Harborwick...Unsolved - Episode 4

Brittany Brinegar
Aug 20
12 min read

Updated: 4 days ago

Beautiful Mess

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 2

The moon glistened like a shiny silver dollar in the sky, washing Harborwick in shimmering light that turned every tree into a shadow puppet. The walk back to Mama’s rental house was so quiet, I could hear my own blood pressure climbing. Even Goldilocks, who normally celebrated nighttime strolls like a Mardi Gras parade, padded ahead with her nose down and her tail stiff, ears twitching at every leaf crunch.

It didn’t help that Mama’s ominous last words still rang in my ears: “Those weren’t hooligans, Patsy. That was a professional. And a professional who came up empty-handed will always come back for a second look.”

And guess who’d be sleeping with a nightlight for the remainder of her time in Maine? Nothing like the casual mention of a returning professional criminal to make bedtime cozy.

The shingle-sided house appeared out of the mist, perched like a half-forgotten secret. Two stories plus an attic and basement, its gray shingles weathered to the color of old tombstones. The porch railings sagged, the windows glared with fogged glass, and the whole place tilted ever so slightly to the right, like the lighthouse had a gravitational pull.

“Run-down with good bones,” Mattie said, the chill sweeping her scarf over her shoulder.

“Run-down with bad juju,” I corrected, thumbing on my flashlight. The beam jittered like it was nervous.

“Is that thing busted?” she asked.

“Nope,” I said, my voice climbing an octave. “That’s just me shaking.”

Goldilocks gave a muffled woof, trotting up the porch steps like the world’s bravest goldendoodle. Her paws clicked against the boards, announcing our arrival like a drumroll of doom.

We creaked the door open—no need for a key when the lock was busted off—and the smell of must and overturned furniture hit like a slap. The hooligans…or rather, the so-called professional had definitely left their calling card. Drawers hung open like gaping mouths, chairs were flipped and gutted, and floorboards had been pried loose in jagged patches.

“The hooligans sure did a number on this place. Hope your insurance is up to date.” I tried for humor, though my voice crackled like a bad radio station.

“It’s a shame seeing it like this. It really is a wonderful house with rich history.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Mattie ran a finger across the dusty mantle, her eyes welling with an emotion I rarely saw from her—vulnerability. “You know, my parents brought me here for the summers when I was young. We’d sit on this porch and watch the fog roll in.” Her mouth tilted at the corner. “Your father and I… we used to sneak down to the harbor and try to find where the treasure was rumored to be hidden. It’s a shame to see it like this. This place is more than a house. It’s full of memories and secrets, and it’s heartbreaking to see them torn apart.”

I swallowed, the humor I was about to deploy dying on my tongue. The silence stretched between us, thick with everything she hadn’t said about my dad, about this town, about the memories she’d kept tucked away. I reached out, my hand hovering for a second, then dropping back to my side.

I finally managed a shaky smile. “So… I guess this place is a lot more than just a money pit, huh?”

“We should start looking around.” Mama flicked the light switch. Nothing. Of course.

“Because why would electricity work in a haunted house?” I muttered.

“The fuse box is downstairs,” Mattie said, leading the way with the beam of her flashlight.

“In the dark, creepy basement with one way out that will inevitably slam in a sudden breeze, locking us inside?”

“I lost track of your question.”

“Why don’t people ever think to put a fuse box in a convenient, well-lit place away from the ghosts, zombies, and vampires?” I searched the vicinity for a weapon.

Mattie arched a brow. “What’s the stick for?”

“It’s not a stick, it’s a stake. And it’s just in case.”

“You don’t need to follow me,” she said, already marching toward the door that led down. “I can protect myself.”

“Oh, I know,” I whispered, hugging the flashlight and the broken umbrella stake. “It’s me I’m worried about. I don’t want to stay up here alone.”

The basement door groaned open like it had been waiting a century for this moment. The air that floated up was damp and cold enough to chill my bones. Mama started down the creaking stairs, boots steady. I clomped after her, Goldilocks right between us like a furry protector.

“Why don’t we talk about the case?” Mattie suggested, her voice echoing in the gloom. “It’ll distract your wild imagination.”

“Sure,” I said. “What’s our first step for investigating? Who are you leaning toward as a suspect?”

“I don’t lean.”

I nearly tripped over a step. “You’re doing a great job of distracting me, Mama.”

She found the fuse box, flipped a few switches, and with a hum, the basement blinked alive under weak overhead lights. Which somehow made it worse. Shadows clung to the corners, stretching across a clutter of crates, old trunks, and a jumble of…was that scuba gear?

The place looked like a treasure hunter’s garage sale. Worn maps curled at the edges, stacks of books leaned like little towers of Pisa, and a tangle of diving hoses snaked across a workbench.

I stopped at a framed black-and-white photo propped against a crate. A man with a stern face stared back, one hand resting on a decorative cane.

“Who’s this?” I asked.

“The original owner,” Mattie said. “Sully. He died here on Halloween night, 1924.”

Of course he did.

Beside the photo was a brittle newspaper clipping, half-yellowed and taped to the frame. I squinted and read aloud. “Local man Michale ‘Sully’ Sullivan found dead in his home, wearing a jack-o’-lantern on his head…”

I dropped the paper like it was radioactive. “Yeah. Totally nothing creepy about that.”

Mama folded her arms. “History can be unpleasant.”

I tightened my grip on the flashlight and exhaled hard, Goldilocks nudging my leg like she agreed with my ‘let’s get out of here before Sully starts imprinting on us and commences haunting’ policy.

Instead, I squared my shoulders and gave a shaky grin. “Okay, Mama, time to record our first podcast from Harborwick.”

[Podcast Intro Music Fades]

PATSY: Welcome back to Murder, Mystery, and Mom. I’m Patsy Steffanelli, joined as always by my mama—Mattie McDonald—who looks like she’s never been spooked a day in her life.

MATTIE: That’s because I haven’t.

PATSY: Uh-huh. And tonight, dear listeners, you’re getting a very special treat: an exclusive audio tour of what is now officially our creepiest recording location to date. Say hello to the Harborwick House of Haunts.

MATTIE: That is not its name.

PATSY: It is now. Someone died here in 1924 on Halloween night.

MATTIE: Michael “Sully” Sullivan. He owned the Harborwick Press.

PATSY: A newspaperman. Respect. Also, fun fact: the dead man left this very house to my grandfather, a man he never met, so that Pop-Pop would solve his murder.

MATTIE: That isn’t exactly how it went.

PATSY: Well, you wouldn’t tell me the whole story, so I had to fill in the gaps. So technically, I guess this is our family’s haunted summer home.

MATTIE: Hardly.

PATSY: There are rumors that this place is haunted. Which Mama, of course, doesn’t believe.

MATTIE: I do not.

PATSY: Pfft. Me either. Totally bogus legend to scare tourists.

But Goldilocks is a little freaked. She’s sniffing baseboards like she expects a goblin to pop out, and we all know dogs have a sixth sense for the supernatural.

MATTIE: She’s just looking for crumbs.

PATSY: …Or specters. Goldilocks might be a better ghost detector than me. I just scream. She growls.

Anyway, listeners, picture this: weathered shingles outside, creaky stairs inside, and floral wallpaper that has seen better centuries. Over here, we’ve got the grand parlor with a chandelier that looks like it’s held together with cobwebs and good intentions.

MATTIE: It isn’t that bad.

PATSY: It’s a fixer-upper. And if anyone from HGTV is listening—especially you, Chip and Joanna—our line is open. Please, help us before I trip over a haunted floorboard.

MATTIE: You’re being dramatic.

PATSY: Dramatic is how we get sponsors, Mama. Moving on, the kitchen has some serious farmhouse potential if you squint past the broken cabinets. And upstairs, a row of bedrooms perfect for either cozy Airbnbs or low-budget horror films. Take your pick.

MATTIE: I’ll grant you it needs work. But it was worse before.

PATSY: Before when?

MATTIE: It seems my tenant let some things go.

PATSY: And then the hooligans really did a number on it, tearing up floorboards and knocking holes in the walls.

Why would they do that?

Glad you asked, folks.

Professor Silas was an obsessed treasure hunter and, by many accounts, close to uncovering the secret before his mysteriously suspicious death. Tonight, someone broke into his house and tossed the place. Either the killer returned to finish what he started, or… I’m looking at you, Mama. What's your take?

MATTIE: This wasn't a random act of vandalism. Hooligans don't have a plan. Hooligans don’t go for the floorboards. This was a search, and the person doing the searching knew precisely what they were looking for. The question isn't if they were looking for something, but if they found it.

PATSY: And by “something,” you mean—

MATTIE: The treasure. It connects the break-in to the murder.

PATSY: Ah, yes, the infamous Treasure of Harborwick. After all these years, could the professor have found the key?

You know, I don’t buy it.

I think it’s a legend to bring in tourists. The town is built on this lore, but it’s just a story… or a cover-up for a real crime.

MATTIE: A story can be a powerful tool, Patsy. It can distract from the truth. But a legend that has endured for this long? That’s not a story—it's history. Someone thought Rutherford Silas was making progress in the hunt. And that, I believe, likely got him killed.

[Music Swells Slightly. Goldilocks Barks in Background.]

PATSY: Stay tuned, listeners. This story just got spooky.

[Podcast Segment Ends]

When we wrapped the podcast segment, Mama gave Goldilocks a scratch behind the ears and turned to me with that particular gleam in her eye—the one that meant she had been holding out on me.

“I know where the intruders were looking,” she said.

I froze mid-typing in my notes app. “Excuse me? And you’re just telling me this now?”

“You were recording before.”

“So? Ever heard of the edit button?”

Her lips curved just enough to be smug. “Have you?”

“Ouch,” I muttered. Low blow. “So where’s the secret hiding spot and how does it work?”

She moved toward a section of the wall by the dining room, fingers brushing the wallpaper like she was reading braille. The wallpaper there was patterned in faded roses, curling at the edges, but beneath her fingertips, I caught the faint outline of seams that didn’t belong. Up close, I saw a series of tiny brass studs worked into the wood beneath, like decorative tacks—but spaced just a little too evenly to be an accident.

My eyebrows shot up. “Secret panel? Oh, good, definitely nothing creepy about that.”

“Shh. It’s complicated, and I have to remember the sequence.” Her fingers danced across the studs, pressing one, then another, sliding a section sideways with a soft scrape. A set of interlocking brass gears clicked faintly under the wallpaper, like the inside of a pocket watch. “So if you could pause the chatter for two seconds, I’d appreciate it.”

“You think I’m chatty, you should hear the inside of my brain. It’s like a laptop with thirty tabs open, and half of them have crashed. There’s a YouTube tutorial on how to hotwire a car, a recipe for three-ingredient brownies, and a shopping cart full of cozy sweaters in various autumn shades. And somewhere in the background, a pop-up ad for a diet program is playing music I can't mute.”

“Have you tried unplugging and restarting?” Mama asked, offering the generic tech advice of every company computer guru.

Mama leaned so close her breath fogged the wall, muttering numbers under her breath as if she were reciting a spell. She tapped one stud, twisted another—each motion followed by a nearly imperceptible click. It was less open sesame and more break into the vault of a Victorian magician.

I slumped my shoulders, powered down like a robot, and even made the ‘boop’ noise. Goldilocks immediately took that as an invitation to tackle me, paws on my chest and tongue in my face. Memories of her therapy training kicked into high alert, and she began emergency face licking procedures.

Mattie didn’t even blink, continuing to work on the puzzle safe. “I’ve had less stress disarming bombs in Istanbul.”

“Funny.” I wiped dog slobber off my cheek.

With a final twist and press of her hand, the wallpaper gave a faint ripple, and a hidden panel slid open, hinges groaning like they hadn’t moved in decades. The smell of dust and iron seeped out, the kind of scent you get from an attic trunk that’s been locked up since Prohibition.

“Show me how to do that later,” I said.

She ignored me, reaching inside.

“Please don’t tell me it’s empty, Geraldo.”

“It isn’t.” When she pulled out the prize, I leaned over her shoulder, bracing for something glittery, and cursed. Instead, I blinked at a chunk of weathered wood. It was almost as disappointing as Al Capone’s vault.

“Ooh, an old piece of lumber,” I said. “Totally worth the buildup. Does it give magical splinters?”

Mama gave me her patented look of exasperated maternal patience. “You wouldn’t hide it in a safe if it were just a piece of wood.”

“You wouldn’t. But this professor guy? He didn’t exactly strike me as someone who spent much time on his rocker.”

She turned the wood in her hands, pointing at a faded symbol etched into the grain—a black star with a bloody rose.

Recognition pinged in my memory. “That’s the same crest as the one at the courthouse. The mast thing from the photograph Constable Dave showed us.”

She nodded. “Yes. This is another piece of the hull. From Le Coeur de la Reine.”

“Cool,” I said. “So it’s an ancient piece of wood. Once again, why is it special? Maybe this stick has healing powers like on Grimm, in which case, dibs!”

“Patsy, I’m twenty years older than you, and you’re calling dibs?”

“What? I need it more. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m quite clumsy.”

“I wonder if it can heal hypochondria.”

“Whoa, wait.” I angled the wood toward the light. “There’s writing on the back.” I squinted at the jagged letters. “Le lourd fardeau du…uh…cooer d’une rain? Something-something terre. Cherchez.”

“You butchered the pronunciation,” Mattie said.

I glanced at her, my head tilted. “I wish I’d paid more attention in French class. My solid C-average lets me ask directions to the library and say my name. Je m'appelle Patsy. Où est la bibliothèque?”

Goldilocks tilted her head, impressed.

“Oh, and I can say: Est-ce que cette barbe me fait paraître grosse? That means, ‘Does this beret make me look fat?’”

“Useful.”

“It killed in the Paris comedy clubs. Their humor bar is very low.”

I turned my focus back to the hull and the message that might as well be encoded: Le lourd fardeau du coeur d'une reine. Le mort attend ceux qui osent fouler cette terre. Cherche

I rubbed my temples, trying to shake loose enough French snippets to translate. I threw my arms in surrender. “Now you know why I switched to ASL.”

Mama ran her thumb over the carved words and translated with a solemn tone: “The heavy burden of a queen’s heart. Death awaits those who dare to tread this ground. Seek…”

I leaned in. “Seek what?”

“That’s all it says.”

I gaped at her. “Wait, all this time you spoke French? Why didn’t you help me with my homework?”

“Because it’s only my fourth-best language. Fifth, if you count English.”

“Clearly, English counts—wait, how many do you speak?”

Her eyes lingered on the message, her voice low. “This is incomplete. We need the rest of it.”

“Mama, it says death awaits those who tread. We don’t need more. That’s enough to stop looking altogether.” The lights flickered at that exact moment, throwing the room into shadows. Goldilocks gave a low growl, and goosebumps prickled my arms. “Awesome. Incomplete cursed prophecy. Totally fine. Not creepy at all.”

I watched her, a woman who had just nonchalantly revealed she spoke five languages and could read ancient curses like a grocery list. What other secrets did she have? The house felt like it was holding its breath. The silence was heavy, and for the first time, I wasn’t afraid of the ghosts in this place. I was afraid of the human who called this town a summer home.

Mattie’s eyes remained on the message, her voice low. “Get some sleep, Patsy. Come morning, I know exactly where to find the other half of this message.”