Harborwick...Unsolved - Episode 5

Brittany Brinegar
4 days ago
16 min read

Diggin' Up Bones

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 2

Sunrise bled over the coastal fog, turning what felt like a Stephen King nightmare into a scene from Murder, She Wrote. And as far as Maine stories went, Jessica Fletcher’s brand of murder was definitely more my speed.

Harborwick had that brisk, nose-nipping bite that made you zip your coat all the way up, even if you’d spent an hour tying your new scarf to look effortlessly casual. Every front porch was a shrine to the pumpkin, stacked in a teetering pyramid of orange gourds, while scarecrows, with their button eyes and straw-stuffed smiles, waved from every storefront. The town's obsession was as relentless as the tide. In the window of the local café, a chalkboard menu, scrawled with an almost fanatical flourish, advertised pumpkin spice muffins, pumpkin spice donuts, and, to eternal bewilderment, pumpkin spice kale smoothies.

Apparently, pumpkin spice wasn’t just a flavor. It was a lifestyle. Naturally, I went with the coffee. I cradled the paper cup in both hands, as if it were an Olympic torch, inhaling the steam clouded with cinnamon.

I was layered like a fall catalog gone slightly feral—striped leggings tucked into boots, a cranberry sweater I dug out of the Airstream closet, and a scarf so massive it could double as a blanket. My style had always been: if it looks cozy, wear it; if it looks questionable, wear it louder.

Mattie, by contrast, was all sleek professionalism in a tailored pink coat with matching gloves. She looked like she was on her way to a power lunch in Manhattan, not trudging through a seaside town decorated with scarecrows.

I ducked under a banner as a couple of fellas fought the breeze to string it across the street. It flapped away from the short guy and tugged against the lamppost tether, desperate to break free. “Mama, do you think the good people of Harborwick know it’s possible to throw a Halloween party without pumpkin spice in every molecule of air?”

Mattie adjusted her gloves, preparing for diplomatic negotiations instead of a mid-morning walk. “You’re just grumpy because you burned your tongue.”

“I didn’t burn it,” I protested. “I… singed it slightly. And I’m grumpy because the chalkboard promised pumpkin doughnuts and didn’t deliver. If you're out, how hard is it to erase chalk?”

The banner above us flapped in the chilly breeze: Harborwick Halloween Spooktacular—Friday Night. Costumes Encouraged! A cartoon ghost gave a thumbs-up to let everyone know he was the coolest, hippest party in town.

We were halfway down Harborwick’s main drag, heading toward the Maritime Museum where, according to Constable Dave, a chunk of the legendary ship Le Coeur de la Reine was on display. The same ship our newly acquired plank belonged to. If the rest of the French curse was out there, we were betting this artifact might be the decoder ring…or something like that. I wasn’t entirely sure what Mama expected to find written on another hunk of soggy lumber—a step-by-step treasure map, or just more ominous warnings about death, doom, and bad hair days.

Either way, I was along for the ride.

As we rounded the corner, Harborwick decided to get weirder. And cuter. I turned to the clip-clop of tiny hooves.

“Hiya!”

The voice was high and bright, one I instantly recognized as Wren Warner: Constable Dave’s daughter, my cousin a few times removed, and a certifiable superfan of the podcast. She stood at the curb, radiating the kind of effortless confidence that you only found in homeschooled kids who'd been talking to adults their whole lives.

But the real showstopper was the Shetland pony hitched to a little wooden cart. Yes, a pony. In downtown Harborwick. On a school day.

Goldilocks froze at the sight of the mini-horse, tail wagging so hard her whole back half wagged with it. She leaned forward like she spotted her long-lost twin—apparently, fur plus four legs automatically equals family.

My brain did a double-take. “Well, this is… not something you see every day.”

Wren grinned. She was fifteen going on thirty in terms of confidence, with bright eyes, a smudge of freckles, and a sweater dotted with enough cat hair to make a winter coat unnecessary. “This is Pickles. He helps me when I do rescue runs.”

“When you do what?” Maybe it was the surprise from seeing a pony or the fact he was named Pickles, but I couldn’t quite process the words she was saying.

I peeked into the cardboard box, expecting to see it full of groceries or more pumpkins. Instead, my heart melted at the sight of four fuzzy, squirming kittens.

“She volunteers at the local animal rescue,” Mattie said, pointing to the label sewn onto Wren’s shirt.

“Ah, that explains a few things.”

Wren brushed a strand of blonde hair from her forehead. “Somebody dumped this litter down by the wharf, and I came to pick them up. Three boys and one girl.” She reached into the box and plucked out a cream fuzzball with the confidence of someone who had done this before. The kitten promptly tried to scale her sweater like Mount Kilimanjaro. “The fellows are Carson, Leno, and Letterman.”

“Classic kings of late night,” My mouth ticked upward with familial pride. “With taste like that, we’re definitely related.”

“What about the fourth one?” Mattie asked.

“This queen right here is Rivers.” She kissed the cream kitten’s head.

Rivers sneezed daintily, which set off Goldilocks. My goldendoodle suddenly recalled her short stint before flunking out of therapy school and cocked her head with deep canine concern. It was the look she usually reserved for when I sang in the shower.

“Don’t worry, Goldie,” I told her. “It’s just a baby sneeze, not a curse.”

Goldilocks stuck her nose in the box and inhaled deeply, echoing a sneeze. But hers was hard enough to blow kitten fuzz across Wren’s sweater. One of the tiny furballs meowed back, and Goldie tilted her head in wonder, like they spoke the same language.

Pickles the pony swished his tail and showed his very chompy teeth, adding his commentary to the mix.

Wren, oblivious to the caution, just beamed. “Want to pet them? They’re really friendly.”

Mattie grabbed my hand. “No.”

“Mama.”

“If you so much as touch one of those kittens, it will be over.” She shook her head, knowing me all too well. “We can’t travel the country with a goldendoodle who thinks she’s a lap dog and four cats. The Airstream isn’t big enough for a zoo.”

I stuffed my hand in my pocket. “That’s why I suggested we buy the thirty-three-footer.”

The adorable kitty cooed into Wren’s neck. “What about you guys? Where’re you headed?”

I lifted my coffee like a prop in an infomercial. “First stop: caffeine. Second stop: the Maritime Museum. We want a closer look at Le Coeur de la Reine.” I really needed to learn the English name of that ship, so I stopped butchering the French. “Your dad said there’s a piece of the hull on display.”

Wren’s eyes lit up. “That’s just down the way. I’ll take you there.”

And just like that, our tour group doubled in size. It was like Noah’s Ark if Noah had been a teenage girl with a podcast obsession.

As Wren led the way, Pickle’s little hooves clip-clopped on the asphalt with a purpose that seemed far too serious for a creature so small.

The Harborwick Maritime Museum was exactly what you’d expect: a cute brick building with a massive, rust-colored anchor half-buried in the lawn out front. Banners promising ‘Interactive Exhibits!’ flapped in the breeze, which I figured translated to ‘Kids get to ring a ship’s bell until the employees quit.’

Wren strode up to the entrance as if this were her second home. I expected her to park the horse and buggy outside, but she rolled on as if this type of thing were perfectly reasonable. The receptionist didn’t even blink, which said a lot about Harborwick.

The hushed, dusty scent of old paper and polished brass replaced the briny air of the harbor.

“The hull’s pretty boring and ordinary if you ask me. What specifically are you looking for?” Wren asked, balancing Rivers on her shoulder like a pirate’s parrot.

“A message,” I said, peering at the centerpiece display. “Preferably not the from the great beyond type.”

The artifact loomed in the middle of the room: a jagged, sea-worn plank the size of a door, mounted behind glass. Even after two centuries, the wood seemed heavy with secrets. I pressed closer, searching for etchings like the ones on our smaller piece back at the house.

But the placement was all wrong. The hull fragment was tilted just enough that the frame hid any markings, like the museum had deliberately chosen the world’s least helpful angle.

I groaned. “Okay, Mama, how are we supposed to get a better look? X-ray vision? Borrow a crowbar?”

“Better look at what?” Wren asked.

“There’s an etching on the back side,” I said.

Mattie lowered her head. “Why don’t you shout it loud enough for everyone to hear?”

“You never said it was a big secret, Mama.”

“I thought ‘don’t blab about the treasure map that someone broke into my house looking for’ was implied. Now I know better.”

Wren’s eyes widened, making the freckles on her nose more prominent. “I feel like I’m listening to your podcast live. I thought the bickering was a put on.”

“And half my time editing is cutting down our squabbles to fit in the allotted time,” I said.

Wren placed the sleeping kitten in the box beside her brothers. “As far as getting a better look at the hull, I can help. My dad has keys to all this stuff. I’ll grab them.”

Mattie arched an eyebrow. “I’m not sure we fall into police jurisdiction.”

“Relax, it’s not like we’re stealing the crown jewels,” Wren said with a flick of her wrist. “I’ll get back to you after I drop the kittens off at the rescue.”

Goldilocks whined, and I echoed her sentiment. “I sure hope those poor angels aren’t going to be all alone.”

“We’ve already got a list of fosters lined up,” Wren said. “I’m pretty persistent when it comes to taking care of critters.”

The cart wheels squeaked as the Shetland pony clopped toward the door.

I sipped the last of my lukewarm pumpkin spice latte and sighed. “Only in Harborwick do you solve a murder investigation in the company of a teenage girl, a pony, and four late-night talk show hosts reincarnated as kittens.”

Mattie narrowed her gaze. “Two of those hosts are still alive, Patsy.”

I leaned on the display case, half expecting alarms to sound. “Since when are you the expert on reincarnation?”

Mattie checked over her shoulder and, when the coast was clear, pulled some sort of lock-picking device from her purse. “Watch the door.”

“For what? Nicolas Cage coming to rob the museum?” I balanced my empty coffee cup on the exhibit railing like I was ready to bribe the artifact with sprinkles of cinnamon. “Mama, I thought we were waiting on Wren’s magic keys.”

Mattie gave a slight shake of her head. “We don't need a key.”

She dropped below the artifact, her movements as fluid and precise as a cat’s. Even crouching on the ground to jimmy a lock, Mattie looked like a Vogue spread titled ‘Corporate Barbie Does History,’ while I was more ‘pumpkin spice Muppet.’ Somehow we still passed for related.

She ran her fingers along the ornate wooden base of the glass case, her gaze fixed on something I couldn't see. Her touch wasn’t a casual exploration; it was a practiced, almost deliberate caress. Just when I was about to ask what she was doing, there was a soft, almost inaudible click. She pushed a small, brass latch, and the glass top of the case shifted, silently unlocking.

With a whisper of wood on velvet, Mattie carefully lifted the edge of the heavy hull fragment, as if it were a bomb and not an ancient piece of wood. She kept a firm, gentle grip as she exposed the underside. My heart hammered. Etched faintly into the dark, warped planks was another string of French words.

Her voice dropped low as she read: “La rose noire où le sang coule et la mer parle.”

“Which translates to X marks the spot?”

She ignored me, piecing it together. “The full message is: The heavy burden of a queen’s heart. Death awaits those who dare to tread this ground. Seek the black rose where blood flows and the sea speaks.”

I exhaled so dramatically that I could have blown out birthday candles across the room. “Ah, that clears things up. Now we know exactly where to look. The giant black rose beside the blood fountain where the ocean whispers secrets. Super straightforward.”

Mattie snapped a picture before replacing the plank and relocking the display. “It could be a cipher.”

“Whatever it is, the place sounds delightful,” I muttered. “Haunted roses. And murderous seas. Love that for us.”

Mattie grabbed my wrist and spun me as if I were a KGB agent posing as her daughter. “Cover your mouth.”

I froze, hand half-raised like she caught me sneaking Chips Ahoy cookies before dinner. “Why? I’m not chewing.”

“See the woman over there?” she mumbled behind a maritime pamphlet. “She is reading our lips.”

I squinted across the exhibit hall. “How can you possibly tell that?”

“Give me a little credit.” Her expression sharpened, as if detecting enemy lip-reading was CIA101. “That’s Pollyanna Marsh.”

I blinked. “The deaf clown? She isn’t in costume.”

“You think she wears a red nose and big shoes everywhere she goes?”

“It would make our lives easier,” I said.

Mattie straightened her jacket. “High time we interview our first suspect, don’t you think?”

“I’ll take the lead,” I said, a little too smug. “I know ASL.”

Pollyanna Marsh stood at the far side of the exhibit, her arms folded loosely as she studied the hull as if it had wronged her personally. Up close, she didn’t have the greasepaint or balloons you’d expect, just light-brown hair tied back and a sharp, evaluating stare.

For half a second, I thought about discussing a careful approach with Mama—a plan to ease into the conversation with Pollyana and eventually convince her to spill about her ex, the dead professor. I dismissed that in favor of the wing-it approach.

“Why are you eavesdropping on our conversation?” I stopped in front of her, hand on my hip, and enunciated each syllable.

Pollyanna tilted her head, then spoke in a voice that carried the careful shape of someone who used it sparingly. “I don’t mean to. I read lips. Sometimes I forget to… turn it off. How did you know I was?”

“I make a habit of noticing everything,” Mattie said.

I flicked a thumb toward her. “My Mama is highly observant. Like, ninja-level observant. Trying to sneak a Pop-Tart by this one at midnight is like diffusing a bomb with a pressure trigger.”

Her dark eyes flicked to Mattie, then back to me, carefully watching every curve of our lips.

“We have questions about your ex-boyfriend. Professor Rutherford Silas,” I said.

She shook her head. “Sorry, I didn’t get that. Your mouth moves too fast.”

“I tell her that all the time,” Mattie said with a chuckle.

I repeated the statement in sign language, signing slowly, careful not to drop words the way I sometimes did when I got flustered: “We have questions about your ex-boyfriend. Professor Rutherford Silas.” My hand cramped from finger spelling the long name. “His death.”

She studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Silas.” She shared the descriptive name sign—a combo of ‘beard’ and ‘glasses’. “What about him?”

“We’re investigating his death.”

“You’re the mother and daughter with the podcast.” Her signs were quick and sharp. “I don’t personally listen, but I hear it’s good. Wren can’t stop raving.”

“Thank you.” I grinned, translating for Mattie. “She says she doesn’t listen, but she hears our podcast is good. It was funnier how she signed it.”

“I understood her just fine,” Mattie said. “But you’re a little rusty.”

Pollyanna caught that exchange, and her mouth twitched.

I frowned at Mama’s judgment. Just because I made signing look easy, didn’t mean it was. For the first time in…maybe ever, I was better at Mama than something. I had a skill she didn’t—aside from talking at warp speed.

“What made you get into clowning, anyway?” I asked before I could stop myself. “It seems…intense. Like standup comedy, but with balloon animals and an audience of judgy pre-teens.”

Pollyanna’s smile widened. “My family’s hearing. Clowning was one way to make noise without sound. Laughter works in every language.”

I blinked, surprised by the poignancy of it. “That’s…beautiful,” I signed. Then I ruined it with my big mouth. “Also terrifying. I’m still not over It.”

Mattie twisted her head. “With any luck, she didn’t catch that last part.”

“Pennywise gave me nightmares too,” Pollyanna signed, not missing a beat. “Gives clowns a bad name.”

Mattie’s eyes narrowed with determination, ready to move the conversation along. “About your ex—”

“I should probably take the lead on the questions, Mama. Since I sign.”

“What do you know about this piece of the ship?” Mattie surprised me by signing a question. She moved a little slower but perfectly clear.

I rolled my eyes. Of course, she speaks sign language too. It’s just one of the five thousand languages rattling around in her brain that she forgot to mention.

Pollyanna glanced at the hull and signed back. “I know it’s only half the message.”

I leaned forward, my heart skipping a beat. “So Silas shared the other part with you? The part he found in the ocean.”

Her reply was clipped. “We were treasure hunting partners for a short time. Even shorter than we dated. He only shared information strategically. I found out he was using me—because of my family’s history.”

“That had to sting.” I chewed my lip, choosing my next words carefully. “How are your family and the treasure connected?”

Pollyanna shook her head. “That would take too long to explain.”

“What about the message?” Mattie asked. “Can you explain what it means?”

“The message isn’t what’s important.”

I blinked. “It’s not?”

Pollyanna’s hands moved sharply, punctuating her words. “That’s just a silly riddle. What’s important is that the pirates used the piece of the hull to hide the treasure. It’s the key to deciphering the location.”

Mattie’s brow furrowed. “So where’s the treasure?”

Pollyanna shook her head. “I don’t have all the pieces of the puzzle. But Silas thought he was close.” She paused, her gaze sharpening, her lips forming the words deliberately. “Have you been to his boat yet?”

I shook my head.

Her hands slapped together with greater enthusiasm. “Then let me take you there. I can show you around. Maybe his notes will give us a clue to how close he really was.”

The way she signed it—decisive, confident—sent a shiver down my spine. Because suddenly, this wasn’t just a puzzle about cursed poetry and planks of wood. This was starting to look like a scavenger hunt the whole town had been playing. And Silas was apparently one move away from checkmate.

Mattie waved to the door, not hesitating to travel somewhere secluded with a murder suspect. “Let’s go.”

A boat visit. Because naturally, when you’re investigating a coastal murder mystery, everything comes back to boats. Jessica Fletcher had a cute bicycle. I got seasickness.

The professor’s boat was docked at the far end of Harborwick’s marina, rocking gently against the pilings. Gently might be too generous. The water was choppy enough that I instantly regretted the jumbo pumpkin-spice latte I’d downed an hour ago.

It was a Downeast-style lobster boat, the kind you saw in every glossy Maine postcard—but this one had clearly skipped its touch-up before picture day. The hull was shiny white in a previous life, but weather and salt had dulled it to the shade of old seashells. A wooden wheelhouse sat forward, squat and sturdy, with fogged glass windows. Behind it stretched a wide open cockpit, the kind designed for hauling lobster traps…or, in this case, housing a treasure hunter’s scuba gear. Tanks, fins, weights, and coils of rope cluttered the stern like a nautical yard sale.

Pollyanna gestured us up the gangway. “Silas kept his research everywhere. His house, boat, and the lighthouse. He never wanted things to be too easy to find.”

“He sounds paranoid,” I signed.

She nodded. “Deeply.”

Goldilocks trotted ahead, gave the boat one long sniff, then turned back with the expression of a dog who knew full well she was too big to be carried if things got rocky.

“This is it,” Pollyanna hopped on board and returned to signing. “Look around. Everything is well-kept. Not tidy, but in working order.”

My eyes narrowed, unsure what point she made. “I don’t follow.”

“Silas took great care of his diving equipment. There wouldn’t be a hole in the line unless someone put it there.” Her words, even in sign, hit harder than the ocean breeze.

Mattie’s eyes narrowed. “Who would want to hurt the professor?”

Pollyanna’s lips tightened. “Plenty of people, if he actually found the treasure.”

I leaned against the wheelhouse wall, trying to keep my sea legs and my sarcasm steady. “Where’s his research?”

Pollyanna reached underneath a pile of ordinary-looking rope and found a folder in a Ziplock bag. “As you said. Paranoid.”

Mattie took the file and thumbed through it. “It’s a copy of the one at his house. He marked off dive locations and made statistical predictions.”

“Was he actually close?” I asked.

Pollyanna’s hands moved fluidly, the story spilling out. “Silas claimed he knew where the Le Coeur de la Reine wreck is located. He mapped every confirmed finding for the last hundred years and used computer simulations to estimate the site. He said he was close…but he’d been saying that for years.”

“So let me get this straight.” I made a sweeping gesture, careful not to smack Goldilocks in the head. “The riddle on the hull deciphers a map that points to the location of the buried treasure?”

Her eyes focused on my mouth, careful not to miss anything. “Basically correct.”

“Great.” I tapped my foot in a steady rhythm. “But what’s so important about finding the Le Coeur de la Reine if the treasure’s already gone? Was Captain Crazy Eyes buried at sea with a magical compass that gives the exact coordinates?”

Mattie pressed her palm to her forehead. “You’ll have to excuse my daughter. She watches too many movies.”

Pollyanna chuckled, her shoulders shaking as she signed. “No, it’s a valid question. The treasure is what everyone talks about. But Silas was convinced the shipwreck itself was almost as valuable for its historical significance. And the person who finds both will have one of the greatest exhibits ever collected.”

“Exhibit?” Mama’s brow arched. “You think Silas wanted to hand over wealth to the museum?”

A clever question. We already knew the answer from Constable Dave, but it was an innovative technique to ask the suspect and see if they gave a truthful response.

“Absolutely. He had no interest in treasure except as history.” Her face softened for just a moment, a hint of genuine affection breaking through. “It’s one of the few things we always agreed on. Who to give it to—that was another matter.”

I perked up. “What do you mean?”

Her hands slowed, deliberate now. “He was working with Joan Estella.” She made a custom star sign. “She runs the Foundation. A while ago, Silas ran short on money, and the Foundation funded one of his dives. Joan believed that somehow made her an equal partner.”

The way Pollyanna signed ‘equal partner’ had enough force to make it clear: this wasn’t partnership; it was ownership in disguise.

I glanced at the dive tanks lined along the stern, their metal sides dented from use, a coil of hose slumped against one like a dead snake. Silas trusted his equipment, trusted his research, and trusted the wrong people. And now he was dead from a ‘diving accident’ that wasn’t so accidental.

The rigging moaned in the wind, and a thought lodged in my brain like a splinter: maybe Joan wasn’t a partner at all. Maybe she was a puppet master. And once Silas served his use, she cut the string and let him flounder.