Nick Carter: Ch 2 – Pinocchio’s Nose

^{Nick Carter was conceived by Ormond G. Smith and created by John R. Coryell. Story outline written by Brandon K Montoya. Full story written by Scarlett Brown}

Chatper Two – Pinocchio’s Nose

Pinocchio’s office was a cramped corner of Town Hall that smelled more like somebody’s lunch from yesterday. His desk was too small for his job and too close to the radiator, which clanked whenever it felt like

He sat straight anyway, pen in hand, doing what he did best: being honest in a town that didn’t know what to do with honesty.

Across from him, Old MacDonald looked like he’d aged ten years since last week. His hat was crushed in his hands. Dirt streaked his sleeves like he’d tried to scrub the world clean and failed.

Pinocchio flipped through the report. “So,” he said, voice flat, “your farm was damaged by a pack of animals.”

Old MacDonald nodded fast. “Like they were organized. Not like… normal animals.”

Pinocchio made a note. His pen scratched hard. “Fences broken. Feed storage torn open. Coop doors ripped off the hinges.”

“And my cow,” Old MacDonald added, like he was afraid to say it out loud. “The one that… you know.”

Pinocchio didn’t look up. “The cow that jumped over the moon.”

Old MacDonald swallowed. “She’s gone.”

Pinocchio stamped a form with more force than necessary. The ink thumped like a judge’s gavel. “Missing livestock,” he said. “Noted.”

He kept his face professional, but his jaw worked like he was chewing on something bitter. Around here, people still talked about him like he was a liar, even when his nose stayed perfectly normal. Like honesty was just another trick.

He pushed the paperwork toward Old MacDonald. “Sign there.”

Old MacDonald signed with a shaky hand.

The room stayed calm.

Then the door opened.

Nick Carter stepped in, and the air changed, like someone had thrown cold water into a warm bath.

Nick Carter paused in the doorway like he was deciding where to put his feet. He wore a clean coat and a calm expression, but his eyes were already moving, from the desk, papers to the stamp pad, then Old MacDonald’s hands, the window, down to the corners of the room.

“Afternoon,” Nick said, polite like he meant it.

Old MacDonald half-stood, then fully stood. He didn’t look at Nick for long. “I’ll… I’ll let you gentlemen talk,” he muttered.

Pinocchio slid the file into a stack and didn’t offer a goodbye.

Old MacDonald tucked his hat under his arm and hurried past Nick. His boots scraped the floor like he was trying not to make noise. As he reached the hall, he breathed out like he’d been holding it in.

The door clicked shut.

Pinocchio’s head snapped up. “If you’re here to call me a liar,” he said, “get in line.”

Nick closed the distance to the desk slowly. “I’m here about Jiminy Cricket.”

Pinocchio’s mouth tightened. “Of course you are.”

Nick’s voice stayed even. “Where were you last night?”

Pinocchio laughed once, sharp and tired. “At work. Where else do you think I go? I don’t exactly have a social life.”

“Who can confirm that?” Nick asked.

Pinocchio leaned back in his chair, offended and worn out at the same time. “My paperwork. My boss. The clock on the wall. Pick one.”

Nick didn’t blink. “Do you own a mallet?”

Pinocchio’s hands spread over the desk. “No.”

“Any reason your wood shavings would be near a dead cricket?” Nick asked.

Pinocchio’s eyes flashed. “Maybe because I’m made of wood and I live in a town that keeps dragging me into their nonsense.”

Nick nodded slightly, like he’d expected the answer. “So you’re saying you didn’t touch him.”

Pinocchio leaned forward, voice low. “I’m saying if you came here for a confession, you’re wasting my time. And I’m running out of patience.”

He shoved his chair back with a scrape. He stood, not to attack, but because sitting still felt impossible.

“You want to know why I’m running out of patience?” he said. “I’ll tell you.”

Nick stayed where he was. “Go ahead.”

Pinocchio pointed at his own face. “Reason one: this.” He jabbed the air near his nose. “Everybody in this town looks at me like I’m a walking joke. Like I’m automatically guilty. Like I’m lying even when I’m not.”

Nick didn’t react. “People lie.”

Pinocchio’s laugh came out rough. “Yeah. And I’m the one person who can’t.” He leaned closer. “My nose hasn’t grown in months. That means I’m telling the truth.”

Nick’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Or it means you got better at controlling it.”

Pinocchio’s hands clenched into fists, then opened again. He forced them flat on the desk so he wouldn’t do something stupid.

“Reason two,” he said, voice tighter now, “is the part none of you care about.”

Nick’s tone stayed calm. “What part is that?”

Pinocchio swallowed, like the words tasted bad. “My friends. The ones the carnival man took.”

Nick’s face didn’t change, but his attention sharpened. “The donkeys.”

Pinocchio nodded hard. “Yes. Them. They were people, and then they weren’t, and I’ve been trying to get help for weeks.”

He slapped his palm on the desk. Papers jumped. “I’ve gone to officers. I’ve gone to the station. I’ve done everything except stand in the street with a sign. And every time I open my mouth, I get the same look.”

Nick asked, “What look?”

Pinocchio’s eyes burned. “The look that says, ‘Sure, Pinocchio. And next you’ll tell us the moon is made of cheese.’”

Nick said, “Do you have proof?”

Pinocchio stared at him like that was the problem. “I have a town that refuses to listen. Because they still think I’m a liar. Even when my nose is normal.”

The room felt smaller. The radiator ticked. Somewhere in the hall, footsteps passed and kept going.

Pinocchio lowered his voice. “So yeah. Jiminy Cricket is dead. Fine. Tragic. But this isn’t just about chocolate. People are disappearing, Carter. And you’re in here asking me about wood shavings.”

Nick looked at him for a long second, thoughtful in a way that usually meant trouble.

Then he said, very calmly, “Your mother was knotty.”

For half a beat, the room went dead still.

Pinocchio’s face changed so fast it was almost scary. “NO SHE WASN’T!”

The words had barely left his mouth when the curse hit.

His nose shot forward.

A whole foot of polished wood burst out from his face with a hard, ugly crack. Tiny green leaves popped from it at the same time, unfurling along the sides like the world’s meanest spring had just arrived. Pinocchio jerked backward with a strangled yell and grabbed his face with both hands.

“Ahh— damn you, Carter!”

The chair tipped over behind him and hit the floor.

Nick blinked once.

That was all.

But it was enough to show he had his answer.

Pinocchio bent over, breathing hard, one hand clamped over the bridge of the new growth, the other braced on the desk. The leaves trembled. So did he.

“That hurts,” he snapped through his teeth. “It always hurts.”

Nick’s voice stayed level. “Good. Then the curse still works.”

Pinocchio looked up at him with pure murder in his eyes. “You did that on purpose.”

“Yes,” Nick said.

That answer somehow made it worse.

Pinocchio gave a sharp, furious sound and swiped a stapler off the desk. It hit the wall beside Nick and dropped to the floor.

Nick did not move.

For a second, the office felt too small for both of them. Pinocchio breathing hard. Nick standing there like he had just tested a lock and heard it click.

The ridiculous part was the leaves.

The ugly part was how relieved Nick looked to see them.

Because now he knew two things.

Pinocchio was still cursed.

And this was no longer just a polite interview.

Nick looked at the bent stapler on the floor, then at Pinocchio, then back at the floor again.

Finally he said, “That was unfair.”

Pinocchio gave him a wild stare, still holding his face. “Unfair?”

Nick nodded once. “Yes.”

That was the whole apology at first. Then, like he knew it wasn’t enough, he added, “I’m sorry. It was deliberate, and it was rude.”

Pinocchio lowered his hand just enough to glare at him past the leaves. “You think?”

Nick reached into his coat and pulled out a card case. “I’ll pay for pruning.”

Pinocchio stared at him.

It was such a strange, practical offer that for one second it almost broke the tension.

“Pruning,” Pinocchio repeated.

“Yes,” Nick said. “A proper trim. Whoever handles this sort of thing. Quietly.”

Pinocchio let out a sharp breath through his nose, which only made the leaves shake harder. He was still furious, but underneath that was something else now

“Fine,” he said. “You want to make this right? Then do your job.”

Nick slipped the card case away. “Meaning?”

Pinocchio pointed at him. “My friends. The boys the carnival man turned into donkeys. They’ve been disappearing, one by one, and nobody cares. You’re going to look into it.”

Nick’s face stayed calm, but there was a slight pause before he answered. “I’m investigating a murder.”

“And I’m telling you it might be connected.”

“That’s a guess.”

“That’s all anybody ever has at the start,” Pinocchio shot back.

Nick studied him for a second, then gave a short nod. “Fine. I’ll look.”

It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t kind. But it was real.

Pinocchio took a breath and made his next point fast, before Nick could change his mind.

“It’s the Wicked Queen.”

Nick’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because she’s been out for the animals ever since Snow White,” Pinocchio said. “You think that whole mess ended with a broken spell and a wedding song? It didn’t. She lost, she got humiliated, and now she’s meaner about it. She hates anything soft, harmless, pretty, or easy to pity. Animals are all of that.”

He leaned forward over the desk. “Look into her. I’m serious.”

Nick said nothing right away.

But the room had already shifted.

Now the Queen had a place in the case.

Pinocchio did not say goodbye.

He snatched a handkerchief off the corner of the desk, pressed it to his nose, and turned away like if he looked at Nick one more second, something else in the office was going to hit the wall.

Nick let him go.

A minute later, he stepped out of Town Hall and onto the street.

The air outside felt colder than it should have. The kind of cold that made every sound travel farther. Wagon wheels rattled somewhere up the block. Even the town seemed to be holding its breath.

Nick stood on the steps, thinking.

Pinocchio still had his curse. That mattered.

The missing donkeys mattered too.

Then the phone in his coat began to ring.

Nick pulled it out at once. “Carter.”

The voice from the lab came brisk and clipped. “We finished the residue work from Jiminy Cricket’s body.”

Nick’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

“The brick dust wasn’t random,” the voice said. “We traced the mix. Specific clay, specific firing. It came from a local maker.”

Nick said nothing.

The voice continued, “And the chocolate wasn’t blended candy-shop stock. It was pure, unmixed ingredient residue. High-grade. Clean enough to identify the source.”

Nick looked out at the street, but he wasn’t seeing it now.

“Which source?” he asked.

A tiny pause.

Then: “The baker.”

Nick went completely still.

People moved around him. A cart rolled by. Someone laughed on the far side of the street. None of it touched him.

“The baker,” he repeated.

“Yes,” the lab said. “Local product. No doubt.”

Nick ended the call slowly and lowered the phone.

Brick powder. Chocolate. The baker.

That changed the shape of things.

Pinocchio had pointed him at the Wicked Queen.

Now the evidence had pointed somewhere else too.

Nick slipped the phone back into his coat and looked down the street like it had just grown two different shadows.

The case had stopped being simple.

And that usually meant it was finally getting honest.

Nick stayed on the Town Hall steps for one more second, sorting the pieces.

The baker mattered. That much was clear. Chocolate that specific did not land on a dead body by accident.

But Pinocchio had not sounded like a man throwing out random names just to save himself. He had sounded angry, tired, and scared. And when scared people pointed at monsters, it was usually for a reason.

Nick checked his watch, then snapped it shut.

“Wonderful,” he muttered. “At this rate I’ll be late.”

He started down the steps.

The baker was a lead. A good one. Solid. But the Wicked Queen was the kind of problem that got worse while you were being sensible. If she was involved, even sideways, waiting would only give her time to smile, lie, and rearrange the room around the truth.

So the Queen first.

Then the baker.

Nick turned up his collar and headed toward the Queen’s district, moving fast enough to look purposeful, slow enough not to look worried.