned, eyebrows peaked.
"Somebody decided to wake the undead guy up, so yes. He is now," rumbled Emerson.
"I refuse to take the blame for that one," said the Pie Maker immediately.
"How's that? It was your finger."
"Yes, I admit it was my finger, but I didn't want to do it. I was coerced. Somebody wanted to find out about the romance of undead love." His eyes, to do him credit, hardly strayed to Chuck, who, in her turn, looked chagrined and guilty.
"You're right," she said mournfully. "It was my fault. I was curious. Curiosity woke the vampire. But in my own defense, that's hardly the issue now. The issue is, what do we do about it?"
"We're gonna have to find this guy, and fast," said Emerson. "Before he gets thirsty and makes himself a Bloody Mary, hold the tomato juice."