A/N:-AAAAAAARGH, this is my second attempt at a Pushing Daisies fic and my first attempt that isn't a one-shot but a very very VERY long shot… I'm a bit nervous, even though I've posted fanfics before because I don't know what my response will be like and I'm not sure if I'm going to get all the characterisation right.
Oh and a humungous Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory sized THANK YOU VERY CHICKENS to LuckyBlackCat for giving me all the tips, help and support with this fic. You're a star!
So here it goes, just PM me if you've got any goooood ideas to add to the story and as always, PLEASE READ AND REVIEW! It'd be great to hear what you think, even if you do think its krapper (- cool spelling, huh?) than Brussels sprouts! Read on, my faithful chumettes!
PS: - Not much stuff in this chapter that includes Doctor Who or Pushing Daisies, but this was just to set the scene and we have a small pepper-spray of our favourite Private Investigator in this…
PPS: - I would put it on Crossovers section but the thing is, then it own't show up on the Pushing Daisies Just In or anything side - just the Doctor Who bit.
NEW AND IMPROVED! lol.
Stretching yellow latex gloves over his slim but sticky dirt-crammed fingers, Paris du Elisabeth, aka son and heir of the renowned Elisabeth du Elisabeth and dedicated tour guide of Muse Museum, snapped the elasticised rubber firmly into place – striding over to the locker. Paris was rich and distinguished, by the mere fact that his mother was owner of the eminent company giant 'Perfume Perfection' and that was the reason of the his possession of the object that wasn't to be sold in shops for another night .
Adolescent Paris du Elisabeth was precisely seventeen-years, six weeks, three days and thirteen hours old, and the facts were these: young Paris was not the son, single parent, Elisabeth had ever wished for – in fact, he was the complete opposite, of what Lady Elisabeth du Elisabeth had been expecting. Hidden from the world of fame and flash photography, the mother and son were not on the best of terms due to their lack of similarity and a secret agreement, between mother and child, deep in the depths of the Elisabeth Manor took place.
And, not long after, son and heir of Lady Elisabeth du Elisabeth moved out of the Manor, virtually locked out of the his own mother's residency to search the world for a place to call home – a place where he'd feel belonged. Still unknown to the world of paparazzi and fast travelling news, Paris continued to feign a loving relationship with his mother. Whenever the time of fame called the young boy back to his mother's doorstep, he came to untruthfully tell of his tremendous treks through the Amazon jungle, to cover up the cause of his absence and wear itchy irritating suits and bow ties, showing off to the cameras to please his mother. When the time came, the gates of the manor would close on him once more and he would depart from his mother, once more, still trying to find the place to call home.
The facts were these: while trailing along the busy crowded streets, alone, bored and jobless, a huge colourful poster smacked point-blank into Paris's face and the tables of his life turned around, for the one-hundredth and twentieth time in his seventeen years of living. One miserable lonely Paris du Elisabeth was hired by one happy sociable Orlando Crust to serve as a dedicated tour-guide at Muse Museum – undetected from the prying eyes of the public and news, as a famous celebrity's son and heir, by the simple addition of darkly tinted sunglasses, that would hide his true identity… Paris had found his home.
Now, at this very moment, Paris was nineteen years, twenty-six months, five days, twenty hours, when the juvenile youngster opened the locker, with a scrape of metal and a soft click, to unveil his prized possession – Jacob Deflector's Deflectors. The shoes that he'd been enabled to own one day early, because of his mothers' endless connections with the famous. The young boy planned to show them off at the 'Famous Shoes Belonging To Famous People' Exhibit, where the reaction of the sneakers, he knew oh-so well, would be phenomenal and crowd-pleasing.
Humming the childhood tune of Old McDonald Had A Farm to himself, Paris sat himself down onto one of the benches, carefully put his sneakers on and with a torn-off sleeve and a dish of shoe-shine, polished the red, green and blue sneakers. He handled them with tender and loving care, as if they were the most prized, precious possession in the entire world – prized, precious possession being the operative words, as too engrossed in his obsession with the shoes – Paris failed to notice the unwanted guest that had sneaked into the room.
There was a distant twang, the lights in the room diminished into darkness. Pardoning the estranged hum of the radiator and Paris's tune concluding to a cease, and like pies are baked with love, like ingredients are baked in pies, like anti-depressants are baked in the Charles' pies and like pies are baked in ovens – the room was baked in… silence.
"Who's there?" Paris du Elisabeth called out timidly, but received no reply. "Whoever is there – turn the lights on, please, because it ain't very nice, OK?" There was a grave silence and the only sound heard in the young boy's ears, was the rapid nervous drumming of his heart. "D'you knows who I am? I assure you – if I told you who I really was, and then you'd be running out of here faster than you can say Deflectors! Fine then, as you wish. I am Paris du Elisabeth, greatly loved, prestigious, rich and famous son and heir of Lady Elisabeth du Elisabeth. I… err… umm… order you to show yourself!"
The shuffling of coarse footsteps followed and the sound of Paris sighing with relief, reverberated around the small claustrophobic room.
"It's only you… But what you doing with that thing? That's mine and so are those! What are you--"
Young Paris du Elisabeth was nineteen years, twenty-six months, five days, twenty hours, seven-minutes old and not a minute older.
Two miles east and one day, seven hours and nineteen minutes later, Private Investigator, Emerson Cod sat comfortably at his desk – contently thumbing through an issue of his favourite magazine Knitwits, whilst sewing together a woolly vest-jumper for himself when there was a loud cough at the door. Hurriedly sweeping everything away into his bottom desk drawer and planting a no-no expression on his face, the Private Investigator looked up to see a tall, high-nosed, pretty blonde in a sparkly short dress and gold five-inch high heels stood pompously in front of the open door.
"Mr Cod, I'd like you to solve a murder for me."
Emerson Cod looked at her blankly, and had precisely two things to say.
"Listen lady, I'm a busy man and I have exactly two things to say. Rule Number One: did anyone teach you that's it's considered polite to knock, 'cos if they did they haven't been doing a very good job, and Rule Number Two: don't buy fish on a Monday."