Fic: Thank You For The Pie
Title: Thank You For The Pie
Fandom: Pushing Daisies
Genre: Romance
Pairing: Ned/Chuck
Rating: PG
Summary: It's the day before Thanksgiving, and Ned has a surprise for Chuck.
Warnings: Fluff. The fluffiest fluff that was ever fluffed. May cause diabetes. Read at your own risk.
It was a rainy Wednesday in November. The sky was a dull, threatening gray, and out on the street it was cold and windy and the air smelled like snow. Inside the Pie Hole, however, the air smelled like a combination of fall produce and spices. A line was stretching out the door and nearly around the block, people in wool coats and knitted hats waiting to pick up the pastries they had pre-ordered for Thanksgiving desert. At that exact moment the Pie Maker was exactly twenty-nine years, six months, three weeks, one day, and twenty seconds old. He was baking a pie.
It was a special pie. It was not apple or pumpkin, the two scents that seemed most prevalent in the near-holiday atmosphere of the shop. Instead, it was filled with summery fruit. There were deep red raspberries- really fresh ones, not ‘fresh again’- and a pinch of cinnamon had been mixed into the flour. The crust was flaky, but not too crumbly. The Pie Maker, who was commonly known as Ned, had drizzled honey over the top, golden and sticky and glinting in the lights of the kitchen.
“Ooh, that looks new.” The Pie Maker jumped, letting out a decidedly un-manly yelp. Olive Snook peered around him, trying to get a glimpse of the mysterious pie that had distracted her employer’s attention from the holiday rush. “Are we serving that now?
“Olive, don’t sneak up on me!” Ned felt as if his heart had attempted to leap out of his chest. He was simultaneously relieved and disappointed that the person who had startled him was Olive, and not a certain other individual who went by a name commonly reserved for members of the male gender.
The waitress frowned. “I wasn’t sneaking. You were being oblivious.” She craned her neck to oogle the pie. “Are you hiding that?”
“What? No.” The Pie Maker’s eye twitched.
“Your eye’s twitching.” Olive pointed out.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ned lifted the tray with his oven mitts, holding it high over Olive’s head. “Don’t you have customers to serve?”
Olive glanced back at the line leading to the counter and rolled her eyes. “They can wait. Thanksgiving isn’t until tomorrow.”
“Which would be why they want to get them today.” Ned carefully slid the mysterious pie into the oven. “You just have to check their order and give them what they wanted.” He paled suddenly, face falling faster than a hippopotamus that had been dropped off a very tall building. “Did we run out?”
“No, no, it’s fine.” Olive flapped her hands dismissively. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about that pie?”
“I’m sure. Surely. I’m really truly surely sure.” The Pie Maker nodded hastily, steering Olive back to the storefront with one gloved hand on her back. “Please keep working? We don’t need a riot, not today.”
As Olive pouted and began to take the orders of disgruntled customers, Ned retreated to the kitchen. Opening the oven just a crack, he snuck a peek at the fruit of his morning’s labor.
“Hey Ned.”
The Pie Maker slammed the oven shut with a clang and spun around, hands above his head as if he expected to be shot. Across the room, the girl he called Chuck laughed.
“Don’t worry, I’m over here.”
He lowered his hands slowly, breathing out a sigh of relief. “You scared me.”
Chuck cocked her head inquisitively. “Did I? You seem awful jumpy today.”
“Jumpy? What? No. My feet are firmly rooted to the floor.” The Pie Maker babbled, nervously adjusting his oven mitts so that they overlapped with the cuffs of his sweater. “I’m just anxious. About the pie.” It wasn’t a complete lie. He never had to specify which pie he was anxious about.
“Don’t be. Everything’s going to turn out fine; the pies are selling like hotcakes, but with delicious fruit filling instead of cakey-ness.” Chuck smiled warmly. “Here, let me help. What’s baking right now? It smells great-“
Ned spread-eagled himself in front of the oven, blocking his girlfriend’s route. She withdrew her hand hastily, not wanting to risk contact with his skin. “Nothing! There’s nothing baking!”
Chuck crossed her arms over her chest. “Well now I’m suspicious.”
“Don’t be?” The Pie Maker tried to think of an excuse to keep Chuck away from the oven. “I’m killing a cockroach.”
Chuck gaped. “Aw, crap. Do we have an infestation? That’s bad, they’ll close us down!”
“We’re okay, I think it crawled in from outside. I’m just…” the more he lied, the easier the lies came. “I’m just killing it now so that it doesn’t start a colony and try to take over the restaurant. As you do when you’re a cockroach, you know how it is.”
“I really don’t.” Chuck made a face. “In the oven though, Ned? We make food in there.”
“Did you know that cockroaches can survive a nuclear bomb? The only way to get rid of them is the kind of extreme heat that can only be attained by baking.” The Pie Maker smiled weakly. “I’ll clean it after.”
Chuck decided to ignore the fact that her boyfriend’s eye was twitching. After all, they had made all the pies that they needed for the day. Whatever Ned was messing around with, it wasn’t interfering with business and it didn’t seem to be life-threatening. Chuck shrugged. “Fine, whatever.” She looked down at Ned’s hands. “Hey, can I try something?”
“That depends on what the something is. Is it a dangerous something? Because then the answer is no.”
Chuck stretched out and grabbed Ned’s gloved hand in her bare one. The Pie Maker barely managed to stifle a yelp of terror.
“Chuck! A little warning next time, please?” Ned took deep breaths, trying to calm down. Chuck squeezed him through the thick fabric of the oven mitt.
“I did warn you. And anyway, I knew you’d freak out before I got a chance if I just asked.”
The Pie Maker sagged against the wall. “I freaked out anyway.”
“Mmmhmm.” Chuck squeezed again. “Get us some plastic wrap, would you?”
Ned melted as he looked down at her smile. Feeling a matching grin spread across his face, he reached for the cellophane. “Okay.”
------------------------------------
Ned collapsed into the seat across from Emerson Cod, who was digging into a slice of rhubarb pie a la mode and scowling. None of these things were out of the ordinary.
“It’s like feeding time at the zoo in here.” The private detective grumbled. “I had to wait ten minutes to get this. That’s ten minutes of my life I’ll never get back.” He stabbed the ice cream with his fork. “And it was cold.”
“That’s because it has ice cream on it. As a rule it’s kind of chilly.” The Pie Maker rested his chin on his hands. “What’s going on?”
Emerson glared at him. “Can’t a man come in for a slice of pie at the holidays? Do I have to have an ulterior motive?”
“No, but you usually do.”
“True that.” Emerson put down his fork with a clatter. “There’s been a murder. Fella name of Todd Baines was found this morning in a parking lot dressed up like a pilgrim. The murder weapon was found at the crime scene.”
“What was it? Death by basting?”
“Bludgeoned to death with a frozen turkey.”
“At least the killer understands holiday spirit.”
Emerson glowered and took a bite of pie. “We’re going down to the morgue. Get your coat.”
“But I have customers.” Ned protested. “This is the busiest day of my year!”
“Looks like Olive’s got it covered.” The private detective nodded at the counter, where the blonde waitress was dispensing boxed pies left and right. If pie distribution had been an Olympic sport, Olive could have made the US national team then and there.
“I’ve got something in the oven right now. I don’t want to leave it.” Ned fidgeted on the squeaky vinyl seat.
“One burnt pie won’t kill you.”
“Emerson…” Ned leaned forward. “It’s an important pie.” He muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
Emerson leaned away from the Pie Maker. “Oh, no. This has something to do with Dead Girl, doesn’t it?”
Ned shushed him hastily. “Stop talking!”
“Oh I’m sorry, what was that you said? Keep talking as loudly as possible?”
“Emerson, please-!”
“I might be obliged to shut up if you agreed to come along to the morgue.” The detective raised his eyebrows expectantly. Ned allowed his head to fall forward onto his chest in resignation.
“Give me a second, okay? Go wait in the car.” He hauled himself to his feet and beckoned Olive over. The waitress dashed across the restaurant, practically vaulting over the counter in her haste to get to Ned.
“What do you need?” She grinned widely. “What can I do?”
“I need you to watch that pie I was making earlier.” The Pie Maker whispered. Olive bent to hear him. “Make sure it doesn’t get burned. And don’t tell anyone about it, okay?”
“Why? Is it being followed by government agents?” Olive hissed. Ned looked at her incredulously, his large brows furrowed.
“What? No.” He shook his head, untying his apron. “Just keep an eye on it. It’s important.” He draped the white cloth over the back of the booth and replaced it with his heavy black coat. “I’ll be back soon.” Catching sight of Chuck, Ned waved her over.
“What did Emerson want?” She asked, hands on her hips.
“Some guy got beaten with a turkey. He wants me to go down to the morgue. Wanna come?”
Chuck shook her head. “I think I’ll stay here and help Olive. It’s pretty busy.” She frowned. “Are you sure you should leave?”
“I’ll be quick. Or I’ll try to be. Hopefully he’ll know who killed him and I’ll be back as fast as possible.” Ned blew her a kiss. She mimed catching it. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
She nodded. “It’s alright, just go without me. Hurry, okay?”
“Okay.” Ned was in the process of forming a grin so sappy and sweet it would cause diabetes in whoever caught sight of it when he heard someone leaning on the horn of a car outside. The noise made several patrons cover their ears and complain loudly, adding to the general din.
Chuck winced. “I think Emerson’s getting tired of waiting.”
“Right. Of course. I’m going.” Ned’s eye darted around. “Plastic wrap?”
Chuck produced a roll from the pocket of her dress. Emerson spent exactly one minute and thirty-four seconds more honking the horn of Ned’s car before the Pie Maker emerged from his store, smiling like a loon.
---------------------------
“That’s… unpleasant looking.”
“Frozen turkey’s are heavy. What did you expect?”
“A little less blood and a little more face?”
“Don’t be a baby.”
Ned frowned down at the mutilated body that lay on the cold, silver slab of the morgue. It was indeed an ugly corpse, covered in bruises and with a collapsed nose that seemed mashed against the rest of the purple-mottled face. Emerson crossed his arms over his chest expectantly.
“You ready? ‘Cause there’s a big reward for this sucker, and I’d be mighty thankful for a turkey day bonus.”
“I don’t know if he’ll be able to speak. He’s pretty beat up.” Ned considered the dead man’s battered appearance. Emerson rolled his eyes.
“He’ll be fine. Come on, let’s get this over with.” He grabbed the Pie Maker’s hand and yanked it forward, pressing the fingers to the shoulder of the murder victim. The dead man sprang to life with a golden spark, taking a wheezy, congested breath through his flattened nostrils. He blinked at his two visitors in confusion.
“Where are my pants?” He shrieked nasally. “My wife is going to kill me!”
“Elaborate on that, please.” Ned checked his watch, shooting Emerson a nasty look. “And hurry. You’ve got a minute.”
“I work with the Historically Accurate Historic Re-enactment Society. We’re doing a show tomorrow about the first Thanksgiving. I’m playing the lead pilgrim, and I’ve been having an affair with the actress who plays my wife.” He shrugged. “I have to keep a close eye on my pants.”
“Now isn’t that a shame.” Emerson deadpanned. Todd Baines scowled.
“I’m a method actor. I wanted to get into the character, really dig into the part. You understand. Am I dead?”
“Kind of.” Ned glanced at his watch. “Twenty-seven seconds. So did your wife kill you?”
“My real wife or my pilgrim wife?”
“Either. Be specific.”
“Neither.” Baines scoffed. “My wife understands that as an actor, I have certain thespian practices I must involve in. She was fine with the affair.”
“What about the other wife?”
“She was fine, too.” He leered. It looked extremely bizarre on his mutilated face. “In both senses of the word.”
Ned made a face. “So who did kill you? Ten seconds.”
“Talk fast.” Emerson growled.
“The actor playing Squanto, Mike Reynolds.” Baines blurted. “He was jealous because I was a better actor than him. So he hit me with a turkey after rehearsal. Now he’ll have the show all to himself.” Baines coughed. “And he isn’t even any good. I went to Julliard-“
Ned poked the dead actor, and he fell back against the slab, blue and corpse-like once more. The Pie Maker turned to the private detective.
Emerson raised his eyebrows. “That was easier than usual.”
“I guess we should be thankful for that. Can I go now?” Ned fidgeted, toying with his gloves. Emerson waved him off.
“Go on, drive back to Dead Girl. I’ll catch a taxi.”
“Thank you!” The Pie Maker yelled as he dashed out the doors of the morgue. Emerson shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets, thinking happily of the reward he was going to get for finding Todd Baines’ murderer.
----------------------------------
Back at the Pie Hole, business was finally beginning to wind down. The queue of customers was only a few people long, and as the sun began to set and Ned’s car pulled up to the sidewalk the last couple of patrons headed out, warm boxes of pie clutched in their arms and smiles on their faces.
The Pie Maker, however, was much more anxious. He slipped his coat off and walked up behind Olive, who was enjoying a hot chocolate with an obscene amount of whipped cream on top. He tapped her on the shoulder. “Is the pie okay?”
The waitress turned around, frowning. “Hi, Olive. How was the rush? Did you have a good day? Thanks for being such a help.”
“Take everything that you just said sarcastically and pretend that I said it in a genuine, non-sarcastic way.” Ned wrung his hands. “I need a report on the pie. The special one. Now.”
“It’s fine.” Olive rolled her eyes. “I took it out of the oven an hour ago. I put it in the warming tray so it wouldn’t get cold.”
“Has anyone seen it?”
“No.”
“Has Chuck seen it?”
“No. And why doesn’t Chuck count as anyone?” Olive pushed away her cocoa. “She’s cleaning up in back. Should be almost done by now. But she hasn’t seen anything.”
“Thank you.” Ned grabbed the waitress’s hand in his. It was a rare sign of affection and gratitude, and Olive vowed to never wash her palm again. “You have no idea how important this is to me. Thank you so much.”
Olive smiled. “You’re welcome.” She stood up briskly, smoothing down her jersey dress and adjusting the zipper. “I’m going to go home now. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, of course.” Ned spun the sign on the door around to tell the world that the Pie Hole was closed for the night. “Have a great Thanksgiving, Olive.”
“Will do, boss.” She winked, shuffling into her coat and heading out the door. She very pointedly didn’t look back at the Pie Maker; she didn’t want to look desperate- in her heart of hearts she knew that he would never love her back. She pushed the thought out of her mind and resolved to spend the rest of the night making turkey-flavored macaroni and cheese.
“Hi.” Ned turned to see the girl called Chuck, who was leaning on the counter with a cleaning rag in her hand. Her hair was tousled and out of place, there was a smudge of flour on her cheek, and her dress was wrinkled. At that moment, Ned realized that he had never seen a more beautiful creature in his entire life. He ached to hold her close to him, to wrap his arms around small frame and breathe in the honey-and-pear fragrance of her body. He settled for slipping on an unused rubber dishwashing glove and holding it out to caress her face.
“Hi.” He gazed down at her. “I missed you.”
She turned her face into his hand, nuzzling his gloved fingers. “You were only gone for two hours.” She closed her eyes. “But I missed you, too.”
“I should probably feel worse about that.” Ned pulled his hand away. “Sit down. I‘ve got a surprise for you.”
Chuck grinned. “I thought you didn’t like surprises.”
“Well, I knew about it, so I’m not the one being surprised.” Ned ran a hand through his hair nervously. “Problem solved.”
“Should I close my eyes?”
“Sure.”
Chuck squeezed her eyelids shut in anticipation. She heard Ned’s footsteps retreating, and then returning at a slightly slower, more careful pace. She bit her lip. “Can I open them now?”
“Yes.”
Chuck peered out through one eye, then the other. In front of her on the table sat a beautiful golden pie. It was small, as if made for only one person, and it smelled of raspberries and cinnamon and honey and summer and life. She gaped up at Ned, who was sitting across the table and looking apprehensive. She pulled a piece of fresh plastic wrap out of her pocket, just in case. “You made this for me?”
“Yeah.” Ned looked sheepish. “I wanted to give you something. To show you how thankful I am that I have you here, with me. And not, you know, dead.”
“Oh Ned.” Chuck gazed at the Pie Maker longingly, tears welling in her eyes. “I want to hug you so badly right now.”
“I know.” Ned handed her a fork, being careful not to let their fingers touch. “I feel the same way.” He held his own hand under the table and pretended it was hers. “Go on, take a bite. I think it came out right…”
The girl who was no longer dead cut into the pie’s crust and lifted a forkful to her pink mouth. She closed her eyes as it passed her lips, letting out a moan of pure pleasure. “Oh my God, Ned, this is the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten.” She mumbled. “You have to eat some, it’s the best thing you’ve ever baked!”
Ned shook his head. “That’s alright, I’m not hungry. Keep going, I made it the size for just one person.”
With each bite Chuck took, the Pie Maker looked more and more anxious. As Chuck took the last piece of pie, she thought she saw something glinting, hidden among the berries. But she figured it was a trick of the light and put the fork in her mouth.
Suddenly she tasted something heavy and metallic on her tongue. Frowning in confusion, she reached into her mouth and pulled out the offending object. She stared down at what she held in her palm, silver and sparkling and streaked with raspberry juice. She swallowed the mouthful of what was now just plain pie, feeling her eyes grow wide.
“Ned?” She murmured. “There’s a diamond ring in my pie.” As she looked up, she realized that the Pie Maker was kneeling on the floor beside her chair. His hands were trembling in their yellow rubber gloves.
“Chuck.” He breathed. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I love you more than I love air- more than I love pie.” He exhaled shakily, a blush spreading across his cheeks. “Do you want to get married?”
“Oh, Ned.” Chuck grabbed the plastic wrap from the table and leaned down. “Do you really have to ask?”
On the night before Thanksgiving, the Pie Maker and the girl he called Chuck knew that they had the most important thing in the world:
Each other.
Fandom: Pushing Daisies
Genre: Romance
Pairing: Ned/Chuck
Rating: PG
Summary: It's the day before Thanksgiving, and Ned has a surprise for Chuck.
Warnings: Fluff. The fluffiest fluff that was ever fluffed. May cause diabetes. Read at your own risk.
It was a rainy Wednesday in November. The sky was a dull, threatening gray, and out on the street it was cold and windy and the air smelled like snow. Inside the Pie Hole, however, the air smelled like a combination of fall produce and spices. A line was stretching out the door and nearly around the block, people in wool coats and knitted hats waiting to pick up the pastries they had pre-ordered for Thanksgiving desert. At that exact moment the Pie Maker was exactly twenty-nine years, six months, three weeks, one day, and twenty seconds old. He was baking a pie.
It was a special pie. It was not apple or pumpkin, the two scents that seemed most prevalent in the near-holiday atmosphere of the shop. Instead, it was filled with summery fruit. There were deep red raspberries- really fresh ones, not ‘fresh again’- and a pinch of cinnamon had been mixed into the flour. The crust was flaky, but not too crumbly. The Pie Maker, who was commonly known as Ned, had drizzled honey over the top, golden and sticky and glinting in the lights of the kitchen.
“Ooh, that looks new.” The Pie Maker jumped, letting out a decidedly un-manly yelp. Olive Snook peered around him, trying to get a glimpse of the mysterious pie that had distracted her employer’s attention from the holiday rush. “Are we serving that now?
“Olive, don’t sneak up on me!” Ned felt as if his heart had attempted to leap out of his chest. He was simultaneously relieved and disappointed that the person who had startled him was Olive, and not a certain other individual who went by a name commonly reserved for members of the male gender.
The waitress frowned. “I wasn’t sneaking. You were being oblivious.” She craned her neck to oogle the pie. “Are you hiding that?”
“What? No.” The Pie Maker’s eye twitched.
“Your eye’s twitching.” Olive pointed out.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ned lifted the tray with his oven mitts, holding it high over Olive’s head. “Don’t you have customers to serve?”
Olive glanced back at the line leading to the counter and rolled her eyes. “They can wait. Thanksgiving isn’t until tomorrow.”
“Which would be why they want to get them today.” Ned carefully slid the mysterious pie into the oven. “You just have to check their order and give them what they wanted.” He paled suddenly, face falling faster than a hippopotamus that had been dropped off a very tall building. “Did we run out?”
“No, no, it’s fine.” Olive flapped her hands dismissively. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about that pie?”
“I’m sure. Surely. I’m really truly surely sure.” The Pie Maker nodded hastily, steering Olive back to the storefront with one gloved hand on her back. “Please keep working? We don’t need a riot, not today.”
As Olive pouted and began to take the orders of disgruntled customers, Ned retreated to the kitchen. Opening the oven just a crack, he snuck a peek at the fruit of his morning’s labor.
“Hey Ned.”
The Pie Maker slammed the oven shut with a clang and spun around, hands above his head as if he expected to be shot. Across the room, the girl he called Chuck laughed.
“Don’t worry, I’m over here.”
He lowered his hands slowly, breathing out a sigh of relief. “You scared me.”
Chuck cocked her head inquisitively. “Did I? You seem awful jumpy today.”
“Jumpy? What? No. My feet are firmly rooted to the floor.” The Pie Maker babbled, nervously adjusting his oven mitts so that they overlapped with the cuffs of his sweater. “I’m just anxious. About the pie.” It wasn’t a complete lie. He never had to specify which pie he was anxious about.
“Don’t be. Everything’s going to turn out fine; the pies are selling like hotcakes, but with delicious fruit filling instead of cakey-ness.” Chuck smiled warmly. “Here, let me help. What’s baking right now? It smells great-“
Ned spread-eagled himself in front of the oven, blocking his girlfriend’s route. She withdrew her hand hastily, not wanting to risk contact with his skin. “Nothing! There’s nothing baking!”
Chuck crossed her arms over her chest. “Well now I’m suspicious.”
“Don’t be?” The Pie Maker tried to think of an excuse to keep Chuck away from the oven. “I’m killing a cockroach.”
Chuck gaped. “Aw, crap. Do we have an infestation? That’s bad, they’ll close us down!”
“We’re okay, I think it crawled in from outside. I’m just…” the more he lied, the easier the lies came. “I’m just killing it now so that it doesn’t start a colony and try to take over the restaurant. As you do when you’re a cockroach, you know how it is.”
“I really don’t.” Chuck made a face. “In the oven though, Ned? We make food in there.”
“Did you know that cockroaches can survive a nuclear bomb? The only way to get rid of them is the kind of extreme heat that can only be attained by baking.” The Pie Maker smiled weakly. “I’ll clean it after.”
Chuck decided to ignore the fact that her boyfriend’s eye was twitching. After all, they had made all the pies that they needed for the day. Whatever Ned was messing around with, it wasn’t interfering with business and it didn’t seem to be life-threatening. Chuck shrugged. “Fine, whatever.” She looked down at Ned’s hands. “Hey, can I try something?”
“That depends on what the something is. Is it a dangerous something? Because then the answer is no.”
Chuck stretched out and grabbed Ned’s gloved hand in her bare one. The Pie Maker barely managed to stifle a yelp of terror.
“Chuck! A little warning next time, please?” Ned took deep breaths, trying to calm down. Chuck squeezed him through the thick fabric of the oven mitt.
“I did warn you. And anyway, I knew you’d freak out before I got a chance if I just asked.”
The Pie Maker sagged against the wall. “I freaked out anyway.”
“Mmmhmm.” Chuck squeezed again. “Get us some plastic wrap, would you?”
Ned melted as he looked down at her smile. Feeling a matching grin spread across his face, he reached for the cellophane. “Okay.”
------------------------------------
Ned collapsed into the seat across from Emerson Cod, who was digging into a slice of rhubarb pie a la mode and scowling. None of these things were out of the ordinary.
“It’s like feeding time at the zoo in here.” The private detective grumbled. “I had to wait ten minutes to get this. That’s ten minutes of my life I’ll never get back.” He stabbed the ice cream with his fork. “And it was cold.”
“That’s because it has ice cream on it. As a rule it’s kind of chilly.” The Pie Maker rested his chin on his hands. “What’s going on?”
Emerson glared at him. “Can’t a man come in for a slice of pie at the holidays? Do I have to have an ulterior motive?”
“No, but you usually do.”
“True that.” Emerson put down his fork with a clatter. “There’s been a murder. Fella name of Todd Baines was found this morning in a parking lot dressed up like a pilgrim. The murder weapon was found at the crime scene.”
“What was it? Death by basting?”
“Bludgeoned to death with a frozen turkey.”
“At least the killer understands holiday spirit.”
Emerson glowered and took a bite of pie. “We’re going down to the morgue. Get your coat.”
“But I have customers.” Ned protested. “This is the busiest day of my year!”
“Looks like Olive’s got it covered.” The private detective nodded at the counter, where the blonde waitress was dispensing boxed pies left and right. If pie distribution had been an Olympic sport, Olive could have made the US national team then and there.
“I’ve got something in the oven right now. I don’t want to leave it.” Ned fidgeted on the squeaky vinyl seat.
“One burnt pie won’t kill you.”
“Emerson…” Ned leaned forward. “It’s an important pie.” He muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
Emerson leaned away from the Pie Maker. “Oh, no. This has something to do with Dead Girl, doesn’t it?”
Ned shushed him hastily. “Stop talking!”
“Oh I’m sorry, what was that you said? Keep talking as loudly as possible?”
“Emerson, please-!”
“I might be obliged to shut up if you agreed to come along to the morgue.” The detective raised his eyebrows expectantly. Ned allowed his head to fall forward onto his chest in resignation.
“Give me a second, okay? Go wait in the car.” He hauled himself to his feet and beckoned Olive over. The waitress dashed across the restaurant, practically vaulting over the counter in her haste to get to Ned.
“What do you need?” She grinned widely. “What can I do?”
“I need you to watch that pie I was making earlier.” The Pie Maker whispered. Olive bent to hear him. “Make sure it doesn’t get burned. And don’t tell anyone about it, okay?”
“Why? Is it being followed by government agents?” Olive hissed. Ned looked at her incredulously, his large brows furrowed.
“What? No.” He shook his head, untying his apron. “Just keep an eye on it. It’s important.” He draped the white cloth over the back of the booth and replaced it with his heavy black coat. “I’ll be back soon.” Catching sight of Chuck, Ned waved her over.
“What did Emerson want?” She asked, hands on her hips.
“Some guy got beaten with a turkey. He wants me to go down to the morgue. Wanna come?”
Chuck shook her head. “I think I’ll stay here and help Olive. It’s pretty busy.” She frowned. “Are you sure you should leave?”
“I’ll be quick. Or I’ll try to be. Hopefully he’ll know who killed him and I’ll be back as fast as possible.” Ned blew her a kiss. She mimed catching it. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
She nodded. “It’s alright, just go without me. Hurry, okay?”
“Okay.” Ned was in the process of forming a grin so sappy and sweet it would cause diabetes in whoever caught sight of it when he heard someone leaning on the horn of a car outside. The noise made several patrons cover their ears and complain loudly, adding to the general din.
Chuck winced. “I think Emerson’s getting tired of waiting.”
“Right. Of course. I’m going.” Ned’s eye darted around. “Plastic wrap?”
Chuck produced a roll from the pocket of her dress. Emerson spent exactly one minute and thirty-four seconds more honking the horn of Ned’s car before the Pie Maker emerged from his store, smiling like a loon.
---------------------------
“That’s… unpleasant looking.”
“Frozen turkey’s are heavy. What did you expect?”
“A little less blood and a little more face?”
“Don’t be a baby.”
Ned frowned down at the mutilated body that lay on the cold, silver slab of the morgue. It was indeed an ugly corpse, covered in bruises and with a collapsed nose that seemed mashed against the rest of the purple-mottled face. Emerson crossed his arms over his chest expectantly.
“You ready? ‘Cause there’s a big reward for this sucker, and I’d be mighty thankful for a turkey day bonus.”
“I don’t know if he’ll be able to speak. He’s pretty beat up.” Ned considered the dead man’s battered appearance. Emerson rolled his eyes.
“He’ll be fine. Come on, let’s get this over with.” He grabbed the Pie Maker’s hand and yanked it forward, pressing the fingers to the shoulder of the murder victim. The dead man sprang to life with a golden spark, taking a wheezy, congested breath through his flattened nostrils. He blinked at his two visitors in confusion.
“Where are my pants?” He shrieked nasally. “My wife is going to kill me!”
“Elaborate on that, please.” Ned checked his watch, shooting Emerson a nasty look. “And hurry. You’ve got a minute.”
“I work with the Historically Accurate Historic Re-enactment Society. We’re doing a show tomorrow about the first Thanksgiving. I’m playing the lead pilgrim, and I’ve been having an affair with the actress who plays my wife.” He shrugged. “I have to keep a close eye on my pants.”
“Now isn’t that a shame.” Emerson deadpanned. Todd Baines scowled.
“I’m a method actor. I wanted to get into the character, really dig into the part. You understand. Am I dead?”
“Kind of.” Ned glanced at his watch. “Twenty-seven seconds. So did your wife kill you?”
“My real wife or my pilgrim wife?”
“Either. Be specific.”
“Neither.” Baines scoffed. “My wife understands that as an actor, I have certain thespian practices I must involve in. She was fine with the affair.”
“What about the other wife?”
“She was fine, too.” He leered. It looked extremely bizarre on his mutilated face. “In both senses of the word.”
Ned made a face. “So who did kill you? Ten seconds.”
“Talk fast.” Emerson growled.
“The actor playing Squanto, Mike Reynolds.” Baines blurted. “He was jealous because I was a better actor than him. So he hit me with a turkey after rehearsal. Now he’ll have the show all to himself.” Baines coughed. “And he isn’t even any good. I went to Julliard-“
Ned poked the dead actor, and he fell back against the slab, blue and corpse-like once more. The Pie Maker turned to the private detective.
Emerson raised his eyebrows. “That was easier than usual.”
“I guess we should be thankful for that. Can I go now?” Ned fidgeted, toying with his gloves. Emerson waved him off.
“Go on, drive back to Dead Girl. I’ll catch a taxi.”
“Thank you!” The Pie Maker yelled as he dashed out the doors of the morgue. Emerson shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets, thinking happily of the reward he was going to get for finding Todd Baines’ murderer.
----------------------------------
Back at the Pie Hole, business was finally beginning to wind down. The queue of customers was only a few people long, and as the sun began to set and Ned’s car pulled up to the sidewalk the last couple of patrons headed out, warm boxes of pie clutched in their arms and smiles on their faces.
The Pie Maker, however, was much more anxious. He slipped his coat off and walked up behind Olive, who was enjoying a hot chocolate with an obscene amount of whipped cream on top. He tapped her on the shoulder. “Is the pie okay?”
The waitress turned around, frowning. “Hi, Olive. How was the rush? Did you have a good day? Thanks for being such a help.”
“Take everything that you just said sarcastically and pretend that I said it in a genuine, non-sarcastic way.” Ned wrung his hands. “I need a report on the pie. The special one. Now.”
“It’s fine.” Olive rolled her eyes. “I took it out of the oven an hour ago. I put it in the warming tray so it wouldn’t get cold.”
“Has anyone seen it?”
“No.”
“Has Chuck seen it?”
“No. And why doesn’t Chuck count as anyone?” Olive pushed away her cocoa. “She’s cleaning up in back. Should be almost done by now. But she hasn’t seen anything.”
“Thank you.” Ned grabbed the waitress’s hand in his. It was a rare sign of affection and gratitude, and Olive vowed to never wash her palm again. “You have no idea how important this is to me. Thank you so much.”
Olive smiled. “You’re welcome.” She stood up briskly, smoothing down her jersey dress and adjusting the zipper. “I’m going to go home now. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, of course.” Ned spun the sign on the door around to tell the world that the Pie Hole was closed for the night. “Have a great Thanksgiving, Olive.”
“Will do, boss.” She winked, shuffling into her coat and heading out the door. She very pointedly didn’t look back at the Pie Maker; she didn’t want to look desperate- in her heart of hearts she knew that he would never love her back. She pushed the thought out of her mind and resolved to spend the rest of the night making turkey-flavored macaroni and cheese.
“Hi.” Ned turned to see the girl called Chuck, who was leaning on the counter with a cleaning rag in her hand. Her hair was tousled and out of place, there was a smudge of flour on her cheek, and her dress was wrinkled. At that moment, Ned realized that he had never seen a more beautiful creature in his entire life. He ached to hold her close to him, to wrap his arms around small frame and breathe in the honey-and-pear fragrance of her body. He settled for slipping on an unused rubber dishwashing glove and holding it out to caress her face.
“Hi.” He gazed down at her. “I missed you.”
She turned her face into his hand, nuzzling his gloved fingers. “You were only gone for two hours.” She closed her eyes. “But I missed you, too.”
“I should probably feel worse about that.” Ned pulled his hand away. “Sit down. I‘ve got a surprise for you.”
Chuck grinned. “I thought you didn’t like surprises.”
“Well, I knew about it, so I’m not the one being surprised.” Ned ran a hand through his hair nervously. “Problem solved.”
“Should I close my eyes?”
“Sure.”
Chuck squeezed her eyelids shut in anticipation. She heard Ned’s footsteps retreating, and then returning at a slightly slower, more careful pace. She bit her lip. “Can I open them now?”
“Yes.”
Chuck peered out through one eye, then the other. In front of her on the table sat a beautiful golden pie. It was small, as if made for only one person, and it smelled of raspberries and cinnamon and honey and summer and life. She gaped up at Ned, who was sitting across the table and looking apprehensive. She pulled a piece of fresh plastic wrap out of her pocket, just in case. “You made this for me?”
“Yeah.” Ned looked sheepish. “I wanted to give you something. To show you how thankful I am that I have you here, with me. And not, you know, dead.”
“Oh Ned.” Chuck gazed at the Pie Maker longingly, tears welling in her eyes. “I want to hug you so badly right now.”
“I know.” Ned handed her a fork, being careful not to let their fingers touch. “I feel the same way.” He held his own hand under the table and pretended it was hers. “Go on, take a bite. I think it came out right…”
The girl who was no longer dead cut into the pie’s crust and lifted a forkful to her pink mouth. She closed her eyes as it passed her lips, letting out a moan of pure pleasure. “Oh my God, Ned, this is the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten.” She mumbled. “You have to eat some, it’s the best thing you’ve ever baked!”
Ned shook his head. “That’s alright, I’m not hungry. Keep going, I made it the size for just one person.”
With each bite Chuck took, the Pie Maker looked more and more anxious. As Chuck took the last piece of pie, she thought she saw something glinting, hidden among the berries. But she figured it was a trick of the light and put the fork in her mouth.
Suddenly she tasted something heavy and metallic on her tongue. Frowning in confusion, she reached into her mouth and pulled out the offending object. She stared down at what she held in her palm, silver and sparkling and streaked with raspberry juice. She swallowed the mouthful of what was now just plain pie, feeling her eyes grow wide.
“Ned?” She murmured. “There’s a diamond ring in my pie.” As she looked up, she realized that the Pie Maker was kneeling on the floor beside her chair. His hands were trembling in their yellow rubber gloves.
“Chuck.” He breathed. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I love you more than I love air- more than I love pie.” He exhaled shakily, a blush spreading across his cheeks. “Do you want to get married?”
“Oh, Ned.” Chuck grabbed the plastic wrap from the table and leaned down. “Do you really have to ask?”
On the night before Thanksgiving, the Pie Maker and the girl he called Chuck knew that they had the most important thing in the world:
Each other.