Believe it or not...(Part 2)
Title: Believe it or not...
Rating: PG-13
Author: whoisatlas
Disclaimer: Pushing Daisies and Supernatural belongs to their creators, respective owners, and companies. This story stands simply as freelance fan fiction and was written without permission but with great respect to the aforementioned people.
Author’s notes: Still un-betated. And this part is decisively Winchester-lite, for which I apologize for. But the copious amounts of Emerson make up for it in my opinion because Emerson is AWESOME.
***
Part II: The Knitwits
* * *
“We should go to Amelia Abernathy’s house and question her.” Ned declared.
Emerson was decisively unimpressed.
“Oh really?”
“Yes.”
“And say what?” Emerson demanded. His face melted into a large falsely polite smile that made Ned sigh. “Hello ma’am, how are you? Lovely garden and by the way did you happen to notice that it might have a homicidal gopher infestation that may have resulted in the death of a trespasser?” His expression fell flat as he regarded the Pie Maker. “Yeah.”
Ned thought about that. “Well…maybe that could be the subtext of our questions but I was thinking more along the line of “Hello ma’am, how are you? By the way did you happen to hear anything unusual the night Mr. Watterson was murdered?”
“And why would we ask that?”
“Because according to Mr. Watterson there was more then one killer soooooo I’m thinking that she might have heard something.”
“Yeah.” Emerson snorted. “Alvin and the Chipmunks.”
“Come on!” Ned was trying to be optimistic. Ever since Chuck had come into his life he had been attempting to be more positive (with admittedly minimal success). But Emerson was so determined to be grouchy(er) about the whole situation he thought he should try and offset it in this particular instance. Especially since Chuck was not here as she had separated from the group at the morgue to go and retrieving Hildegard. “Okay. I’ll admit, Mr. Watterson was a few…grains short of a loaf but it’s not his fault. Severe oxygen deprivation causes brain damage not to mention that the trauma of being murdered probably distorted his ability to recount the facts as accurately as possible so ultimately there was never any actual realistic expectation that any account he could possibly give us would be completely rational-”
“Is this your sorry attempt to look on the bright side? Cause if it is, I must say that it is quite murky with a faint hue of uselessness.”
“There was no period, the sentence did not end!” Ned snapped.
Emerson grunted and reached out to grab the cup of coffee next to his plate that was, by now, hopelessly lukewarm. With a grimace he took a sip of the liquid and made a vague waving gesture with his hand that possibly meant ‘I’m sorry/continue’ or was an attempt to ward off the unwanted explanation that continued to deluge him and shoo the source of that away into refill action.
Ned continued. “I know that because of all that Mr. Watterson’s not exactly the most credible witness but according to his story there was more then one killer. And Whitney did say he heard something. So maybe she heard something.”
This seemed to pierce through Emerson’s lingering irritation and his chewing slowed down as he considered this.
“Alright.” He said finally. “I concede that you may be onto something with that line of thought so for now we shall run with it.”
Ned was relived.
“Thank you.”
“You’re still not forgiven.”
“What? Why not!? I came up with a lead!”
“No, our lead was gopher boy’s golden sixty seconds which you so ruthlessly cut short. What you came up with was silver lining in the aftermath. Silver linings are the second place consolation prizes of life for losers. Furthermore you don’t get congratulated for finding them when you were the reason we needed to search for them in the first place.” Emerson said.
Ned pouted.
The front door to The Pie Hole opened up with a jingle and Chuck walked into the restaurant, drawing Ned’s attention. She was wearing a bright yellow dress with a large hat, the bowl of which was velvet brown and the brim was designed like large white petals so that it resembled a sunflower and white gloves. In her gloved hands she held a dog leash.
Emerson was in the process of continuing his sentence when he noticed that Ned was looking beyond him with that idiotic doe-eyed look on his face that he got whenever he saw that woman and he sighed with exasperation. Any potential usefulness he could have hoped to cultivate from Ned’s burst of deductive reasoning had just been obliterated.
Emerson violently shoved another bite of pie into his mouth.
“Hi guys!” Chuck said. She looked down and gently tugged on the leash. From behind her a snow white Scottish terrier wearing a blue knitted sweater and matching booties ambled out.
“Is that Hildegard?” Ned asked. When they were within reach he leaned over to pet him but before he could the dog veered off to walk over to and stare upward at Emerson.
“Yep! Isn’t he adorable?” Chuck squealed, barely able to contain her glee.
Ned wasn’t sure what it was about Hildegard she found so adorable other then she could dress him up in outfits. But he supposed that he was a very striking figure in his own right.
“I was kind of expecting something bigger.” Ned mused. The name Hildegard kind of struck him as a grandiose name for a large breed, maybe a mastiff or Saint Bernard.
Emerson eyed the dog for a moment before, to their surprise, putting his fork on the table and reaching down and picking the dog up with both hands. He frowned and turned the dog around to view him from the side and Hildegard’s legs dangled lifelessly, bootied feet swaying slightly.
“I can’t believe Parker wasted this kind of craftsmanship on a dog.” Emerson said in disgust and it took a moment for Ned to realize that he was examining the sweater/booties combo.
* * *
Emerson Cod was referring to the immaculately detailed reversible pattern Pavilion stitch that Patrick Parker used to construct Hildegard’s sweater.
In his spare time the hotel proprietor of one half of the Parker Brother’s Inn was prone to compulsively knitting. In order to socialize with those who would appreciate the artistic relevance of his hobby he had joined a knitting circle that met three times a week. It was a small group that consisted primarily of Emerson Cod, a librarian named Guy Shelby, whose chronic Tourettes and unpleasant personality made it difficult for him to relate to others beyond the concept of yon, and a gravedigger named Larry Boison, whose occupation was well suited to his social anxiety disorder.
It was during one of their weekly meetings, while stitching a red sweater, that Emerson had been hired to investigate the death of Whitney Von’Wicky Watterson III.
* * *
Emerson was not a cruel man and would tolerate a manly tear or two shed in grief but Parker hadn’t stopped sniveling for fifteen minutes. That had mostly been due to Larry’s attempts at comfort which had involved a very detailed explanation about the process of decay (taking into account the various religious rituals associated with Christian vs. Jewish) and the untapped potential environmental benefits of being buried in dirt and by the time he’d finished Emerson had felt like weeping although for completely different reasons.
“Would you stop!?” He said, shoving a Kleenex box across his desk to Parker. The boys were all seated in various places around his office, Larry having been put in a corner away from Parker. Guy was sitting on the leather couch but was twitching so violently from irritation that he was barely able to hold his knitting needles, his scarf a bedraggled looking mess of yarn. “You’re embarrassing yourself. Man up and knit!”
“It’s upsetting.” Parker said. He put his needles down and took a handful of Kleenex with a sniffle.
“Maybe it’d be less upsetting if we didn’t talk about it.” Guy snapped.
“Seconded.” Emerson said.
“I need to talk about it. It’s cathartic!”
“Death is a very natural process…” Larry began.
“Larry!” Emerson warned. Under the extreme emotional duress this gathering had spiraled into they had instituted a new fifteen minute no talking rule enforceable by majority vote. Parker was to upset to participate so Emerson and Guy had won thus Larry was in minute seven of silence. (They had previously tried to cast the vote of silence on Parker but it had proven to be ineffective as he had just sat there whimpering and there was some debate as to whether or not the rule specifically related to words or included all noises.)
Larry obediently snapped his mouth closed.
Parker wetly blew into the Kleenex.
“The police think it was an accident.” He said while Emerson tried to focus on his Triangular Rib, in a tone dripping with disgust (and tearful snot). “How do you accidently suffocate yourself?”
Emerson grimaced, trying to think of something plausible within that scenario to appease Parker and put a stop this conversation. “I…don’t know. Um…he got his tie caught on...a thing. See? Totally reasonable.”
“Autoerotic asphyxiation.” Guy said immediately.
Everyone stopped and turned to stare at him.
Guy’s attention was on his scarf, desperately trying to repair the raggedy stitching, mistaking the silence for confusion. “You use a scarf or something as a noose to choke yourself while you’re…you know…” Guy helpfully charaded ‘you know’ with his hand. “It enhances the sensation. But if you’re not careful you can kill yourself cause, well you’re choking yourself.”
There was another lengthy stretch of silence and Guy looked up and noticed the group dubiously staring at him. “What?”
“Really? That’s where your mind goes firstly?” Emerson asked with raised eyebrows.
Guy scowled. “Cretins! It was a suggestion based upon literary research not personal experience.”
“Why were you researching-” Larry started.
“Dear god, can we get back to talking about the dead guy in a garden!?” Emerson interrupted.
“Yes. That is stupid and abhorrent.” Parker said, offended on the deceased’s behalf.
“You asked how someone could accidently choke to death. I’m just informing you.”
“You could have just said…I don’t know…he was eating something and choked.” Emerson pointed out. “It’s a bit more realistic. Like maybe he was walking home and got hungry so he detoured into the garden for a tomato.”
“What kind of a moron chokes on a tomato? It’s like, physically impossible unless he shoved the damn thing down his throat whole.” Guy argued. His face jerked and he snarled, throwing the needles and mangled scarf to the side in exasperation. “Oh for…you know what!? This is ridiculous. I’m not here to be your grief counselor. You want the un-distilled ugly truth of the matter? This embarrassing display of grief is unnecessary. His death, tragic though it may be, means nothing. I daresay that his entire existence as a lowly desk clerk at your hotel was the sum total of his contribution to society and that his loss is hardly the end of all valuable potential for mankind. In the phylum of life he was a minion. Guys like him are killed in movies just to up the body count.”
“That doesn’t mean he deserved to die!” Parker practically shrieked, making Emerson miss his loop. “All life is precious! He’s a human being!”
“Was. Now he’s worm-fodder.”
Parker let out a strangled sob.
“Hey man; circle of life.”
“How come I have to be silent and Guy gets free reign to speak? I mean, someone with actual human feelings should be the one addressing the bereaved.” Larry said from the corner. Larry might be socially inept but the logistics (and justice) of this situation, especially when one considered Guy’s personality, felt unreasonable.
Emerson was beginning to feel a headache form and he slammed his hand down on the desk, making everyone jump.
“All right! Did I join the Oprah book club when I wasn’t looking?” Emerson demanded. “We do not bring feelings to the meetings. We agreed to bring coffee, a low-fat snack and the occasional football discussion but everything else outside of the realm of knits, purls, and patterns was not admissible.”
“But…” Parker looked miserable. “He was my friend.”
I shall not break I shall not break…Emerson though purposefully, looking down and keeping his eyes firmly on his half knitted sweater sleeve.
Emerson Cod did not provide comfort. That implied a level of emotional commitment that he was rather uncomfortable with.
“If you’re that torn up then maybe you should hire Emerson to look into it.” Larry offered (having checked his watch to make sure he was able to freely speak).
Emerson Cod, however, could provide comfort if paid and if that made him an emotional prostitute then frankly he was unashamed of that.
He immediately perked up.
“I am amenable to that. I have very reasonable rates.” He assured, reaching out to gently pat the back of Parker’s hand like he’d seen Chuck do when comforting someone.
Parker looked relived (and he had stopped crying).
“I think the old lady killed him!” Larry said helpfully.
“Say what!?” Emerson looked at Larry.
“Hey, mock all you want man. That woman’s evil! Have you heard the rumors about her?”
“Amelia Abernathy?” Emerson squinted. “No.”
“They say she’s a witch.” Larry intoned dramatically.
“Whose they? The kindergarten to third grader set?”
“They! You know…people. Around.” Larry gestured about in a vague reference of the elusive ‘they’.
“Oh. Well then, as long as it’s a reliable source.”
“No. As much as I despise agreeing with the ghoul, he’s right.” Guy offered reluctantly, picking up his discarded needles. He began to unravel the yarn, intending to begin from scratch.
“Excuse me?” Emerson demanded.
“It’s in the town records. The Abernathy’s were distantly related to the Procter’s. They escaped Salem in 1862 during the trials and were one of the town’s three founding families.”
“See!?” Larry waves his arms about some more.
Emerson was becoming convinced that his slowly worsening headache was the result of a tumor and he was going to name it ‘Larry’. All he wanted was to enjoy a nice afternoon and show off his superior stitching prowess to a group of people who would appreciate it and possibly earn some dough by roping Parker into letting him investigate his case.
But now they were discussing witches.
He leaned back in his chair with an irritated grunt.
“And that garden of hers?” Larry continued. “It’s not just vegetables. She’s keeps these creepy animals in there. Their eyes glow like a cats if you hit them with light quick enough but I’ve never been able to get close or catch one to see what they are because they are silent and obscenely fast. But whatever they are? She’s got a ton of them. And she grows all kinds of weird herbs and plants and things. It wouldn’t surprise me if he cut through her yard and she caught him and killed him to protect her secrets.”
“How do you know all of this?” Emerson asked.
“Cause I followed her home once!”
Now everyone was openly staring at Larry and Emerson was seriously considering getting a new set of off-work friends. Because, while the Pie Holers were fairly deranged company (what with their with magical one minute un-deadening abilities and their formally-un-dead-now-alive-forever childhood sweetheart’s mincing around) he was quite confidant that Ned didn’t stalk alleged witches in his spare time or even know what erotic asphyxiation was, which made him the most normal associate Emerson had.
Which was just sad.
“What?” Larry blinked.
“Creepy much?” Guy asked.
“It was a public safety issue!” Protested the confessed stalker. “I followed her cause she always lurks around in the cemetery late at night. I mean, is that normal? I think not.”
“You lurk around in the cemetery.” Guy pointed out.
“Not recreationally!”
“Erm…I don’t…know about all that.” Parker looked a bit put off and, to Emerson’s horror; it looked as though he were reconsidering and he could see his money disappearing into the horizon of Parker’s doubt.
“Shut up Larry!” Emerson ordered. Larry looked offended but Emerson focused on Parker. “I’ll be frank. We are in agreement that your employee is dead under questionable circumstances and that as the police are not going to bother…questioning…it would be an injustice for that death to continue to go uninvestigated. So, for a reasonable fee I shall look into the situation.”
Parker considered this for a long moment.
“Well, I suppose that it really couldn’t hurt.” He said finally. “In the very least it’d be worth it for the piece of mind.”
Yes!
Feeling considerably happier then he had throughout this wretched meeting; Emerson dropped his sweater and opened his desk drawer, pulling out an empty green money cozy.
He lobbed it to Parker and grinned
* * *
TBC...
Rating: PG-13
Author: whoisatlas
Disclaimer: Pushing Daisies and Supernatural belongs to their creators, respective owners, and companies. This story stands simply as freelance fan fiction and was written without permission but with great respect to the aforementioned people.
Author’s notes: Still un-betated. And this part is decisively Winchester-lite, for which I apologize for. But the copious amounts of Emerson make up for it in my opinion because Emerson is AWESOME.
***
Part II: The Knitwits
* * *
“We should go to Amelia Abernathy’s house and question her.” Ned declared.
Emerson was decisively unimpressed.
“Oh really?”
“Yes.”
“And say what?” Emerson demanded. His face melted into a large falsely polite smile that made Ned sigh. “Hello ma’am, how are you? Lovely garden and by the way did you happen to notice that it might have a homicidal gopher infestation that may have resulted in the death of a trespasser?” His expression fell flat as he regarded the Pie Maker. “Yeah.”
Ned thought about that. “Well…maybe that could be the subtext of our questions but I was thinking more along the line of “Hello ma’am, how are you? By the way did you happen to hear anything unusual the night Mr. Watterson was murdered?”
“And why would we ask that?”
“Because according to Mr. Watterson there was more then one killer soooooo I’m thinking that she might have heard something.”
“Yeah.” Emerson snorted. “Alvin and the Chipmunks.”
“Come on!” Ned was trying to be optimistic. Ever since Chuck had come into his life he had been attempting to be more positive (with admittedly minimal success). But Emerson was so determined to be grouchy(er) about the whole situation he thought he should try and offset it in this particular instance. Especially since Chuck was not here as she had separated from the group at the morgue to go and retrieving Hildegard. “Okay. I’ll admit, Mr. Watterson was a few…grains short of a loaf but it’s not his fault. Severe oxygen deprivation causes brain damage not to mention that the trauma of being murdered probably distorted his ability to recount the facts as accurately as possible so ultimately there was never any actual realistic expectation that any account he could possibly give us would be completely rational-”
“Is this your sorry attempt to look on the bright side? Cause if it is, I must say that it is quite murky with a faint hue of uselessness.”
“There was no period, the sentence did not end!” Ned snapped.
Emerson grunted and reached out to grab the cup of coffee next to his plate that was, by now, hopelessly lukewarm. With a grimace he took a sip of the liquid and made a vague waving gesture with his hand that possibly meant ‘I’m sorry/continue’ or was an attempt to ward off the unwanted explanation that continued to deluge him and shoo the source of that away into refill action.
Ned continued. “I know that because of all that Mr. Watterson’s not exactly the most credible witness but according to his story there was more then one killer. And Whitney did say he heard something. So maybe she heard something.”
This seemed to pierce through Emerson’s lingering irritation and his chewing slowed down as he considered this.
“Alright.” He said finally. “I concede that you may be onto something with that line of thought so for now we shall run with it.”
Ned was relived.
“Thank you.”
“You’re still not forgiven.”
“What? Why not!? I came up with a lead!”
“No, our lead was gopher boy’s golden sixty seconds which you so ruthlessly cut short. What you came up with was silver lining in the aftermath. Silver linings are the second place consolation prizes of life for losers. Furthermore you don’t get congratulated for finding them when you were the reason we needed to search for them in the first place.” Emerson said.
Ned pouted.
The front door to The Pie Hole opened up with a jingle and Chuck walked into the restaurant, drawing Ned’s attention. She was wearing a bright yellow dress with a large hat, the bowl of which was velvet brown and the brim was designed like large white petals so that it resembled a sunflower and white gloves. In her gloved hands she held a dog leash.
Emerson was in the process of continuing his sentence when he noticed that Ned was looking beyond him with that idiotic doe-eyed look on his face that he got whenever he saw that woman and he sighed with exasperation. Any potential usefulness he could have hoped to cultivate from Ned’s burst of deductive reasoning had just been obliterated.
Emerson violently shoved another bite of pie into his mouth.
“Hi guys!” Chuck said. She looked down and gently tugged on the leash. From behind her a snow white Scottish terrier wearing a blue knitted sweater and matching booties ambled out.
“Is that Hildegard?” Ned asked. When they were within reach he leaned over to pet him but before he could the dog veered off to walk over to and stare upward at Emerson.
“Yep! Isn’t he adorable?” Chuck squealed, barely able to contain her glee.
Ned wasn’t sure what it was about Hildegard she found so adorable other then she could dress him up in outfits. But he supposed that he was a very striking figure in his own right.
“I was kind of expecting something bigger.” Ned mused. The name Hildegard kind of struck him as a grandiose name for a large breed, maybe a mastiff or Saint Bernard.
Emerson eyed the dog for a moment before, to their surprise, putting his fork on the table and reaching down and picking the dog up with both hands. He frowned and turned the dog around to view him from the side and Hildegard’s legs dangled lifelessly, bootied feet swaying slightly.
“I can’t believe Parker wasted this kind of craftsmanship on a dog.” Emerson said in disgust and it took a moment for Ned to realize that he was examining the sweater/booties combo.
* * *
Emerson Cod was referring to the immaculately detailed reversible pattern Pavilion stitch that Patrick Parker used to construct Hildegard’s sweater.
In his spare time the hotel proprietor of one half of the Parker Brother’s Inn was prone to compulsively knitting. In order to socialize with those who would appreciate the artistic relevance of his hobby he had joined a knitting circle that met three times a week. It was a small group that consisted primarily of Emerson Cod, a librarian named Guy Shelby, whose chronic Tourettes and unpleasant personality made it difficult for him to relate to others beyond the concept of yon, and a gravedigger named Larry Boison, whose occupation was well suited to his social anxiety disorder.
It was during one of their weekly meetings, while stitching a red sweater, that Emerson had been hired to investigate the death of Whitney Von’Wicky Watterson III.
* * *
Emerson was not a cruel man and would tolerate a manly tear or two shed in grief but Parker hadn’t stopped sniveling for fifteen minutes. That had mostly been due to Larry’s attempts at comfort which had involved a very detailed explanation about the process of decay (taking into account the various religious rituals associated with Christian vs. Jewish) and the untapped potential environmental benefits of being buried in dirt and by the time he’d finished Emerson had felt like weeping although for completely different reasons.
“Would you stop!?” He said, shoving a Kleenex box across his desk to Parker. The boys were all seated in various places around his office, Larry having been put in a corner away from Parker. Guy was sitting on the leather couch but was twitching so violently from irritation that he was barely able to hold his knitting needles, his scarf a bedraggled looking mess of yarn. “You’re embarrassing yourself. Man up and knit!”
“It’s upsetting.” Parker said. He put his needles down and took a handful of Kleenex with a sniffle.
“Maybe it’d be less upsetting if we didn’t talk about it.” Guy snapped.
“Seconded.” Emerson said.
“I need to talk about it. It’s cathartic!”
“Death is a very natural process…” Larry began.
“Larry!” Emerson warned. Under the extreme emotional duress this gathering had spiraled into they had instituted a new fifteen minute no talking rule enforceable by majority vote. Parker was to upset to participate so Emerson and Guy had won thus Larry was in minute seven of silence. (They had previously tried to cast the vote of silence on Parker but it had proven to be ineffective as he had just sat there whimpering and there was some debate as to whether or not the rule specifically related to words or included all noises.)
Larry obediently snapped his mouth closed.
Parker wetly blew into the Kleenex.
“The police think it was an accident.” He said while Emerson tried to focus on his Triangular Rib, in a tone dripping with disgust (and tearful snot). “How do you accidently suffocate yourself?”
Emerson grimaced, trying to think of something plausible within that scenario to appease Parker and put a stop this conversation. “I…don’t know. Um…he got his tie caught on...a thing. See? Totally reasonable.”
“Autoerotic asphyxiation.” Guy said immediately.
Everyone stopped and turned to stare at him.
Guy’s attention was on his scarf, desperately trying to repair the raggedy stitching, mistaking the silence for confusion. “You use a scarf or something as a noose to choke yourself while you’re…you know…” Guy helpfully charaded ‘you know’ with his hand. “It enhances the sensation. But if you’re not careful you can kill yourself cause, well you’re choking yourself.”
There was another lengthy stretch of silence and Guy looked up and noticed the group dubiously staring at him. “What?”
“Really? That’s where your mind goes firstly?” Emerson asked with raised eyebrows.
Guy scowled. “Cretins! It was a suggestion based upon literary research not personal experience.”
“Why were you researching-” Larry started.
“Dear god, can we get back to talking about the dead guy in a garden!?” Emerson interrupted.
“Yes. That is stupid and abhorrent.” Parker said, offended on the deceased’s behalf.
“You asked how someone could accidently choke to death. I’m just informing you.”
“You could have just said…I don’t know…he was eating something and choked.” Emerson pointed out. “It’s a bit more realistic. Like maybe he was walking home and got hungry so he detoured into the garden for a tomato.”
“What kind of a moron chokes on a tomato? It’s like, physically impossible unless he shoved the damn thing down his throat whole.” Guy argued. His face jerked and he snarled, throwing the needles and mangled scarf to the side in exasperation. “Oh for…you know what!? This is ridiculous. I’m not here to be your grief counselor. You want the un-distilled ugly truth of the matter? This embarrassing display of grief is unnecessary. His death, tragic though it may be, means nothing. I daresay that his entire existence as a lowly desk clerk at your hotel was the sum total of his contribution to society and that his loss is hardly the end of all valuable potential for mankind. In the phylum of life he was a minion. Guys like him are killed in movies just to up the body count.”
“That doesn’t mean he deserved to die!” Parker practically shrieked, making Emerson miss his loop. “All life is precious! He’s a human being!”
“Was. Now he’s worm-fodder.”
Parker let out a strangled sob.
“Hey man; circle of life.”
“How come I have to be silent and Guy gets free reign to speak? I mean, someone with actual human feelings should be the one addressing the bereaved.” Larry said from the corner. Larry might be socially inept but the logistics (and justice) of this situation, especially when one considered Guy’s personality, felt unreasonable.
Emerson was beginning to feel a headache form and he slammed his hand down on the desk, making everyone jump.
“All right! Did I join the Oprah book club when I wasn’t looking?” Emerson demanded. “We do not bring feelings to the meetings. We agreed to bring coffee, a low-fat snack and the occasional football discussion but everything else outside of the realm of knits, purls, and patterns was not admissible.”
“But…” Parker looked miserable. “He was my friend.”
I shall not break I shall not break…Emerson though purposefully, looking down and keeping his eyes firmly on his half knitted sweater sleeve.
Emerson Cod did not provide comfort. That implied a level of emotional commitment that he was rather uncomfortable with.
“If you’re that torn up then maybe you should hire Emerson to look into it.” Larry offered (having checked his watch to make sure he was able to freely speak).
Emerson Cod, however, could provide comfort if paid and if that made him an emotional prostitute then frankly he was unashamed of that.
He immediately perked up.
“I am amenable to that. I have very reasonable rates.” He assured, reaching out to gently pat the back of Parker’s hand like he’d seen Chuck do when comforting someone.
Parker looked relived (and he had stopped crying).
“I think the old lady killed him!” Larry said helpfully.
“Say what!?” Emerson looked at Larry.
“Hey, mock all you want man. That woman’s evil! Have you heard the rumors about her?”
“Amelia Abernathy?” Emerson squinted. “No.”
“They say she’s a witch.” Larry intoned dramatically.
“Whose they? The kindergarten to third grader set?”
“They! You know…people. Around.” Larry gestured about in a vague reference of the elusive ‘they’.
“Oh. Well then, as long as it’s a reliable source.”
“No. As much as I despise agreeing with the ghoul, he’s right.” Guy offered reluctantly, picking up his discarded needles. He began to unravel the yarn, intending to begin from scratch.
“Excuse me?” Emerson demanded.
“It’s in the town records. The Abernathy’s were distantly related to the Procter’s. They escaped Salem in 1862 during the trials and were one of the town’s three founding families.”
“See!?” Larry waves his arms about some more.
Emerson was becoming convinced that his slowly worsening headache was the result of a tumor and he was going to name it ‘Larry’. All he wanted was to enjoy a nice afternoon and show off his superior stitching prowess to a group of people who would appreciate it and possibly earn some dough by roping Parker into letting him investigate his case.
But now they were discussing witches.
He leaned back in his chair with an irritated grunt.
“And that garden of hers?” Larry continued. “It’s not just vegetables. She’s keeps these creepy animals in there. Their eyes glow like a cats if you hit them with light quick enough but I’ve never been able to get close or catch one to see what they are because they are silent and obscenely fast. But whatever they are? She’s got a ton of them. And she grows all kinds of weird herbs and plants and things. It wouldn’t surprise me if he cut through her yard and she caught him and killed him to protect her secrets.”
“How do you know all of this?” Emerson asked.
“Cause I followed her home once!”
Now everyone was openly staring at Larry and Emerson was seriously considering getting a new set of off-work friends. Because, while the Pie Holers were fairly deranged company (what with their with magical one minute un-deadening abilities and their formally-un-dead-now-alive-forever childhood sweetheart’s mincing around) he was quite confidant that Ned didn’t stalk alleged witches in his spare time or even know what erotic asphyxiation was, which made him the most normal associate Emerson had.
Which was just sad.
“What?” Larry blinked.
“Creepy much?” Guy asked.
“It was a public safety issue!” Protested the confessed stalker. “I followed her cause she always lurks around in the cemetery late at night. I mean, is that normal? I think not.”
“You lurk around in the cemetery.” Guy pointed out.
“Not recreationally!”
“Erm…I don’t…know about all that.” Parker looked a bit put off and, to Emerson’s horror; it looked as though he were reconsidering and he could see his money disappearing into the horizon of Parker’s doubt.
“Shut up Larry!” Emerson ordered. Larry looked offended but Emerson focused on Parker. “I’ll be frank. We are in agreement that your employee is dead under questionable circumstances and that as the police are not going to bother…questioning…it would be an injustice for that death to continue to go uninvestigated. So, for a reasonable fee I shall look into the situation.”
Parker considered this for a long moment.
“Well, I suppose that it really couldn’t hurt.” He said finally. “In the very least it’d be worth it for the piece of mind.”
Yes!
Feeling considerably happier then he had throughout this wretched meeting; Emerson dropped his sweater and opened his desk drawer, pulling out an empty green money cozy.
He lobbed it to Parker and grinned
* * *
TBC...