PUSHING DAISIES: Loose Ends (Part Four)

   It was 8:11 in the morning. Today, Olive Snook strode over to the door of the Giddy Goat, pushed, and marched straight in without hesitating. New Olive was very proud of her.
   Taylor the latte-boy smiled as he recognised her from behind the counter.
   “Well, good morning Olive,” he said. “The usual?”
   Olive grinned at him and said “Yes, please, Taylor, thank you very much.”
   Taylor gave her a little salute and turned to the coffee machine.
   In a rare burst of confidence — and genuine curiosity — she said “Say, what do you call someone who makes coffee for a living?”
   Taylor answered without looking away from his work. “A barista,” he said.
   “Oh,” said Olive, “I thought that was a lawyer.”
   Taylor smiled at her. Olive nearly went weak at the knees. He really did have a very nice smile.
   “Now, that’s a barrister,” he said. “Whereas I am a bar-iss-tah. Said exactly the same, only with an Italian accent.” He did a little flamenco flourish over his shoulder to demonstrate the proper attitude with which to say barista. Olive thought to herself that flamenco was actually Spanish, not Italian, and then waved the thought away as unimportant.
   “Ah,” she said. “Got it. Sometimes words that sound the same get mixed up in my head.”
   Narcoleptic/Necrophiliac. Olive giggled to herself, and then with a pang remembered Emerson. She missed seeing her favourite cash-hungry detective every day. She missed getting caught up in his crazy investigations. There was a certain excitement to thinking you might have to tackle a jewel thief at any minute, or don a wig and temporarily change your name. It had appealed to Olive’s more theatrical side. It had made her part of a team. An unlikely, oddball team but a team nonetheless. Olive’s high spirits gradually sank. She used to see them all every day. She missed Emerson, she missed Digby. She even missed Chuck. She missed…
   New Olive glared at her and started to swing an imaginary baseball bat threateningly. She shook her head and snapped out of it.
   Taylor was looking at her, pulling an inquisitive face. “You ok?” he asked. “You looked glum for a minute there.”
   Olive shrugged and batted her eyelashes, forcing a smile. “Yeah,” she said, and then because she couldn’t help but answer every question honestly — a facet of her personality that New Olive had yet to tackle — added “I was just thinking about old friends.”
   Most baristas might have left it at that, but Taylor the latte-boy was not most baristas, so instead he asked “Oh? Old friends who aren’t around any more?”
   Most customers might have found him impertinent, but Olive was not most customers, so she said “Well…sorta. See, I haven’t been running the Intrepid Cow very long and I’m still kinda missing my old haunt. My old gang.” Olive tried to smile in a way that suggested she was regretful but coping well with it.
   She looked more regretful than she thought, which prompted Taylor, after a moment’s pause, to ask “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but…if you loved it so much, why’d you leave?”
   Olive paused for a moment. She took a deep breath to steady herself, and considered how best to describe her complicated series of reasons for leaving the Pie Hole without breaking down in tears.
   What she came up with was “Employee-employer relationships were…a little strained.”
   Taylor put her take-out latte down on the counter in front of her and glanced at the manager’s office. “Tell me about it,” he said. He folded his arms and propped himself on the counter top, apparently oblivious to the queue of people behind Olive. “The boss give you a hard time?” he asked, leaning closer to her.
   Olive tried in desperation to avoid becoming distracted by the way his hair flopped down over one eyebrow, or its proximity to her face. Swallowing, she said “Er…no. Not exactly.” She fumbled in her purse and handed Taylor a five-dollar bill.
   The devastatingly attractive barista took her money, and began processing it through the till. With him at arm’s length, Olive felt she could think more clearly. She had been planning to leave her explanation to Not exactly, but prompted by her sudden attack of loneliness, and the aforementioned urge to answer every question honestly, she decided to tell Taylor exactly how ‘strained’ the relationship between her and the Piemaker had become.
   As he turned to hand her her change, she quickly said “No, he wasn’t giving me a hard time. It’s just, I was in love with him. And he was in love with somebody else.”
   Taylor was silent. His fingers brushed hers as he counted out the coins into her palm. “Ah,” he said at last. “Now that I understand.”

•••

   His suspicions confirmed and his decision made, there was no longer any doubt in Foster’s mind; the Piemaker was his thief. Now, he need only eliminate the threat before his secret could be revealed: he needed to recover his stolen papers, and he needed to murder the Piemaker. Sadly, to accomplish the first of these tasks, he needed to know where the Piemaker kept those papers, a detail which prevented him from even attempting the second. More reconnaissance was needed.
   He waited until the Pie Hole was empty that morning, then strode through the doors with a big smile on his face.
   “Oh, hello!” said Chuck at the counter. Foster dipped his head to her and made his smile wider. He’d forgotten about her. He’d need to wait until she was out of sight before he could electrocute her boyfriend. But she might be useful for information…
   “A piece of your special, please,” he said, taking a seat at the counter, off to one side so as to be hidden from view of the kitchen. “And a coffee.”
   Chuck took up the coffee pot currently in use — a sleek glass number with a shape reminiscent of a goldfish bowl — and began to pour. She set the matching green cup and saucer down in front of Foster, who took a sip and with a grateful sigh said “Ah. That’s better. It amazes me how much a good coffee can turn your day around.” He took another sip. “Haven’t had one since before work this morning,” he glanced up at her and pulled a knowing face, “wasn’t that traffic a cow?”
   Chuck smiled apologetically and shrugged. “Wouldn’t know,” she said, “we only live upstairs,” and with a waving hand gestured towards the kitchen, indicating exactly who was meant by we.
   What went through Foster’s head was Well, that was easy… What came out of his mouth was “Oh really? The flats above?”
   Chuck nodded, and Foster added “How convenient.” Yes. How convenient. For the location and recovery of certain stolen papers. Onwards to task number two…
   With her customary cheer, Chuck slipped into the kitchen for his pie. Circumstances could not have organised themselves any more perfectly for Foster. As Chuck went through one door into the kitchen, Ned came out of the other and began to collect the small islands of abandoned dishes on the counter.
   “Aha!” said Foster suddenly, causing Ned to startle and look at him in the jittery manner of a stag hearing the click of a hunter’s gun. “So you must be the elusive Piemaker?”
   The pause before Ned answered was just a little too long by conventional standards. He was distracted by thinking Haven’t I met you before? He recognised this overly friendly customer as the angling enthusiast from yesterday. Why was he suddenly introducing himself? Unfortunately for Ned, he did not remember that he had passed this same face several times along the corridors of Foster & Foe Foundlings Home.
   “Oh…er…yes. That’s me. Mm-hm.” Ned gave Foster a tight, awkward smile and reached for the next plate.
   Foster leaned across the counter and held out his right hand. Ned did not see the pressure pad discreetly concealed within his palm. “Sir, I must congratulate you, both for your marvellously delicious pies and,” he glanced backwards out of the window, “your exceptional taste in cars.”
   The Piemaker looked with confusion between Foster and his outstretched hand, sparing a brief glance for the green car parked outside. His face convulsed in what was more of a grimace than a genuine smile, and he said “Um. Thank you.”
   The Piemaker tucked his hands under his arms, shuffled awkwardly for a moment, smiled at Foster once more in what he hoped was an apologetic manner, then grabbed the two piles of used dishes and disappeared as fast as he could back into the kitchen. He dumped the plates into the sink and stood, braced against the side, for a moment, considering with furrowed brow why the prospect of a simple handshake made him so uncomfortable. The Piemaker might have been more forgiving of his own introversion had he known that it had just saved his life.
   Chuck stepped out from behind the three-tiered stack of pies in the very centre of the Pie Hole and laid Foster’s order down in front of him. “Don’t take it personally,” she said.
   Foster looked up from staring at the counter surface with intense concentration and said “Pardon?”
   Chuck had assumed that Foster’s confused and irritated expression had been born of Ned’s refusal to shake his hand — which, in a way, it had — and so answered “The handshake. Don’t take it personally.”
   She began to wipe the counter top. “Ned doesn’t touch,” she added after a moment or two. She lowered her voice. “Physical contact makes him…” she tried to find the right word for the Piemaker’s particular blend of fear, reluctance and agitation. “Anxious,” was what she settled on. She smiled at Foster sympathetically. “So don’t take it personally. He didn’t mean any offence.”
   Foster finally smiled in return. “None taken,” he said. Silently, Foster ate his pie and drank his coffee and mulled over the difficulty of how to electrocute someone who didn’t like to be touched. He could, of course, wait until another opportunity presented itself, until the Piemaker trusted him, but really he needed this problem to be dealt with now, before any secrets could be leaked. That meant finding another means of disposing of the Piemaker, without making a mess all over his Pie Hole, and Foster realised there was nothing quite like a murder unexpectedly delayed to give you the most terrible indigestion. He went home and brooded.

•••

Olive mused over Taylor the latte-boy’s revelation for the rest of the day. What exactly did it mean? Now that I understand. What he claimed to understand was being in love with someone who was in love with someone else. And the tone with which he had said it suggested the events to which he referred were in the not-too-distant past, and that they were recent enough and powerful enough to still hurt. Old Olive might have left it alone, but New Olive was not having that. No point wasting all that energy wondering and pondering and then not have the gall to ask. She resolved to bring it up again the next morning. The next morning. Olive’s cheeks flushed a little. She quite liked the idea that they had a regular arrangement.
   As it was, Olive didn’t have to wait until morning. Taylor the latte-boy appeared suddenly at 12:32 striding through the door of the Intrepid Cow.
   “Oh,” said Olive simply, and stared in surprise. Taylor grinned and came over to lean on the counter behind which she stood.
   “It’s my lunch break,” he said, “and since you are good enough to frequent my establishment every day I thought it was only fair I return the favour.” He grinned at her, fringe flopping over one eye in that oh-so-horribly-attractive way. Olive took a deep breath.
   “Well what a nice surprise,” she said, and handed him a menu.
   There were very few other customers situated in the Intrepid Cow at this time. The Pie Hole will be thriving right now, thought Olive wistfully. The desire to go over there, just for a few minutes, just to say hello swelled and built up in her chest. New Olive pushed it down firmly, if a little sadly. No. She was avoiding the Pie Hole. There was a good reason she was avoiding the Pie Hole. Which reminded her…
   “Hey,” she said abruptly, putting down the pen she had been toying with and leaning on the counter directly opposite where Taylor sat.
   “Yeah?” prompted Taylor, eyes wide and friendly when she took a few moments to respond.
   One of the other customers lifted their head at the sound. Olive lowered her voice sensitively and launched in. “You said something this morning, something about knowing how it felt to be love with someone who was in love with someone else.” She paused, allowing Taylor time to catch on and nod encouragingly.
   “What did you mean?” she asked.
   Taylor looked taken aback and stumbled for words. Hastily retreating, Olive said “No, no. Sorry. That’s too personal. You don’t have to tell me if it’s too personal. I just…”
   Taylor interrupted her. “Hey, it’s fine,” he said. “You’re in the same position from what I hear. I’ll tell you my tragic story if you tell me yours.”
   Old Olive balked. No, too painful. Don’t rehash the past. You’ll end up crying. New Olive pushed her in the metaphorical back. Go on. It’ll be good. Talk to someone who actually understands how you feel. It’ll be like therapy. Go on.
   She was trying to be more like New Olive, so despite the anxiety of baring her soul she nodded. Taylor handed back the menu.
   “One goat’s cheese and rocket open sandwich, please,” he said. “And a banana milkshake.”
   Olive whistled out a sigh. “Thank goodness,” she said. “I thought you were going to order coffee, and believe you me, it would not live up to your standards.”
   Taylor smirked. “I get kinda sick of coffee,” he said.
   Olive scribbled his order on a page of her notepad. “I don’t think I could ever get sick of coffee,” she said, and Taylor laughed, though Olive was not really sure why.
   “So, go on,” she said after a few moments. “You were going to tell me your tragic story.”
   Taylor shifted in his seat. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Erm…I’m not really sure where to start.”
   Olive waited and carried on working as he considered what to say. The roles, she thought, were reversed. Usually he was the one working quietly and she was the one leaning on the counter trying to form a logical sentence.
   “So, I dropped out of college when I was twenty-one, two months off finishing my music degree, to follow this…amazing and beautiful girl. She was a little older than me, and had a job waiting for her when she graduated. She was the love of my life, and for ten years I assumed I was the love of hers. Until about…nine months ago.” He glanced over and met Olive’s gaze. He held her eyes, as he said “At which point I discovered actually my brother was the love of her life.”
    Olive involuntarily sucked in a breath. It was one thing to have the object of your affections whisked away by a random stranger, quite another to have them stolen by someone you knew and cared about. “Ouch,” she said. “That had to hurt.”
   Taylor blinked and looked down at his hands, clasped together on the table. “Yeah,” he said. “It did.”
   Olive put the frothy vat of milkshake down in front of him. “Wait a minute…” she said, edging delicately away from the painful area of the subject, “ten years? You left college ten years ago? So, you must be…”
   Taylor half-grinned. “I’m thirty-two,” he said, and made the numbers in the air with his fingers.
   Olive nodded slowly, tried to look as though this wasn’t a surprise, failed utterly and finally gave up, saying “Wow. Well, I’d like to know what moisturiser you use. You do not look old enough for thirty-two.” And I shall have to stop referring to you as the latte-boy. That’s embarrassing.
   He laughed. “It’s not so much moisturiser as mental outlook. I think I’m behind everybody else by about a decade.”
   Olive wasn’t sure whether it was ruder to agree or disagree, so she simply laughed politely and handed him his order.
   As Taylor got to work on his lunch, he looked up at her and said “So? Time for your tragic love story. You promised. Well, you nodded.”
   Olive smiled at him and leaned back against the wall, folding her arms. “Your tale is far more tragic than mine. In comparison, mine is quite pathetic.”
   Taylor shrugged, taking another bite. “Unrequited love is pretty tragic on its own, regardless of circumstances,” he said.
   So Olive told him of her unrequited love for the Piemaker, and of the dead girl who had captured his heart, though the fact that the girl was dead (in the sense that Olive understood) she left unspoken. She did, however, quite by accident, reveal the location of the Piemaker and his Pie Hole.
   “Oh, I know the one,” said Taylor. “Want me to go and post something unmentionable through their letterbox?”
   Olive, half-charmed that he had offered, quickly said “Oh no! No, no, I don’t hate either of them. Well, I do sometimes. A little. Mainly, though, I’m just happy that they’re happy. And they are happy. And it’s not like Ned cheated on me. He didn’t even know how I felt. I suppose that’s my own fault for not saying anything.”
   Taylor was pulling a strange face. He swallowed, looked Olive up and down and said “Nah. A guy spends every day with you and doesn’t notice your,” he coughed, “assets, I’m sorry, but there’s something wrong with his brain.”
   Olive was speechless. An unusual occurrence for her, and so all the more potent when it happened. She had been about to defend Ned’s honour, spell out to Taylor that Chuck was a childhood sweetheart he hadn’t really let go of and it was nothing to do with Olive and her assets, but the very mention of her assets had her blushing. She managed a small, awkward smile and shrugged. Taylor returned her smile and went back to his food.
   “It’s ok,” said Olive to break the following silence, “we wouldn’t have been physically compatible anyway.”
   Taylor lifted his head very slowly and raised one eyebrow. His face became increasingly puzzled until Olive finally realised what he was thinking and said “Oh, no! I mean,” she pointed up in the air, “he was six foot three.”
   Taylor’s arched eyebrow returned to a normal level. “Ah,” he said brightly.
   They were both quiet for a minute. Olive thanked the other customers who finished their food and left. She wiped the counter top even though it didn’t need wiping. She rearranged the napkin dispensers so that they were symmetrical. Finally, she said “So what are you doing here, now? Working in a coffee shop?”
   Taylor wiped his mouth off and replied “Finishing that degree I left behind. Trying to pay for it on barista wages. Harder than I expected.”
   “Music?” said Olive, intrigued. “What do you play?”
   Taylor drained the last of his milkshake before answering. “Piano. Guitar. Bassoon.”
   “Bassoon?” said Olive, “Really?”
   Taylor nodded and shrugged on his jacket. “And I have a persistent habit of singing in the shower. My neighbours hate me.”
   Olive’s grin got wider. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I sing and dance round the restaurant at closing time. Sometimes I even do the instrumental bits. Thankfully there’s never anyone to hear me, so no-one hates me for it.”
   Taylor smiled at her warmly. “You’re own personal orchestra,” he said.
   “Exactly,” replied Olive. When he had left, she wondered if she might have found a kindred spirit in Taylor the thirty-two-year-old bassoon-playing latte-boy.

End of Part Four