Chapter 36: Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

Dear Ned,

I miss you so much I wish I could take all the first drafts of this letter and fold them into a giant paper plane, then fly it home. But that would probably end in me dying of hypothermia halfway off the ground, or getting sucked into a jet engine…

Speaking of flying…remember that guy we met on the flight over? I ran into him again and found out the funniest thing. He grew up in Papen County too! Went to Longborough and everything. Maybe you knew him way back when…

Anyway, I think he works in politics or something. Knows a lot of Very Important People. But, name-dropping aside, he seems like a nice enough guy. He says hi to you and the boys and their mom…

Family sends their greetings too. It's weird having all four of us in the same place, for the first time since I was a little girl. I love it, though. It's just not much of a reunion without you…

Please call soon, otherwise I really will build that plane.

Yours forever,

Chuck

The Alive Again Avenger cleared her throat and looked across the little table, raising her eyebrows expectantly. Eugene thought for a moment, dipping the last chunk of croissant into his hot chocolate.

"Even if the paper plane could carry you, how would you steer it?"

Chuck glared at him. "That's the nit you'd like to pick…?"

They sat outside one of her many favorite cafés. The weather was bitingly cold, even as they huddled up in coats and scarves, but they could hardly have a conversation inside, where others might overhear.

"Sorry," he winced, as a gust of wind took a swipe at their faces like cat claws. "It's the aviator in me."

She handed him the letter. "Well, I could use some insight from the secret agent in you…"

Eugene made a face at being called that, but did not comment as he took the parchment. After a while he said: "I spy with my little eye…nothing that could tip off whoever might intercept your letter. Not unless they know you happen to be Lonely Tourist Charlotte Charles. And nobody at the OST knows that except me. But…you're not actually sending this are you?"

"Nope. Just something to organize my thoughts. I couldn't send it if I wanted to. I don't even know where he is…"

"But he knows where to find you."

He gave the letter back and she tucked it into her pocket. "When he finally calls, do you think he'll pick up what I'm putting down?"

"For sure. Ned was the smartest kid in our year. Present company excluded," he quipped. "He can read between the lines."

Chuck nodded hard, trying to convince herself. She checked her watch…there were still 32 minutes left until the end of her lunch break, and she could do with a pick-me-up…

"They serve a red velvet cheesecake here that might be the most ridiculously decadent thing I have ever attempted to eat. Wanna split it?"

Eugene bit back a smile. "My parents would weep. On account of how much money they invested in my teeth."

"Weeellll…" Chuck wheedled. "What they don't know won't hurt them."

The wind whipped past once more, sending violent shivers through the pair. "Tell me we can have it inside and you've got a deal."

Chuck agreed and they leapt to their feet, hurrying in out of the cold…

XXX

To his immense surprise, the Pie Maker found that – after a couple of other passengers complained – the bus had been warmed up enough to send him to sleep. Perhaps the best sleep he had in weeks, despite any rattling and rumbling as they drove. Only when they hit an abrupt bump in the road did he wake, cheek pressed against the window, blinking as he watched the green and gold-tinted meadows rolling by…

Earlier on, he called the Snook estate from yet another rest stop. Mr. Babineaux assured him he was no more than an hour away…

Ned had never stayed anywhere grand enough to be deemed an 'estate', with its own manager to boot. Unless one counted Longborough, where the vast space and interchangeable staff just served to amplify his sense of loneliness. He suspected Olive felt the same about where she grew up…

58 minutes and 6 seconds later, Ned disembarked at the bus depot. Outside, a balding man in tweed waited by a vintage black Bentley.

"Mr. Egan?"

Ned was a bit taken aback at being called that. No one who knew him ever used his last name…

"Any baggage?"

"Huh?" he uttered. "Oh!" Babineaux meant the physical kind, of course. "No thank you. I sent everything ahead with Olive."

"Then may I take your…?" he gestured at the bundled up fabric in his arms.

The Pie Maker acquiesced, murmuring something noncommittal about having gone to a Halloween party…

Their drive up to the house was silent but mercifully short. Ned felt so antsy he almost got out of the car before it rolled to a complete stop in the gravel driveway. At that moment, he did not much care where he was, he just wanted to be around friends again…

And the feeling must have been mutual, for he had barely reached the enormous glass double doors when one swung open and Olive dove at him. Emerson emerged soon after, with Digby and Pigby running in excited circles around them.

"You made it."

"Promised I would," the Pie Maker spluttered, as his small but powerful companion hugged the life out of him. He let his arms drift down around her shoulders, while Emerson thumped him on the back.

"Took you long enough." The PI was trying to come off nonchalant, but Ned could see right through him.

"Missed you too."

Emerson rolled his eyes at that and turned to go back inside, followed by Babineaux. Olive untangled herself from Ned, and only then did he notice she was wearing an apron covered in flour. Flour that had now been transferred to his t-shirt.

"My bad," she winced, dusting it off. "I'm making fresh pasta for dinner. Thought I'd do something to thank Ma and Pa Snook for their hospitality."

"Can I help?" he asked as she led him into the house, Digby and Pigby in tow.

"Uh, sure, but freshen up first. Mr. Babineaux will show you to your room."

Looking at the size of the drafty marble atrium (with its corridors branching off in all directions) Ned worried he would need Babineaux to draw him a map before the day was done…

"Hey, where are your parents by the way?"

"Oh, up in their room. Recovering from some party they went to. But they'll join us for dinner."

Ned could tell it troubled her that they had sequestered themselves from their guests, but he did not wish to discuss this in front of a stranger. Or disclose that he still had her gun in his coat pocket. There would be time for that later…

So he watched her go, before turning to follow the estate manager up the stairs…

XXX

"What the hell, Cod? I said dice the onions, not chop them big enough to tile a roof!"

Emerson smacked the knife down on the cutting board, bitterly regretting the moment he volunteered his services as sous chef. He glared at Olive to the best of his ability while his eyes stung with onion vapor. Had he known she would be antsier now than before the Pie Maker got here, he would not have bothered…

"Woman, you are more than welcome to do this alone."

Her cheeks were half coated in flour but he could still see them turning pink.

"Yeah, well…maybe I will! I once baked 13 pies by myself, during a lunch rush, while Ned was down with the flu."

"Then dinner for five shouldn't be a problem!"

"Not for me!" she retorted, throwing her arms open and immediately knocking a bottle of olive oil off the counter. The sound of it cracking was almost drowned out by her furious cursing...

"Whoa," Ned exclaimed from the doorway, causing both of them to pause. "This kitchen is generating a lot of warzone energy."

"And she's the generator," Emerson huffed. Something told him the reason she was overheating came down to their current environment, but it seemed unnecessary to say out loud.

"I –" she started, then stopped, as if she had heard him think it anyway. "I…guess I am. Sorry, Emerson. Home isn't exactly my comfort zone."

The PI sighed, already simmering down. "Whatever. We all got weird childhood stuff."

At that she made a noncommittal noise and looked around for the paper towels. Ned found them first and began tearing off sheets. "You already cut yourself once." He gestured at her hand and Emerson remembered the colorful little band-aid she was wearing the night they left… "Can't risk it again with fresh pasta on the line."

Without another word he got to work picking up greasy shards of glass. His task was made easier by the fact that there had been hardly any oil in the bottle. There were hardly any groceries at all before she sent Babineaux out for more. Perhaps the Snooks were not dinner party people…

"Thank you," Olive murmured, watching Ned in a way the PI pretended not to notice. "Both of you."

He shrugged, returning his attention to dicing onions…

The time passed peacefully after that, culminating in a substantial spread of creamy cacio e pepe, crispy garlic bread and an arugula salad with lemon vinaigrette.

"You know what this could use? Bacon."

Mr. Snook chuckled heartily at that, taking a big swig of wine. The one thing from the kitchen that did not seem to be in short supply. All five of them were positioned along one end of a long oak dinner table. Mr. Snook sat at the head, with his wife and daughter to his left; Ned and Emerson to his right…

"You haven't gone vegetarian like your friend here, have you, Olive?"

"Nope," she said, picking at the remnants of her pasta. "I just try to avoid pork as much as possible…on account of my pet pig."

"Ah, who ever heard of having a pet as a pig! A dog, sure. A horse, if you can afford it. But a pig?"

Ned cleared his throat. "Pigs are pretty smart and sensitive, sir. More than some children. And most adults."

Emerson and Olive made surprised eye contact, trying not to smile lest Mr. Snook should sense he was the target of that snarky aside.

"If they're so smart why do they roll around in their own sh-?"

"Oh, Oswald, really!" Mrs. Snook piped up. "Where are your manners?"

At that Mr. Snook heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. "You used to be fun, Odie. But fine, never mind the pork. It's very good, Olive." That sparked the start of a real smile from his daughter, which was snuffed out as soon as he added: "Since when can you cook?"

"Since I left home?"

"Right, right," her father replied. "Guess you never really needed to when you lived here."

"We had the most exquisite private chefs," Mrs. Snook said.

Olive tilted her head. "Had?"

"Have," Mr. Snook corrected. "He's off for the holidays."

"Well, that's generous. Seeing as the holiday season hasn't even started yet."

Mrs. Snook tittered. "We rarely use him, dear. You were always the one with the big appetite."

Emerson exchanged a glance with Ned now, as Olive avoided eye contact all together. A tense silence began to settle over the table; this time there was no missing the pointedness of the comment…

"So," the Pie Maker piped up. "Do you like to cook much, Mrs. Snook?"

"Oh heavens no. When we want a real meal Babineaux handles all that…"

Babineaux also seemed to handle the driving and housekeeping. If the PI had not seen a cleaning lady earlier in the day, he would suspect this entire estate was maintained by one man.

"Ah, speak of the Devil!" Mr. Snook declared.

Sure enough, the estate manager had appeared. He assessed the table and began to clear their plates; a welcome signal that it was time to end the proceedings.

Glancing across the table, Emerson suspected this was the last time Olive would insist on hosting a family dinner...