Pushing Daisies s02e08 Episode Script

Comfort Food

At this moment, young Ned is 9 years, 9 months 15 days, Awakened by loneliness-induced insomnia he found himself in desperate need of comfort.
And comfort, for Ned, meant pie.
The risks were great but young Ned rationalized his rogue impulse baking as sheep counting.
What harm could come of a single pie in the dark of night with all the evidence ingested? He was caught in flagrante delicto by one Eugene Mulchandani who immediately joined him in the act.
Ned and Eugene were unprepared for what happened next.
The aroma of freshly baked pie wafting through boarding-school halls awakened an entire class who had but one thing in common: They were all far from home and needed comfort.
The longing and homesickness which filled the school like a plague was magically lifted with every bite.
And the party began.
Until the party stopped.
And young Ned learned that even a forkful of immediate gratification can lead to a world of grave consequences.
A lesson to be learned again years later at the grave of currently dead father of the woman he loved.
Ready? I'm ready, I think.
- Wait.
- What? If we both have half a minute, you go first.
No.
If you spill over the first 30 seconds, no biggie.
As opposed to spilling over the second I budgeted every second, I won't.
- That's not enough.
Should have 60.
We don't need to fact-find.
I don't know what I was thinking.
That you were trying to protect us from a mysterious, potentially dangerous man.
- You go first.
- No, you go.
This is awkward.
Go first or I'm gonna hit you with the shovel.
Okay.
- Hello.
- Mr.
Charles, or should I call you Charles? Doesn't matter.
I lived across the street when I was a little boy.
Hi, it's me, Charlotte.
Um, you've been dead for 20 years.
I'm sure you have questions, can you put them on hold and tell us, is Dwight Dixon a dangerous man? - Oh, yeah.
- Oh.
Oh, no.
He stole Chuck's I still call your daughter "Chuck," like when I was 9.
- Fifteen - No, I was 9.
Seconds.
Dwight stole your watch and left a threat about exposing a secret he knows we probably don't want exposed.
If he's got the watch, you got nothing to worry about.
The threat's his insurance policy.
You don't say nothing, he'll return the favor.
Good to know.
You're up.
The Pie-Maker's gift of life lasted for one precious minute only.
A minute he eagerly shared with the Chuck of his life to give her but half a minute to catch up on a lifetime with a father long lost.
Thirty seconds were all he could give, and not a second more.
Ned? Ned? Are you awake? As Chuck soundlessly broke the bonds of her plastic-wrap embrace and snuck away to see to business unattended Vivian waited for Dwight Dixon, gentleman caller unaware her sister, Lily, chased him off their front porch hours earlier.
At the Come and Sleep Motel sister Lily would make certain Dwight Dixon gentleman caller, would never call again.
Way I see this, we both got something you want.
What would that be, my spicy cocktail? I got my daughter's watch, and you got your insides where you want them.
You're gonna dig up Charlotte's grave and you're gonna put this watch back where you found it.
After you tell me your real story.
Well, it all began when I was conceived in the sweat and sawdust of a traveling carnival.
My mother was an acrobat named And Chuck seemed to be waiting for something else altogether.
I'm declaring it an emotional snow day.
Huh? But you love that cook-off, and you and Olive didn't get to go last year.
- I chose not to go last year.
I was busy.
- Because of me.
I love being busy because of you.
And I'm looking forward to being busy because of you for the rest of the day.
You can't do what you did last night and not be a little overwhelmed.
Well, believe me, I feel plenty whelmed, but, um, not overly.
Overly is on its way.
Probably looking in the window right now.
You had to say hello again and goodbye again to your dad in 30 seconds.
I just chose to look at it like 30 more seconds than I was supposed to have.
- How did that go? - It was still hard.
No matter how much I budgeted my seconds.
The "hello-againing" was wonderful and the "goodbye-againing" wasn't.
Oh, Ned.
Look, you should just go to the cook-off.
- You're trying to get rid of me.
- No, I'm not trying to get rid of you.
Maybe I need an emotional snow day too.
You need an emotional snow day from me? Is this weird now? Are we weird now because I did "it" with your dad? No, we're not weird.
I've never been so in love with you.
But I'm also feeling a lot of other things.
Things I want to tell you, and can't tell you and I'm afraid to tell you.
You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.
I mean, you do, eventually.
And I will, tonight, I promise.
But in the meantime, Olive is depending on you.
She told me two years ago, she could taste that first-prize blue ribbon.
That taste was replaced with the bitter tang of defeat.
Bitter tang, bitter Olive.
It's a story.
And today, is gonna be a happy ending.
Come on, go to the cook-off.
Olive will love you for it.
Isn't it good to be back again? Just you and me, shoulder to shoulder, eye to eye decorative hats fixed squarely on sweaty brows bonding in the fiery kiln of competition that forges men's souls.
- We're baking pie, Olive.
- Not just pie, damn great pie.
This is our year.
We're in such a better place than we were two years ago.
I am no longer encumbered with the tension of a sexual nature toward you.
I'm focused.
We should have won last time.
Would have won, had we not gotten screwed by The Buffalo.
Oh, sweet Lord in heaven, how I hate the Buffalo.
When you say "buffalo," do you mean the noble breed of bison Iost forever to settlers' greed or the upstate New York hamlet still thirsting for Super Bowl glory? I mean that phony whipping up those crap muffins.
Mary Ann Marie Beetle.
They call her the Pastry Slayer.
Leo Burns, the new Comfort Food Cook- Off coordinator, lover of all things foody.
I love that all foods are welcome at this year's Comfort Food Cook-Off.
It's like best in show, only "best in belly.
" Which means Buffalo Muffin will be locking those horns with Colonel Likkin.
He and the Buffalo are the teams to beat.
The colonel's been best-in-belly blue-ribbon winner 15 years.
But there's an empty winner's plate waiting to be loaded.
With damn great pie.
- Oh.
Why, you're the Pie Holers.
- Yeah.
- I'm a very, very, very big fan.
- Stop.
As event coordinator, I'm not allowed to say this, but I'm rooting for you.
Oh, thank you.
He's a dreamboat.
Well, tugboat, but still.
Let's set up, partner.
Ted.
It's so nice to see that you came back after taking a year off to lick your wounds and hide in the dank shadows of humiliating defeat.
- And you were so close.
- Yeah, mysterious.
It's as if someone deliberately sabotaged our oven, Cheater McGee.
It's a poor workman who blames his tools.
Keep your oven mitts to yourself.
I intend to, as I present more award-winning muffins to the judges.
And you remember now, losing doesn't make you a loser.
Oh, wait, it does.
Better get stuffing your pie holes.
But despite the freshly stoked heat of the competition- Buffalo is going down.
- the Pie-Maker's thoughts strayed away from pastries to be made and toward Chuck.
Wondering what she could possibly be afraid to tell him.
Hi, Dad.
The secret Chuck was keeping from the Pie-Maker was born the night before.
Hello, again.
I know I don't look like the Charlotte you remember, but Oh, you're the Charlotte I remember all right.
Button-button.
Cute as a button.
I miss you, Daddy.
- Isn't this nice? - Yes.
Son of a bitch.
Now I'm eating into my "I love you" time.
Um, I I love you.
And, um, happy birthday.
Oh.
It's It's my birthday? - Not today, but it was gonna be.
- Then I died.
Yeah, I never got to give it to you, but now I can.
So I guess it kind of is your birthday.
At that very moment, a change of plan occurred to her.
Torn between the Pie-Maker she loved, and the father she lost Chuck acted on impulse.
You're gonna put on my glove.
When Ned touches you, you play dead.
The Pie-Maker gave every second he could give.
I'm gonna dig you up in an hour.
And not a second more.
- You okay? - Uh-huh.
It didn't feel like 20 years.
What did it feel like, if it didn't feel like 20 years? Gliding.
Holding your breath and being able to breathe and just gliding.
- I didn't glide.
- What business would you have gliding? - I died.
And then Ned touched me.
But there was no gliding, just Ned.
- And he never touched you again? - No, he can't.
- Not without - Good.
How is this even possible? You, me, here again in the here-and-now when we belong in the hereafter? - Since when did death get a loophole? - Since Ned.
Your dreams, they're gonna be so vivid now.
- It's so neat.
And my bees - You have bees? Since you died.
And then they died, and then Ned touched them too.
Oh, God, and their honey.
You have never tasted honey like this before.
I hate to look in the gift horse's mouth but I'm not gonna start craving human flesh, am I? No.
Although everything does taste better.
What's the catch, button? Hiding me away like every stray cat, dog and goose that met your acquaintance.
You don't want Nedly Deadly to know that my bucket's still kicking.
Why? - Is there a catch? - Not that you're aware of.
- What? - Not that I'm aware of.
And, um, if there's a catch then I'm gonna catch it before I get caught.
You gonna tell me what that catch is, button? I will, tonight, I promise.
As Chuck's plan was percolating Private Investigator Emerson Cod gently extracted the delicate flavors of Bolivia Wara coffee grounds for a smooth, clean coffee experience on a morning that would soon prove to be anything but smooth or clean.
Emerson, l - I need your help.
- Friend help or pay help? See that? That's body language you never hear with pay help.
Ned brought my dad back to life, for a minute.
When the minute was up, we re-touched him.
No biggie, but yes, biggie.
In the moment, my thinking wasn't so much thinking but feeling, and I tricked Ned with my glove and now my dad's still alive, and Ned doesn't know and Please help me.
What's the part about your gloves? I've used Ned.
And now my dad's alive because of my impulse-control issues and now somebody else is dead.
First of all, blow.
Second, just relax.
- You're not mad at me? - Hell, yeah, I'm mad.
I'm steaming, furious, red-hot, and don't think I ain't gonna yell at you later.
But, for now, we should just put our heads together and try to figure out what to do.
You're slowing the roll, chief.
I'm in the zone.
Working awful hard for disappointment over there.
I'm going to win that blue ribbon, wrap it around her neck and strangle her with it.
Olive, you're baking with hate.
Ah.
Rich, buttery, high-in-carbohydrate hate.
Know what no one tells you about cooking with the dark side? The food is really good.
Revenge is best served cold, we're baking pie.
- Warm, delicious, happy-making pie.
- Help cook or get out of the kitchen.
Fine.
- Ah, the sweet smell of victory.
- Not this year, turd muffin.
- I'll shut your pie hole good.
- Bring it, stale cakes.
- We're gonna win.
- Who's "we," sucker? I'm gonna win.
My husband, the colonel, he's dead.
Whoa.
He's not just dead he's extra crispy.
My husband, the colonel, gone forever.
I'm afraid it looks like he collapsed and fell into his own boiling oil.
I always knew one of his many heart attacks would do him in.
At least the colonel left this world frying.
- Should be some comfort.
- There's no comfort in knowing that the secret recipe will die along with him.
- It was his greatest and only legacy.
- Surely he wrote it down.
Surely he didn't.
My husband was a fat-frying savant.
He kept that recipe stored in his head.
If only I could have him back for one minute to preserve his lasting, loving memory.
Olive, I need your help.
Help me to help the widow.
How? Her husband's dead, what are you gonna do? Haul him back to life and say, "Colonel, what's your recipe?" Uh Maybe he left something behind.
Just distract the paramedics long enough for me to, uh, examine the workstation.
Ned.
Um Aah! Help! My eyes, they're bleeding.
Help, I can't see.
I can't.
I got it on my fingers I finally know what my birds felt like.
I guess I'm dead, eh? Heart attack.
Not a lot of time, Widow Likkin wants to preserve your recipe.
Good woman, my bride.
Let's do it.
I got all 500 herbs and spices right up here.
Better pull up a chair and grab yourself a pen.
That sounds like a trip down a lazy river we don't have time for.
Ah, you can't rush goodness.
- Did you say, "heart attack"? - I did.
Shall we start with the herbs or spices? Bushwah.
Some carpetbagging coward snuck up behind battered me in my own batter and shoved me into boiling oil.
- That was murder, son.
- Really? - And you didn't see who did it? - Attacked from behind.
They were stealthy, like a snake or a Yankee.
Let's hit the headlines of the recipe, with the time left we can circle back to the murder.
You sure you didn't write it down? I got one handwritten copy.
I keep it right here in my Here in my Tarnation, this fat-frying process seems to have robbed me of mobility.
There's nothing in there.
- Impossible.
I've kept my recipe right there, the same spot for 30 years.
- What scoundrel stole my secret recipe? - I'll find out.
And I'll find out who killed you too.
- But now, I'm afraid time is up.
- I hate to go but at least I'm going delicious.
- Mmm.
- Aah! And as the colonel went back to being dead Chuck faced the consequences of her impulsive decision.
The bring-back-Dad part I don't regret.
How can anyone regret being reunited with someone they love and thought they'd never see again? - Point taken.
The big problem, maybe the biggest problem, in an objective sense is the dishonesty with Ned.
That and the making-someone-else-less-alive part.
"Less alive.
" Nice euphemism, killer.
We were in the dead of night.
Maybe there was no one else there.
Maybe no one died.
You think this is a "sometimes" rule? Ned lets somebody live longer and somebody else has to die sometimes? No.
It's every time.
There's some sucker out there dead in the leaves.
Oh, my God.
Maybe some sweet old lady with insomnia bringing flowers to her husband's grave It could have been anyone, I could have killed any All right, either way, we got another dead body to find.
A body deaded by Ned, only he don't know about it, you never told him.
- Which is the wrong I'm correcting.
- I know what I did was wrong.
I was spurred to action in the moment.
Which leaves me living in the deep, dark world of consequence.
But if you help me clean this up Ned won't have to live anywhere but the bright, happy world of pie.
- All we'll have to deal with is each other.
- And your daddy.
You can't keep that from him.
Okay.
We'll find the body first.
But I'm telling you, right after that, you go straight to pie boy.
Don't be pecking me, woman.
That's the peck of cahoots, which we are definitely not in.
Well, thank you anyway.
The cook-off will continue.
The colonel would have wanted it that way.
His tragic heart attack must be honored by us his sacred community of fellow chefs.
Who now all stand a much better chance of winning.
Proceed.
I know it's a tragedy, obviously, but you know what they say: When God closes a door, he opens an oven.
They don't.
If they do, they don't have compassion for a dead colonel.
I'm not gonna let you bait me to get soft and compassiony when we're this close to nailing this competition.
What would you say if I told you I think the colonel was murdered? Boohoo, more room at the top.
Oh, my God, you're not kidding.
I think the colonel had a copy of his recipe, and someone killed him for it.
How could you possibly know that by just looking at his dead body? L I'm an investigator.
Working with Emerson taught me things.
Deductive and inductive reasoning, evidence gathering.
A dead body can say a lot to the trained professional.
Mm-hm.
Anyway, my educated hunch tells me that there's a murder to solve.
You've never solved a murder mystery alone before.
I'm not alone.
Me? Oh.
I just got all tingly, and not just in the nether regions.
Okay, how do we go about this whole PI thing? Just jam the gun in the suspect's mouth and say: "Sing, canary, or I'm gonna decorate this wallpaper with your guts"? Neither.
Technically, I don't believe you can blow someone's guts out their mouth.
Wuss.
Holy smokes, our oven's smoking.
- Ned - Oh.
- Oh, sabotaged.
- Ow.
I bet it was the Beetle.
- I bet it was the colonel's killer.
This doesn't take the sting out of the responsibility, but I brought cash.
When we find the body, we take it to a funeral home with the cash and a note that says, "Every body deserves dignity.
Please bury this one.
" Lt'll be just like leaving a baby at a doorstep, only the tail end of things.
Huh.
And the point of this would be, say, what? Closure.
Mm-hm.
I got a feeling the body we find is gonna give you anything but closure.
- Where'd you get that idea? - I didn't just get it.
It was given to me by Dwight Dixon.
- What was Dwight Dixon doing here? - Let me show you something.
- A rifle? - Yeah.
Looks like sweet old Dwight already had himself a shot lined up.
Your conscience might not feel so weighty after you look through here.
Why would he have a gun? That's my father's grave.
He was trying to kill us? - Not if you killed him first.
- Why would he want us dead? As is traditional, the "why" in this case was met with an equal and opposite "because.
" Upon discovering that the pocket watch he had stolen from Chuck had been stolen back Dwight set out to reclaim the mysterious timepiece one last time.
Following Chuck to the graveyard, Dwight assumed her intent was to return the watch to the grave from which it had been stolen.
Ready to pull the trigger and reclaim his prize Dwight paused, unbelieving the unbelievable sight he saw.
Dwight's mind reeled at the sight of the Pie-Maker and Chuck desecrating Charles Charles ' grave.
And, as is traditional, he decided to put an end to the thing he did not understand.
But, as all his reeling and unbelieving had taken exactly 61 seconds no shot was ever fired.
If I hadn't kept my dad alive, I'd have been murdered twice.
- Once was enough.
- And Ned would be gone too.
Killing Dwight lights up three points on our side of the cosmic scoreboard.
Plus you saved that bundle you would have blown on burying Mr.
Boom-Boom.
Better we bury him here.
I got shovels in the car.
We get him under dirt before the pay-respects-at-lunch crowd shows.
By the time the grass grows back over the plot it'll be like none of this ever happened.
I can't wait till it's like none of this happened.
But it did happen.
Someone sabotaged our oven.
The flame won't shut off.
Let it burn.
Maybe it'll destroy this building and its memories with the cleansing power of flame.
- Olive, we're staying in the contest.
- We are? - Keep competing as a cover so we can investigate Likkin's murder.
- Winning would make an excellent cover.
Whoever killed the colonel is a risk-taker.
- Desperate.
Same as our saboteur.
- So find the saboteur, find the killer.
They took everything we need to bake pies.
- I'm on it.
- Olive? Vivian? - Vivian? Vivian, what are you doing here? Oh, honey.
Have you been crying? I stopped by The Pie Hole, but it was closed.
- And, yes, I was crying.
- Why's The Pie Hole closed? It's man trouble, I can tell.
I knew Dwight Dixon was heartbreak waiting to pop.
This is Lily's fault.
She aimed a shotgun at his privates and told him to stay away from us.
But half of us is me, and I don't want him away.
I want him close.
- Give us a minute.
- Vivian, it's, uh, good to see you.
Come on.
Forgive me.
I'm so wrapped up in my man, I'm thoughtlessly keeping you from yours.
Who? Ned? No.
No.
We're partners in a contest.
Unromantic partners.
Like a brother and a sister.
Like an asexual, androgynous brother and a sister.
Heh.
My man? No, that's a laugh.
When Dwight didn't show up for our date, I tried to laugh too.
Tried to tell myself my feelings for him were silly.
But lying to yourself about love never works.
- Damn.
- I know.
But still, I keep lying and looking all the same.
If you see Dwight at The Pie Hole, will you tell him about the looking part? I'd like to see him.
I understand.
Boy, do I understand.
I've found something.
The saboteur who sabotaged our oven left behind one sticky mistake.
Ooh, what is it? Toxic soot with a dash of DNA? It's sweet.
Woodsy.
Like a Berkshire forest on a crisp autumn morning.
- Oh.
Caramelized sugar.
- Maple syrup.
Only one chef here uses pure maple syrup.
- The Waffle Nazi.
- The Waffle Nazi.
Good, ja? Chuck had seen dead bodies talk before, but this was different.
This was just her guilty mind giving rise to her guilty feelings.
You're just my guilty mind giving rise to my guilty feelings.
Doesn't change the fact that you have royally screwed up.
- Fine.
You talk.
I'll shovel.
- Was it worth it? Sure, fine, I'm a bad man, you saved three good people by putting me down.
A three-for-one sale on the grandest scale.
Any time with those shovels.
- What would you have done? - Same thing, probably.
I'd have killed you too, but here's the difference.
- Emerson! - I would have told Ned by now.
- Shut up.
- Who you talking to? Shut up! Nothing.
No one.
I don't need to talk to anyone about anything.
- Because my conscience is clear.
- Good, then grab a shovel.
Ned will never forgive you.
This is an incredible violation of the P.
C.
C.
F.
C.
O.
Rule that says no chef is allowed in another chef's kitchen.
- It's immediate disqualification.
- Concentrate on the killer.
- That Waffle Nazi is likely our saboteur.
- Find the saboteur, find the killer.
- Find the sabo - Go, go, go.
- Me? - Go! Attention, contestants.
This is your 20 minute warning Any evidence linking Waffle Nazi to Likkin would wrap this case up in paper and tie it up with a strong, sturdy twine.
Yeah.
Oh, yeah.
Hey, you know what I love about Vivian? Her imagination.
She thought you and I were a couple now.
It's crazy, it's like imagining us as hobbits.
Or on jetpacks.
Or hobbits on jetpacks.
Isn't the idea of us romantically entwined a panic, a scream, a four-hour heart attack of complete impossibility? It all makes sense.
- It does? - This batter's better than batter.
It's the evidence we need to wrap up this case.
Hooray.
What is it? Mmm.
Delicious.
Savory, not sweet.
Bursting with what's gotta be, like, 500 herbs and spices.
It's the colonel's secret recipe.
- And the killer on a plate.
- Sir, I accuse you of Sabotage.
You have sabotaged mein irons.
- W We didn't do that.
- Don't cry, mein Herr.
Look.
It's "justice o'clock.
" I'm telling.
Well, Pie Holers it looks as if you are to be eliminated from the competition.
We're kicking you out before you baked yourself out.
When Leo Burns tootles up on his scooter and sees how many rules you have broken your dreams of comfort-food glory are kaput.
- You saw, we were sabotaged too.
- Liars roast in hell.
- Just saying.
We're not the saboteurs.
Oh, yeah, my waffle cord leaped into your arms like a puppy wanting love then cut itself in two.
- When we present the evidence you can kiss the cook-off auf Wiedersehen.
WAFFLE NAZl: Hm? - It's "goodbye" in German.
- I do not speak a word of German.
I speak English mit a German accent.
Pageantry.
We found this batch of the colonel's secret recipe in your kitchen.
That's a big bowl of motive, Fritz.
Are you suggesting murder? Pfft.
Ridiculous.
Herr Likkin and I were soon to become business partners.
Chicken and waffles? Would've caught Popeyes with their pants down.
What in the name of Julia Child are you people doing? I can't count the number of rules violations going on.
I'm so disappointed.
There may be the appearance of rules broken, but there's a bigger picture.
- I just haven't finished painting it.
- Yeah, we're not the saboteurs.
Poppycock.
The Pie Hole is disqualified.
Wha? All right, that ought to do it.
Let's get out of here.
Wait.
We need a priest, or a rabbi, or somebody to say something.
- What? - Dwight might not have been nice but everybody deserves a burial with dignity.
Fine, I got buttloads of dignity to sprinkle on the ground.
- Come on, get holy.
- Thank you.
Here lies Dwight, here lies his gun.
He was bad, and now he's done.
- Let's go.
- Wha? All this and I still have to deal with my mother.
Don't you mean father? Lily.
- Delighted.
- Can the crap and sell it to tourists.
- What are you doing here? - What are you doing here? Waiting for Dwight Dixon.
Well, uh, he may disappoint.
Men do that.
What's with the shotgun? Military salute.
- For Dwight Dixon? For Charles.
But if I happen to miss and blow Dwight's head off purely by accident well, that's something my lawyers can pretty much sort out later.
Well, uh, so lovely catching up.
Well, that's everything.
But there's no trunk big enough to carry my busted dreams of blue-ribbon victory.
Back to The Pie Hole, which is empty which is strange, because Chuck should be there.
The colonel's chicken booth.
An empty nest, chock-full of clues.
A really bold detective team would sneak over for one last bit of recon before packing up their pots and pans for good.
Remember, baker hats and hairnets must be worn at all times.
Memorize the scene, every detail.
The prints in the batter, footprints, the gurney tracks.
What's that? Oh, sprinkles.
I love sprinkles.
You love clues.
Two great tastes that taste great together.
- Ugh.
- Painted plastic.
Cheap jewelry.
Left here before the colonel was killed.
Which means they belong to the killer.
Attention, contestants.
This is your 10-minute warning.
The most important thing is to keep our wits and our nerves steady.
There's no good in freaking out, so don't go crazy and start, I don't know, kissing me, or something ridiculous.
Just because we're locked in a trunk, we could die at any minute What are you? Hey! Clean thoughts, chum.
Uh? Ah.
- Whew.
- Heh, heh.
- Aah! - Oh! Don't make me whip up another batch of beat down.
Look, cheap plastic earrings.
- You're the killer.
You're the killer.
You deep-fat-fried the colonel.
Suppose you were gonna bake me in my own oven.
Nobody's baking anybody.
If you weren't here to kill the colonel, what were you doing? I thought the colonel died of a heart attack.
I only snuck in here to try to - You're the saboteur.
- But not the killer.
Sabotage is a disqualifying offense.
Ha.
In the good Lord's good name, have mercy.
I need that blue-ribbon prize if Muffin Buffalo is to roam again.
You see before you a desperate woman, not a killer.
Mary Ann Marie Beetle, you can't be in here.
Disqualified.
Pie Holers, you can't be in here at all.
Banned for life.
Which reminds me, I forgot to report your disqualification to judges which I'm gonna do now.
- You're the killer.
Hey.
Me? Look at me.
I ride a scooter.
What kind of killer could I possibly be? The kind that leaves tracks.
Those are gurney tracks where the paramedics wheeled away Colonel Likkin.
Those treads that go from the batter back to the deep fryer are killer tracks.
Yours.
Those are hot-oil burns on your hands.
Did the colonel spatter when you deep-fat-fried him you sick son of a bitch? Pixie dust and lemonade.
You have no proof.
That story will never hold up in court.
This will.
Oh, the colonel's secret recipe.
- You're busted, tubby.
- News is out.
The facts were these: One year ago, Leo Burns was a slender and happy but slightly lonely man.
One day, he chose to drown his sorrows in a bucket of Colonel Likkin 's Southern Fried Chicken.
Which led to another and another.
And soon, the colonel's unique blend of 500 herbs and spices were all Leo could eat.
Diabetes, obesity and night blindness were all quick to follow the coated volumes of wings, breasts and thighs Leo ate.
Having lost himself to Likkin Leo vowed to destroy the colonel and his precious recipe.
Leo volunteered as this year's Comfort Food Coordinator waiting for the colonel to make his annual appearance which would become his final appearance.
But Leo could not bring himself to destroy the secret recipe that robbed him of his life and that was his undoing.
Attention, cook-off contestants.
All entries must be at the judges ' table in 30 seconds.
Thirty seconds.
Leo never reported our disqualification.
What could we do in 30 seconds? Our oven is broken.
Revenge is a dish best served cold which is why I brought one of your icebox pies stored it in our fridge and called it "Plan B.
" Don't mean squat if it isn't on the table in Twenty seconds.
Twenty seconds.
Move it! The colonel would be so proud.
Now that I have the recipe that nice doughnut man and I are gonna go into business together: Finger Likkin Doughnut Holes.
Sounds delicious.
And filthy.
America's favorite.
You'll make a fortune.
Thank you.
- Shh, shh, shh.
The blue-ribbon first prize in this year's annual Comfort Food Cook-Off goes to The Pie Hole.
Ned.
It's Chuck.
It's Olive.
No, it's Chuck.
I don't know where she is.
Said she'd be at The Pie Hole all day.
If she was, she would have answered her phone.
Maybe she's stepping out.
Stepped out.
I don't know where she is.
Vivian doesn't know where Dwight is.
What if Dwight leaving Chuck's obituary was more than an insurance policy? Do you mind if I go look for her? No, I don't mind.
Sorry to leave you with the mess.
I'm used to the mess.
- Olive? - Huh? Congratulations, partner.
Congratulations to you too, partner.
- Ned.
- Hello, Vivian.
Lily.
I was in the neighborhood, passing by really when I wondered if you might like some pie, which I forgot to bring.
But while I'm here, I was also wondering if you knew where I might find Dwight.
Ninth circle of hell, if there's any justice.
Lily, stop.
We don't know where Dwight is.
How could you forget a thing like pie? I find that curious.
It comes in a box.
Say, you got a squatter in your old digs over there? Hm? I'll find out.
The Pie-Maker braced himself to find Chuck held hostage by the deadly, desperate Dwight Dixon Chuck? - I was worried.
I thought Charlotte? It's okay, Dad.
"Dad"? I was gonna tell you.