Harborwick...Unsolved - Episode 6
- Brittany Brinegar
- 7 minutes ago
- 14 min read
Rolling with the Flow
Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 2
Pollyanna’s sharp signs hung in the air long after we left the museum. The scavenger hunt for clues and puzzles she laid out felt less like a game and more like a tripwire. By the time we were back on the cobblestone street, the chill in my bones was as sharp as the sea breeze. Mother Nature was practicing her ice-breath for the winter, and anything standing in her way was collateral damage.
A shiver ran down my spine as I debated who to interview next. The police file was thin, but we were starting to build a better picture not only of the professor but also of the treasure’s legend.
My stomach staged a protest at the prospect of more walking and talking. I couldn’t really blame it since my breakfast consisted of a jumbo pumpkin spice latte and part of a muffin—I dropped half of it on the sidewalk when Goldilocks decided a squirrel was an existential threat.
Downtown Harborwick at lunchtime was basically the Hallmark movie set of my autumn-loving dreams. Strings of orange-and-black bunting flapped above the streets. Pumpkins the size of toddlers lounged on storefront steps. The air carried the tang of saltwater, mixed with the scent of fried clams and melted butter.
Goldilocks trotted beside me, her fluffy gold curls bouncing like she starred in a doggy shampoo commercial. A seagull swooped low, eyes locked on the bag of chips sticking out of my tote. Before I could swat it away, Goldie puffed up her chest, let out one triumphant bark, and launched into her best impression of a lion protecting Pride Rock. The bird flapped back to sea in a panic, and Goldie strutted beside me like she’d saved the day.
“Good girl,” I said, slipping her a biscuit from my coat pocket. She snapped it up in one bite, tail wagging hard enough to power a windmill.
Mattie arched a brow. “Let’s try to carry that same level of focus and determination on this next interview, shall we?”
We rounded the corner to the She Sells Seashore Seafood Truck, Harborwick’s reigning lunchtime champ. A crowd of locals lined up, their breath puffing white in the crisp air as they waited for Gibson ‘Gibbs’ Graham’s famous lobster rolls.
The truck looked like it survived three decades of salt spray and gossip. The paint peeled in spots, but the name was emblazoned proudly in curling letters with a cartoon lobster in a captain’s hat waving a claw like it was either saluting or trying to hitchhike.
I inhaled deeply. Lobster, butter, and pumpkin bisque drifted on the breeze like a siren’s call. My stomach growled so loudly that Goldie tilted her head with grave concern.
Mattie’s brows knit together as she read the chalkboard. “Pumpkin spice everything?”
“Yes, please!”
“Honestly, Patsy, it’s like you’re trying to live in a Hallmark movie.”
“I would love that!” My eyes bugged. “Small-town charm, cute shops, and of course a handsome stranger who secretly owns the Christmas tree farm—except in this case maybe a pumpkin patch.”
“In this fictional world you’ve crafted, are you not married?”
“The man in flannel is for you, Mama.”
She shook her head. “You’re impossible.”
“And caffeinated. Which makes me dangerous.”
We joined the back of the line, Goldilocks sitting squarely at my feet, ears perked and nose twitching at the mingled perfume of seafood and cinnamon. Lunch hour in Harborwick wasn’t just a meal—it was theater. And we had front-row seats.
The scene around the truck was mouthwatering chaos: fried clams sizzling in oil, lobster rolls stuffed to the point of indecency, and pumpkin bisque steaming in Styrofoam cups.
Behind the counter stood Gibbs, tall and broad with a gut that said quality control testing is my passion. He was in his fifties with hair that had given up the fight years ago—bald on top, gray on the sides, and a goatee so long and white it practically brushed his apron. I found myself wondering if he ought to wear a chin-net instead of a hairnet.
The line inched forward with practiced efficiency, locals grabbing their lobster rolls with the speed of people who had the menu memorized. Which made outsiders stand out like a lobster in a hair salon.
Gibbs’ beady eyes landed on us, his scowl folding deeper than the creases on his apron. He shot us the kind of dirty look usually reserved for ex-wives and parole officers. “I heard about you two.”
Mattie, cool as ever, studied the chalkboard menu. “You’ve got an interesting array of dishes. Standard local fare and seasonal flair. What do you recommend?”
“That you order before my line stalls,” he said, his voice thick with a Maine accent that could pickle herring.
Ouch. Someone skipped hospitality day in small business school.
“I am intrigued by all things fall.” I tapped my foot as I studied the menu like there might be a quiz afterward. “I had a coffee this morning that was to die for.”
He snorted. “You don’t look much like treasure hunters. Never known one to drink pumpkin spice lattes.” His tone made ‘pumpkin spice’ sound like a communicable disease.
“That’s because we’re podcasters.” Mattie leaned an elbow on the window ledge. “We investigate unsolved mysteries, and we’re looking into what happened to Professor Silas.”
He wiped down his counter, eyes narrowed like we were barnacles he couldn’t scrape off. “You gonna order or hold up the line?”
Mattie crossed her arms. “Are you going to answer our questions?”
His mouth twisted into what he probably thought was a charming smile. It wasn’t. “Maybe when I’m not so busy.”
I glanced behind me, confirming we were the last of the lunch rush. “When will that be?”
“Try me in December when tourism slows down. My lobster rolls are the hottest thing in town.”
Mattie’s lips curved. “Really? Because The Lob has quite a buzz. Fancy and refined.”
“Leave it to a woman to be impressed by white tablecloths and candles.” He sputtered like a broken motorboat. “Here’s some advice: Ambience doesn’t mean squat when it comes to good food. That might sound like me being harsh, but I’m really just trying to be helpful.”
“Silas recommended The Lob last time I visited,” Mattie said. “Called it the hottest place in town.”
That landed like a live grenade. Steam rose from the fryer, but I swore more came from Gibbs’ ears. “Isn’t that just like a friend? Twist the knife when you’re down.”
My reporter instincts—or maybe just my gossip radar—perked up. “What does that mean?”
“Payback most likely.” Gibbs shook his head. “Some friend, huh?”
“Payback for what?” I asked.
“Silas was cagey when I asked him to invest in my business. Whined about mixing business with friends.” His voice dropped into a growl. “I’m the busiest truck in the state, but I’m a one-man show.”
Sometimes being underestimated worked in your favor. Gibbs didn’t give a second thought to spilling his guts once we got him riled up. The trick was to keep him on the line.
“You wanted to expand,” I said.
“Open a proper place on the seafront, but Silas thought reaching for the stars was a bad thing.” He leaned closer, his bristly beard swinging. “What’s wrong with being a dreamer, huh?”
“As if chasing pirate treasure is some kind of stable, sensible job,” I said.
He flapped his arm. “Right? Thank you!”
Maitte gave a little shrug. “He probably would’ve helped you out if he had found the treasure. With millions and millions, he could’ve spared a little.”
Gibbs barked a laugh, sharp and bitter. “Nope. Every penny was going to a museum. Or so he claimed.”
“You think he had other plans?” I asked.
“Silas wasn’t half as noble as he acted.” Gibbs stabbed a stubby finger into a bag of bread. “Put that much gold in front of a man and you’ll see who he really is. No one’s that nice.”
Mattie propped an elbow on the truck, the picture of innocence. “We spoke to Pollyanna, and she mentioned their breakup…”
He let out another laugh, louder this time, and mean-spirited. “The professor didn’t know the first thing about how to talk to women. Because of his bungling, that clown wanted to kill him.”
My forehead wrinkled. “Are you saying—”
“I’m sad to point a finger,” Gibbs interrupted, throwing his rag down with a slap, “But facts are facts. I’m a blunt guy. I really am. And if anyone had a reason to hurt Silas, it’s her.” He dismissed us with a flick of the wrist. “Now, if you’ll step aside. My regulars are gettin’ impatient.”
The regulars didn’t look impatient, but nobody contradicted Gibbs Graham.
Mattie smoothed her scarf. “We’ll take two lobster rolls.”
I frowned, irritated that she tried to order for me. “Hope you’re hungry, Mama, because I want pumpkin bisque, fried clams, a side of kettle chips, and a blueberry soda. And something doggy-friendly for Goldilocks.”
Goldie wagged her tail, leaning her entire sixty-pound body into my leg like she approved.
Gibbs scribbled the order, muttering under his breath and flicking a side-eye sharp enough to fillet a flounder.
I leaned toward Mattie as we stepped away. “Well, that was productive. We got shade, suspicion, and dinner. And bonus points: I think he’s probably single, Mama. Forget flannel pumpkin patch man, this guy is a real keeper.”
While Gibbs barked orders like a cranky sea captain who’d missed his calling on Gordon Ramsay’s next meltdown show, Mama and I edged toward the fold-up tables scattered in the little plaza. Goldilocks flopped at my boots with all the grace of a Victorian heroine searching for a fainting couch, her nose nudging our paper sack like I’d committed child neglect by not feeding her immediately.
I scanned for an empty table, but Mama’s chin tilt said she already had bigger prey in sight.
“Why wait until after lunch when we can talk to our next mark now?” she asked.
The crowd shifted, and through it strode a woman who didn’t just walk—she parted the Red Sea. Late forties, a tailored navy coat, and a scarf tied with surgical precision. Her sharp, camera-ready features were Harborwick chic…if that was a thing.
Joan Estella.
Goldilocks perked up, her entire body wagging as she unleashed her patented smile-at-strangers-until-they-love-me routine. Tongue loll, tail whip, eyes sparkling—ready to melt even the iciest heart. It worked on old people, young people, and the UPS man.
Joan gave her a practiced dismissal and angled a half step away. Not mean, not cruel, just…deliberate. The kind of woman who filed dog hair under biohazard.
“Don’t take it personally, Goldilocks,” I whispered, slipping her a kettle chip. “Not everyone’s ready for your kind of joy.”
Joan collected a to-go bag from Gibbs’ counter, then claimed a fold-up table with the confidence of someone who expected it to stay reserved by divine decree. From the sack, she unloaded a spread fit for a banquet: lobster roll, fried clams, and—oh yes—the crowning glory, a bread bowl brimming with clam chowder. I half expected her to whip out a cloth napkin and a candelabra.
“That wasn’t on the menu!”
She caught me staring and arched a brow. “Everyone says the lobster rolls are the best.” She fanned a hand over her impressive spread as if to say she wasn’t just eating lunch, she was eating the superior lunch. “But for my money, the clam chowder in the bread bowl is the star of this establishment. What do you think, Mattie?”
“I’m not one to buck tradition.”
My gaze bounced between Mama and the suspect who supposedly funded a Silas dive. I sensed a history between them, a familiar tension that Mama yet again neglected to share. From now on, I should probably assume that my mother had a complicated history with all the residents.
Usually, everyone liked Mattie McDonald, so what was the deal with Harborwick? It was as if the town was divided into two camps: those who were on Mrs. Abberline’s side of the 1998 church bake-off scandal and those who were on my mom’s.
Things would go a lot quicker for me if I just operated under the assumption that everyone knew Mama and hated me by extension.
“You can’t exactly eat soup standing up,” I said, juggling my Styrofoam cup of pumpkin bisque. “Mind if we join you?”
Joan made a small, gracious motion, as if she granted a royal audience.
Goldilocks plunked down under the table, hoping for contraband.
Joan dabbed her mouth with a napkin, then glanced between us. “I couldn’t help but overhear you grilling Gibbs about Professor Silas in line. Is he a suspect?”
“No,” Mattie shook her head. “We don’t think he’s involved.”
I nearly choked on my bisque. We didn’t? Since when? Last I checked, cranky chowder-slinger with a temper was a prime candidate for murder.
Joan’s brows lifted in elegant surprise. “Really? Because if he isn’t, maybe you’re not doing your job.”
Mama tilted her head, reconsidering. “Was I too hasty in dismissing him?”
“I certainly think so.” Joan arranged the side dishes, napkins, and utensils, as if laying out evidence exhibits A through Z, with the chowder at its central focus. “But I’m no detective.”
“That I already knew.”
Joan’s gaze swept us with the efficiency of a security scan, pausing only when it landed back on Mama. “You know, I hadn’t heard you were back in town.” Her voice was calm, clipped, the kind of tone that could slice open envelopes without a letter opener.
“Only since last night. This is my daughter, Patsy.”
I lifted my Styrofoam cup of pumpkin bisque as if it were a prop in a fall-themed commercial. “And this is Goldilocks, our associate-slash-mascot. She comes with her own fan club. Lifetime membership, no fees.”
Joan did not so much as twitch in acknowledgment. If she were a poker player, she’d clean house. “They fought all the time, you know. Silas and Gibbs.”
“If bickering is evidence of a crime, perhaps we should be talking about your arguments with the professor,” Mattie said.
Joan’s spoon froze. “My arguments with Silas?”
“Must be an echo out here,” I mumbled.
“I’d call them…spirited debates if anything.” Joan’s lips curled, and she flicked the back of her hand. “Some people can’t handle a strong woman with opinions.”
“You fought over philosophy,” Mattie said. “He wanted artifacts in museums; you prefer to preserve history in elite private collections where you can sell to the highest bidder.”
Joan gave a dismissive wave. “What’s the crime in that?”
“Well, your foundation keeps popping up in our investigation,” I said, leaning an elbow on the table. “What is it you actually do?”
Her posture straightened, voice sharpening into lecture mode. “It’s quite literally my job to preserve this town and its magnificent history. The Foundation ensures Harborwick’s treasures are cared for in perpetuity. Without us, the town would be a dusty tourist trap with nothing but postcards to sell.”
By the way Joan Estella tooted her own horn, you’d think she personally discovered Plymouth Rock.
Mama’s mouth settled into a firm line. “That sounds like a good thing. So, why do people around here hate you?”
“Oh, the locals get in a tizzy about any outsiders. I’m surprised anyone’s given you the time of day, Mattie.” Joan sniffed. “Gibbs, for instance, wouldn’t speak to me until I showed up here six days in a row and tried everything on the menu.” She gestured to her buffet. “Persistence earns respect.”
“Or indigestion.” I dunked a clam into my bisque.
“Tell us about your role in Professor Silas’ treasure hunt,” Mattie said.
Joan blew on her chowder, steam curling toward her mouth. “The Foundation’s role. Not mine.”
Why did everyone we spoke to call it simply 'The Foundation'? No one ever said the Harborwick Foundation for Historical Preservation or the Foundation for Arts and Maritime History. It was just The Foundation, whispered like a secret conglomerate. It was as if they thought there was no other foundation in the world. Or perhaps it was a town-wide conspiracy to sound as generically menacing as possible. If so, mission accomplished.
“We funded one of his dives,” Joan said.
“And you believe a small monetary contribution made you his partner? Gave you a claim to anything he found from that moment on?”
Joan looked scandalized, like Mama had just asked her to share a toothbrush. “Tell me this: if you drive someone to rob a bank, does that make you a co-conspirator? Of course it does.”
My head twisted as I tried to understand the analogy. “A stick-up and a treasure hunt are a little different.”
“Maybe not the way she does it,” Mattie said. “Was it a point of contention—who the treasure belonged to if future dives succeeded?”
Joan’s lips pressed together before she answered. “There was nothing to contend. Silas found something on the dive we funded.”
“What did he find?” I asked, heart thumping.
“A ledger of some sort. He wouldn’t share the details.”
I frowned. “Wasn’t it…really wet?”
Joan gave me a withering look. “He didn’t find it on the dive, exactly. But in his pursuits of that dive. And that was what I found insulting. After all I invested—time, money, reputation—he owed me more than vague mutterings about an old notebook.”
My head bobbed. “Now I’m seeing the contentious part.”
“Don’t blow this out of proportion. The courts have already ruled on these types of matters,” Joan said. “I’m confident they would have come down on my side. The only person in the wrong here was Silas.”
Mattie curled a whisp of blonde hair behind her ear. “We don’t mean to rattle you, Joan, but—”
“Oh, sweetie, no one is rattled. I can guarantee that.”
I flicked an eyebrow. If she was backed any further into that corner, I expected her to subpoena the bread bowl as evidence.
“Anything that followed the dive was to be split,” Joan said. “That was fair. Silas saw things my way.”
I raised my brows. “Until…?”
Joan’s spoon scraped against the bread bowl. “Until his nephew changed his mind. That boy didn’t care one bit about his uncle. He had dollar signs in his eyes.” Her statement was as cold and precise as the clam she was about to eat. It left us with a new lead, a new suspect, and an uncomfortable silence. “Are we done here?”
“Thanks for taking the time, Joan. We’ll let you enjoy the rest of your lunch in peace.” Mattie finished her lobster roll and scooched away from the table.
“I had more questions, Mama,” I said, chasing after her.
Mattie looked at me with an expression that said, It's time for the crazy idea portion of our day. “I think we know our next step.”
My stomach, which had just started to feel full, lurched. "And that would be… what? A nice, relaxing nap? Because I vote for that."
She shook her head. “We need to go on a dive. At the exact coordinates Silas provided for his last excursion.”
“Last excursion, meaning the fatal one that ended with him dead?” My mind screamed at the sheer lunacy of it.
“It’s the only way to know what he was looking for. We need to see what he found.”
I swallowed, the taste of bisque suddenly tasting a lot like dread. “Mama, solving crime from behind a mic is one thing, but taking a deadly dive into the freezing cape…”
Mattie’s blue eyes steeled. “We have a podcast to record, don't we? How would it look if we left stones unturned?”
“It would really highlight the amateur part of amateur sleuth.”
“We’re investigators who dig for the truth, Patsy. We solve cases that people have given up on. And to do that, you need to leave your comfort zone.”
“Don’t act like we’re in an epic crossover starring Columbo and Jessica Fletcher. We’ve closed exactly one cold case, Mama.”
Mattie placed a hand on my arm. “When will you quit acting like that was a fluke and start trusting your instincts?”
“Fine, let’s go diving for treasure.”
A chill ran down my spine as I realized we were about to go from looking for a killer on dry land to searching for answers in a watery grave.