Harborwick...Unsolved - Episode 3

Brittany Brinegar
Aug 13
14 min read

Updated: Aug 20

Neon Moon

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 2

I decided that Harborwick after dark was a whole other level of creepy-cute. The moon hung over the town like it was in on a joke I hadn’t heard yet—bright enough to light the cobblestone streets, cold enough to make you wish it hadn’t.

The road to the police station wound past salt-worn houses with sagging porches and flickering jack-o’-lanterns whose faces caved in like they’d just heard bad news. A paper skeleton twisted in the breeze, its arms flapping like it was trying to wave me off, which, given recent events, felt like excellent advice.

We passed one yard where a plastic witch was propped against a tree, mid–fake crash landing. I gave her a silent nod of respect, then nearly tripped over a kid in a head-to-toe mummy costume who popped out from behind a bush. He hissed, I yelped, and Mattie kept walking without a flinch.

“Not bad,” I called after him. “Next time, add sound effects and you’ll have a future in scaring tourists for tips.”

Goldilocks trotted ahead, her nails clicking on the pavement, her tail a golden wand waving away the gloom. She paused at every tree ghost and inflatable pumpkin like they were personal friends she hadn’t seen since last Halloween.

The police station was located in the old post office, with the official seal barely visible on the sign. You could still smell the stamps and the civil service dread. A single fluorescent light buzzed inside, casting the front desk in the kind of glow that had me half expecting an X-Files agent to walk out with a manila folder.

“If this turns into an alien thing, I’m Mulder and your Scully.”

Mattie tilted her head. “What are you talking about?”

“That’s an excellent impression, Mama. You were born to play the skeptic.”

I stuffed my hands deeper into the pocket of my mustard-yellow puffer vest, the one I’d layered over my cheeky hoodie. My leggings were tucked into Uggs, which were basically slippers that society deemed acceptable outdoor footwear.

Beside me, Mattie was wrapped in a navy wool trench coat that looked like it had been tailored by a Parisian artisan who accepted payment in state secrets. She’d paired it with dark jeans and ankle-high leather boots that could probably kick pirate booty.

I always wondered how we could be related when my mother dressed like a Vogue winter spread and I looked like the world’s most prepared college freshman. Oldest too.

Mattie held the door open, and Goldilocks, seeing her chance, padded right in as if she reported for duty. I decided not to stop her. Worst case, she’d charm someone out of a donut.

Constable Dave looked up from behind the desk, his cartoon tie, featuring Scooby-Doo, glowed under the harsh light. His sports coat didn’t match his jeans in either color or ambition.

“Well, if it isn’t Mattie McDonald,” he said, grinning like we’d just walked into Cheers and he was obliged to yell Norm. “And…this must be the famous Patsy.”

I wasn’t sure if I liked being called ‘famous’ by a man whose tie said Ruh-roh!

“Constable Dave,” Mattie said, crossing the room with a warm smile. “What are you doing still on night duty?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Halloween week. You know how it is.” He wagged a finger at Goldilocks, who sniffed the base of his chair. “That your partner in crime?”

“She’s more like the brains of the operation,” I said.

Constable Dave’s chuckle suddenly turned a shade more serious. “Heard about the break-in at your place, Mattie. Bad business. Tore the floor up pretty good.”

Mattie frowned. “We just saw it from the outside. Your officer told us not to go inside. What happened?”

“Hard to say,” Constable Dave said with a shrug. “Probably troublesome kids. They get rowdy around this time of year.”

I tilted my head. “Rowdy kids spray paint. They don’t tear up floorboards looking for treasure.”

Constable Dave blinked. “You got a point there.”

“What were they looking for?” I asked.

He spread his hands. “Who knows. Some folks say the Professor was on the verge of cracking the treasure mystery before he died, but he’d been saying that for years.”

“Speaking of the professor, what can you tell us about his death?” Mattie asked.

“Don’t tell me little old Harborwick is the subject of your next podcast?” He clutched his heart. “I’m honored and a little terrified.”

My gaze bounced between Mama and the constable, unsure how well they knew each other. If the photographs were to be trusted, Dave was the almost-cropped-out son-in-law of Mrs. Abberline. That made him Mattie’s in-law twice removed…or some such.

My head ached from both information overload and trying to mentally draw my family tree. Just when I thought I was through with Mama’s secret life—AS A SPY—a whole new family came out of the woodworks.

“You’ve listened to our show?” I asked.

“Not by choice.” He waggled a finger. “That didn’t come out right.”

“You get one more chance,” Mattie said. “Try again.”

He cleared his throat. “My daughter is your number one fan. She’ll be stoked to meet you.”

We had fans!? I still couldn’t believe it. Season one was such a huge success that I worried we wouldn’t be able to measure up. What if solving the first cold case was a fluke? What if this time we failed in front of an even bigger audience?

Constable Dave leaned back in his chair, propping one sneaker on the edge of a desk stacked with paperwork and a half-eaten fun-size Snickers. It was as if he bit into and forgot it was the candy bar with peanuts. Yuck. In my humble opinion, the only combo worse than chocolate and peanuts was coconut. Double yuck.

“Officially, we ruled the professor’s death as suspicious,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But there weren’t any leads.”

I raised a brow. “None?”

“This is only the second murder we’ve had in this sleepy little town. Almost a hundred years went by between them.” His grin faltered. “Figures. Had to be on my watch.”

“Let me guess,” I said, sliding into the visitor chair and trying to find a spot that didn’t squeak like a haunted rocking horse. “The first murder was committed by a jealous pumpkin carver who took the blue ribbon a little too seriously?”

Constable Dave’s mouth twitched. “I’d have to check my files, but it sounds like a good guess.” He hesitated. “But this one’s worse. What happened to Rutherford Silas…not something you forget.”

Mattie crossed her legs, her coat falling open just enough to reveal the edge of her cream wool sweater. “What happened?” she asked, her tone all business.

He exhaled, as if struggling to breathe. “Diving accident. At least, that’s what it looked like. The body was found tangled in kelp and rocks, about a hundred yards from his boat. Signs of panic, but not of a struggle.”

Goldilocks lounged under his desk like she owned the place, gave a low whuff, which I decided to interpret as the canine equivalent of hmm, suspicious.

“Sabotage?” I asked.

“Maybe.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Air hose had a small puncture.”

I frowned. “Wouldn’t an experienced diver notice something like that when he checked his gear?”

“Depends.” Mattie curled a strand of white-blonde hair behind her ear. “A pinhole could hold at the surface and only fail at depth. Accidents like that happen.” She glanced at Dave. “So why call it suspicious?”

“Is there more?” I asked.

“That’s the thing.” Dave dropped his voice like the file cabinet might be listening. “His dive computer.” He glanced both directions. “The log was erased.”

“Can that be accidental?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Not likely. That kind of wipe takes know-how. You’d need the right software, knowledge, and access.”

Mattie’s eyes narrowed. “Someone wanted to hide what the professor saw down there.”

“Or someone didn’t want anyone knowing where he was exactly.”

Constable Dave pointed at me with a half-smile. “Now you’re thinking like a Harborwicker.”

“God help me,” I muttered. “Next thing you know, I’ll start wearing lobster-pattern sweaters and hoarding canned chowder for winter.”

Dave chuckled, but a tightness remained. The death shook him and the town. He looked like a lawman at his wits' end, happy for a lifeline. “Rutherford Silas was an old pro. Been diving since before I was born. I can’t see him just drowning. And that means someone I know probably killed him. Somebody who sits in the next pew at church or plays golf scrambles with me on the weekends.”

Goldilocks rolled over on her back, paws in the air, completely at ease under the desk.

I crossed my arms and studied the constable. “Do you believe the professor finally cracked it?”

His eyes flicked to Mattie, then back to me. “If he did, he took the secret to the bottom with him.”

I pulled my hoodie tighter and glanced at Mattie. Her face didn’t give away much, but I knew that look. The wheels were turning.

If Rutherford Silas was killed for getting too close to Harborwick’s legendary treasure, then we wandered into the deep end without checking for sharks.

The conversation about murdered divers and erased dive logs had barely settled into that heavy we-should-probably-be-taking-this-more-seriously silence when the door to the station creaked open.

“Dad?” a voice called, high and bright, like someone walked in with a basket of sunshine.

Dave’s face softened. “In here, Wren.”

A girl bounced into the room like her sneakers had springs, wearing a knit pumpkin hat pulled low over her forehead and a messenger bag so overloaded it could double as a weapon. She had a button nose, wide brown eyes, and a face that still belonged in middle school despite her insistence on wearing mascara.

“Wren Warner,” Dave said with a touch of fatherly pride. “This is Mattie McDonald. And Patsy Steffanelli.”

Wren gasped like she’d just been introduced to royalty. “From Murder, Mystery, and Mom?”

“That’s us,” I said, trying to sit like someone worthy of the fuss.

Her whole body did an excited wiggle thing, like Goldilocks when she spotted a squirrel. “I love your show. Season one? Masterpiece. I binged it twice. You’re point about being suspicious of the mundane made me wary of my algebra teacher for a whole month.”

“Occupational hazard,” I said. “But in your defense, math is the most distrustful subject.”

Wren clasped her hands under her chin. “And Goldilocks!”

Right on cue, my dog emerged from under Constable Dave’s desk, tail wagging like she’d realized someone new had joined her fan club. Wren dropped to her knees on the worn station carpet, hugging Goldie like they were long-lost soulmates.

“She’s even cuter in real life,” Wren gushed into Goldie’s fur. “And so soft. I can’t believe she solved that murder with you. That was real, right? The part where she fetched a femur? Dad says some of those things are embellished, but that seemed just crazy enough to be true.”

“Absolutely,” I said, ignoring Mattie’s tiny eye-roll. “Now I’m wary every time she comes back with a stick.”

Wren sat back on her heels, grinning. “Dad told me you were related to us, and I just about died. I’ve been obsessed since. Dad says we look alike, but I don’t know about that. You're so tall and pretty.”

I studied her face for a second. The big eyes. The same uneven smile I spent years trying to make look intentional.

“Bad news, kiddo,” I said, leaning in like I was about to reveal a secret even Mama didn’t know. “This is a portal to what you’re gonna look like when you’re twenty-nine… and three-quarters.”

“I guess that makes me under fifty,” Mattie said.

Ignoring Mama, I focused on my mini-me. I saw a piece of my father in her, in the way Wren’s gaze held a hint of mischief, the same way my dad’s did just before he pulled a prank.

Since he went missing, I’d been chasing ghosts. He vanished in ‘96, a career CIA man, and we were never told what happened. Just a folded flag and a lifetime of unanswered questions. Seeing a piece of him in this bubbly girl, in this small town, was like finding a fragment of the family I thought I lost forever. It was a tangible link to a past that was nothing but a cold case to me. It was a terrifying, wonderful, emotional punch I wasn't expecting.

It made this whole mystery suddenly personal in a way that had nothing to do with treasure or murder.

I forced a smile to avoid tears. “I hope you like under-eye concealer and comfortable boots, because that’s your future.”

Wren squealed. “As long as it comes with a mystery. Speaking of, that is why you guys are here, isn’t it? About the professor’s murder.”

Mattie, perched in her chair with all the poise of a woman who didn’t squeal about anything, raised one eyebrow. “I can see this is going to be a very productive investigation.”

“Oh, it will,” Wren said, digging through her bag. “I have notes. Color-coded.”

“Here we go.” Constable Dave groaned, but couldn’t hide his smile. “I regret getting you that fingerprinting kit when you were six.”

“He’s been grumpy ever since I started interning at the station. I’m finally old enough to fulfill my destiny.”

“And how old is that?” I asked.

“Fifteen.”

My brain struggled to register that. Freshman in high school? She looked about twelve. Maybe twelve and a half on a rebellious day.

Constable Dave clapped his hands together like he was about to start a high school pep rally. “Well,” he said, dragging open a desk drawer and rummaging around until he pulled out a battered accordion folder. “Since you two are here—and since I might’ve promised my daughter you’d get to see the good stuff—how about I show you the case file?”

Mattie arched an eyebrow. “You’re just going to hand it over?”

Constable Dave grinned, flipping the folder onto the desk. “We’re not exactly the NYPD here, Mattie. And you’re the most competent investigator Harborwick’s ever had in the station after dark.”

“Or before dark,” Wren muttered.

“Besides, the case went cold. I could use a fresh set of eyes and a podcast microphone.”

Goldilocks hopped into the empty chair beside Wren like she, too, was ready to review evidence.

I leaned forward. “We’re listening.”

Constable Dave fished out a handful of papers and spread them across the desk. “The professor was, as I eluded to before, obsessed with the treasure. But not in that greedy I-wanna-buy-a-yacht way most people get. He was more of a dig it up for the educational value, get it into a museum type.”

“A regular Indiana Jones,” I said. “Which is exactly how you get yourself murdered in a small coastal town with a hundred years of rumors and a light dusting of curses.”

Mattie nodded. “Greed can blind people and make them do out-of-character things.”

“And before he died, the professor had a few disagreements that caught my attention.” Constable Dave tapped the first page, which had a photo clipped to the top. “Gibson Graham. Goes by Gibbs. He runs a food truck that specializes in lobster rolls—She Sails Sea Shore Seafood. Was the professor’s closest friend, or so they claimed. Fought like brothers, too. Their last shouting match was loud enough to scare the seagulls.”

“Suspicious seafood man,” I said, making a mental note. “Got it.”

Next page. A beefy guy with a square jaw and a too-tight T-shirt stared up at us. “Everest Kirkendahl,” Dave said. “Transplant from Boston. Real meathead type. Delivers furniture when he isn’t busy at the pub.”

“What’s his connection to the victim?” Mattie asked.

“The professor’s nephew, which means they were stuck with each other at holidays.” Dave scratched his chin. “They went on a few dives together, but let’s just say they didn’t see eye to eye on what to do with the treasure.”

“Probably hard to see eye to eye with someone when you’re flexing that much,” I muttered.

Dave turned to the next page. A poised woman with sleek dark hair and the kind of stare that could catalog your sins. “Joan Estella. Historical consultant for a local foundation.”

“What’s her deal?” I asked.

“She has government contracts, works on preserving the town. She and the professor butted heads over ethics. She wants to preserve history in elite collections rather than stuffy museums no one visits.”

“Were they working together to find the treasure?” Mattie asked.

Constable Dave shook his head. “The professor worked alone.”

“That’s not true.” Wren snorted. “He used people until he no longer needed them.”

Dave’s finger moved to the final sheet, which featured a publicity photo that could have been a rejected circus poster. “Pollyanna Marsh works as a clown—birthday parties, street fairs…

“The occasional nightmare,” Wren added.

“She and the professor dated for about five years. They broke off their engagement a few months ago.”

“Who did the breaking?” I asked.

Constable Dave shrugged. “I’m not exactly plugged into the gossip.”

“Good thing I am.” Wren scrunched her finger, drawing us closer. “Everyone in town thought it was a weird match. A college professor and the artistic town recluse? But Pollyanna… she really fell for him. She said he was the only person who ever took the time to talk to her.”

“She’s deaf,” Constable Dave said. “She signs and reads lips.”

“And she picked the profession of clown in Maine.” Wren shivered. “Hasn’t she heard of Stephen King and Pennywise? That and her family’s curse made her a bit of a social pariah.”

I shot out of my chair. “Curse?”

“That’s just a rumor,” Constable Dave said.

Mattie waved me back to my seat. “Finish telling us about the breakup, Squirt.”

Wren nodded. “The professor learned how to sign for her, and he wrote her these long notes. Everyone thought it was so romantic.”

“But it wasn’t,” I said, guessing the twist.

“No way.” Wren leaned in. “It turns out, he was just using her. Her great-uncle was a smuggler back in the day, and he had journals. Journals with all sorts of secret things about the treasure. Pollyanna thought the professor was just interested in her family’s history, but mined her for information to find the treasure. The second he got what he wanted, he was out. Broke her heart.”

The only thing scarier than a curse was a clown with a motive.

I sat back, scanning the faces. “So we’ve got: angry lobster guy, flexing nephew, the history lady with resting judge-face, and disgruntled clown from Derry. Quite the lineup.”

“Logical suspects,” Dave said. “They all had beef with the professor, and they all had the opportunity to mess with his dive.”

Mattie crossed her legs. “And what about you, Dave? Where do you stand on this treasure business?”

He chuckled. “I think it’s an urban legend. Harborwick likes its tourist spikes. It’s good for the diner, good for the pier, good for the gift shops that sell maps to nowhere.”

Goldilocks sighed like she heard blasphemy.

“Lovely.” My lips sputtered. “So we’re chasing a killer over something you don’t think exists. And there’s a curse no one seems to want to acknowledge.”

Dave shrugged. “The tourism supports my supply of cartoon ties.”

“I regret picking them out for you when I was two.” Wren flicked the Scooby Doo tie at her father. “So where are you guys staying while in town? The B&B?”

“We need somewhere to park the Clue Cruiser,” I said. “Any RV parks nearby?”

“Not for about twenty miles,” Constable Dave said.

I slumped in my chair. “Terrific. Where are we supposed to stay?”

He shot me the kind of look a person reserves for telling someone their fly is down. “Well…your mama does own a house in town.”

“The haunted one that was broken into this evening?” I asked. “Sounds totally reasonable. Should I go ahead and hang a sign that says Murder Me Next?”

Wren perked up. “I can make you one!”

Mattie rolled her eyes. “I doubt the hooligans will return.”

“What makes you so confident?” I asked.

Mattie’s face went still. She looked at me, then at Constable Dave, a silent message passing between them that I was too slow to catch.

“Did I miss something?”

“Those weren’t hooligans, Patsy,” Mama said, her voice dropping to a low whisper that cut through the silence. “That was a professional. And a professional who came up empty-handed will always come back for a second look.”

“Oh, now I definitely want to sleep there.”