Maple Ridge...Unsolved - Episode 1

Old Flame Burning

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 3

The Clue Cruiser groaned up the mountain pass like it was reconsidering its life choices. Our vintage pink Bronco was doing its best. Still, between the Airstream we were towing, the steep incline, and the fact that we were entering the area officially known as Santa’s freezer, the engine sounded like a man wheezing through a Peloton class he didn’t sign up for.

Goldilocks, oblivious to vehicular struggle, lay sprawled across the backseat, gnawing on what had once been a squeaker toy in the shape of a karaoke microphone. It was now a shredded nightmare of fluff and cotton entrails. She joyfully dismantled it across five states. Every so often, she paused only to look lovingly at me as if to say, Mother. I have slain it.

“Good job, pupper.”

Her tail wagged.

Outside the window, a lazy drift of white flickered past.

I blinked. Then leaned forward. “Is that—is that snow?”

Mattie didn’t look away from the road, but I could hear her smirk. “We’ve been driving into a mountain range for two hours, Patsy. What did you think all that white stuff on the trees was? Frosting?”

“How did I miss this?” I pressed closer to the glass, forehead leaving an embarrassing smudge. “We’re officially in Snow Country. Goldie! Snow!”

Goldilocks paused mid-chew, slowly spat out stuffing, and pressed both paws on the window like a Victorian orphan witnessing her first Christmas.

Mattie flicked on the wipers. A slow, icy scrape. “Well. Since you’re finally awake…”

“I wasn’t sleeping. I was daydreaming.”

“Sure.” Mattie adjusted her leather gloves. “Now might be a good time for you to tell me about this old boyfriend we’re apparently driving across New England for.”

I froze like the windshield. “…Who?”

Her knuckles tightened on the wheel. “Nuh-uh. You’ve deflected for four states. Five, if you count that scenic detour you ‘accidentally’ took through a Cracker Barrel parking lot.”

I cleared my throat. “Well, we should probably find a safe place to pull over. Let Goldie play in the snow. Get some pictures for her scrapbook—”

“Talk.”

“You’re being bossy.”

“I’m driving a Bronco towing an Airstream up an iced mountain. I’ve earned bossy.”

Goldie whined in agreement.

I sighed dramatically. “Fine. His name is Dean Taylor Bradford.”

Mattie snorted. “Boy’s got three first names.”

“Huh, I always thought of it as three last names, actually.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. Why was everyone fixated on that? Was it really that strange? I mean, three names were usually reserved for guys who shoot presidents, but I didn't think they had a monopoly on it.

Mattie gave me a dry look. “And you think I don't remember Law Firm? The boy was entirely too earnest, wore boat shoes year-round, and droned on about amortization at Thanksgiving.”

“He certainly made an impression.”

“What’s he up to now?”

I flicked an eyebrow. “You didn’t use your CIA spy badges to comb through Dean’s life already?”

“I could.” She stared ahead, but her tone said, 'Don't test me.'

“You’d only discover Yuppie sweaters, IZOD polos, and—”

“Is he married?”

“How would I know?”

She side-eyed me so hard I felt it. “Because you stalked him on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and those two new ones you think I don’t know how to use.”

“He’s divorced.”

“Mmhmm. And does Law Firm know you have a giant Navy captain for a husband who could bench press a tree?”

“I’m certain he does. He attended mine and Michael’s wedding.”

“Preparing to yell his objection, no doubt. Why do you think I duct taped his mouth before the ceremony?”

“And here I assumed he started talking about amortizations again.”

Mattie cut a glance. “This better not be some long con where he lures you down to Vermont to solve a pretend crime, but he’s trying to rekindle something. If I recall, you broke his heart when you dumped him.”

“First of all, Michael is not giant. He’s just… generously proportioned.” I crossed my arms. “Second, Dean ‘He-Who-Was-Dumped’ Bradley didn’t call about himself. He moved on long ago, and he called about our next case. Which, as you and I both know, is real.” I flicked my hand to the police file she somehow acquired. “Mama, you wouldn’t accept a mystery without doing a deep dive into the murder, the suspects, and the well-meaning fella who brought us the case.”

She pressed her lips together. “Turn on your mic. Give them the summary.”

I hit the button on my recorder. My voice dropped into Official Podcast Mode™.

[Podcast Intro Music Fades]

PATSY: Welcome back to Murder, Mystery, and Mom. Today’s sneak preview is all about The Gondola Incident.

[Dramatic piano riff.]

PATSY: Eleven months ago, on New Year’s Eve, the infamously arrogant heir to the Maple Ridge Ski Lodge fortune, Cisco Tappington, was found dead inside a luxury gondola car suspended high above the mountain during the fireworks display.

It was ruled a medical event. Heart failure. No suspicion of foul play. The gondola was locked. No one could’ve gotten in. Case closed.

But here’s the weird part: the victim? Young. Healthy. Absolutely no reason to keel over mid-sparkler show.

Unless, of course, the rumors are true.

Because there have been whispers—whispers of sabotage. Whispers of a cover-up. And most bizarrely of all…whispers of what townies are calling a sticky family drama.

Here’s the key question: How does one poised to inherit a pancake-topping empire die so suddenly without a proper investigation?

Well, folks, buckle up. We’re about to find out in season 3, Maple Ridge…Unsolved.

[End of Recording]

Rustling carried from the backseat, followed by a yawn. “You didn’t tell me we already made it to the snow!” a small voice, still half asleep, said.

I turned around, yanking the seatbelt to its limit. Wren sat up in her sleeping bag like a reanimated cryptid, hair sticking up like she’d been electrocuted by a fleece blanket.

I blinked. “They don’t get snow up in Maine?”

“Yes, we do, but does that mean I can’t be excited to see it?”

Goldilocks launched herself into my lap like YES, SHARE ENTHUSIASM WITH ME, knocking the recorder sideways.

Mattie sighed. “We’ll pull over at the next scenic lookout before the dog chews through the gearshift.”

I grinned.

Maple Ridge. Murder. Mystery. Syrup.

Season Three was officially brewing.

The Clue Cruiser crested the final bend in the pass, tires crunching over a blanket of white so perfect a pastry chef could’ve piped on it. The sign ahead read Welcome to Maple Ridge — Elevation 3,212 ft. Someone carved the letters into a polished cedar board and strung twinkle lights around it like they’d won Most Picturesque Small Town three years running.

“Would you look at that?” I pressed a mittened hand to the window. “It’s like a snow globe that fell off a Hallmark set.”

Mattie squinted over the steering wheel. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“It most certainly is, Mama!”

The air in the Vermont mountains hit different—thinner, colder, sharper. Every breath felt like inhaling peppermint dust. The sky was so pale blue it bordered on silver, and the snow was blindingly white, piled in drifts so deep they swallowed the lower halves of the streetlamps. Bright sunlight bounced off the frozen world, creating a mystic glow.

“Cold enough for you, Wren?” I asked.

From the passenger seat, my teenage cousin snorted, cocooned inside a puffer jacket that made her look like a teal marshmallow. “My eyelashes are freezing together. Is that normal?”

“In Vermont?” I narrowed my gaze. “It’s called Frost Chic. All of Santa’s helpers use icicle mascara.”

Goldilocks stuck her nose against the frosted window and exhaled, fogging a circle big enough to play a game of tic-tac-toe. Her tail thumped against Wren’s leg.

“She’s gonna lose her mind when we let her out,” I said.

“More than she already has?” Mattie’s eyes narrowed as the town came into view below us.

Maple Ridge was nestled neatly in a U-shaped valley, hemmed in by towering peaks on three sides. The sunlight barely reached the valley floor this time of year, leaving the edges of town bathed in that late-afternoon blue shadow that only mountain towns got.

As we descended, the first glimpse of Main Street appeared—a single, brick-paved road curling alongside a half-frozen creek, its banks puffed with snow and dotted with wrought-iron benches. Old-fashioned street lamps glowed soft gold against the twilight, and smoke puffed cheerfully from stone chimneys.

“This is stunning.”

Mattie gave a curt nod. “Too stunning. The kind of place where everybody’s got a secret and a second mortgage.”

“I think the people here are more likely to own a ski chalet,” I said.

The buildings lining Main Street looked like they’d been transported from a magazine depicting quintessential small-town America—two and three-story lodges made of dark timber and slate, with hand-painted signs swinging gently in the wind. Not a neon bulb in sight. Even the bank looked cozy, with ivy frozen along its stone facade and a wreath the size of a wagon wheel on the door.

“Remind me to find out who their decorator is,” I said.

“Careful, Aunt Patsy,” Wren said, peeking out the window. “You’re starting to sound like a narrator in a romance novel. Remember, we’re here for a murder, not a holiday miracle.”

I wiggled my eyebrows. “Why not a little of both?”

There was something about the place—the mix of old money and old snow, the way every storefront window glowed warm amber while the cold nipped sharp outside—that drew you in.

We rolled past a row of little shops: Maple Ridge General Store, The Powder Room Ski Rentals, and a bakery called Sweet on You, where a window display showed gingerbread skiers mid-slope. A man in a shearling coat walked a Saint Bernard the size of a sofa. The dog gave Goldilocks a lazy, unimpressed glance as we passed.

Goldie barked back, indignant. “She says that dog looks like he’s part bear,” I translated. “You may speak twenty-three languages, Mama, but I'm fluent in Canine.”

“Oh, wonderful. Now you’re Dr. Doolittle.” Mattie rolled her eyes. “Tell your partner in crime to quit diagnosing wildlife. If anyone killed Cisco Tappington, it was likely someone from the human population.”

Wren leaned between the seats, pointing. “There! Look at that huge building!”

At the far end of town, dominating the skyline, stood the Tappington Lodge, a sprawling complex of dark timber, glass, and stone, its multiple gables rising like a cathedral of wealth and winter sports. Massive windows reflected the slopes behind it, and a sleek gondola line stretched skyward from its base, disappearing into the snowy ridge.

Even from the road, I could feel the Tappington presence—a mix of opulence and old family entitlement that said, yes, we own the town, and possibly half the mountain too.

The creek beside us gurgled under sheets of ice, the faint sound of running water threading through the silence. A small wooden sign beside the bridge read Tappington Creek – Est. 1849, proof that this family had literally stamped their name on the water supply.

“Subtle,” I muttered.

Mattie smirked. “Old money never is.”

Adhering to the strict fifteen-mile-per-hour speed limit, we passed a group of bundled-up tourists carrying skis, followed by a pair of uniformed employees in matching navy parkas with the lodge crest stitched on the chest—Tappington Resort in gold thread. Their smiles were polite, their posture was anything but. But it was hard to look polite with your nose that far in the air.

“I feel like we just drove into a snow-globe version of Stepford,” I said. “Only with more goose down.”

“Which way?” Mattie asked.

“Dean Taylor Bradley wants us to meet him at the firehouse.” I wasn’t sure why I insisted on using his full name…it almost sounded strange not to. “My past in Dockers.”

Wren’s blue-green eyes widened. “So, we’re meeting your ex? Like ex ex?”

I waved a mitten. “Relax, people. He called us up here about a suspicious death, not to rekindle romance.”

“You say that, now.” She crossed her arms. “But all of those true crime mysteries start the same way… the helpful ex-boyfriend just happens to be the one who calls. He needs to lead the investigation, make sure he’s front-and-center in your life, and prove he’s the one who got away. Spoiler alert: he’s always the killer.”

“She’s not wrong,” Mattie muttered.

The Bronco rumbled over the narrow bridge, tires crunching as we crossed onto the main square. Ahead, a bright red sign came into view: MAPLE RIDGE VOLUNTEER FIRE DEPARTMENT.

Mattie downshifted smoothly, the Airstream following like a shiny silver duckling. “Let’s hope that Dean Taylor Bradford is less trouble than he was the first time around.”

Goldilocks barked, sharp and suspicious.

I sighed. “Et tu, Brute?”

The fire station stood proudly at the corner of Main and Birch, its brick façade glowing gold under the lamplight. Compared to the polished, snow-dusted luxury of the Tappington Lodge, it felt real—solid, unpretentious, dependable. Like a pair of scuffed work boots in a room full of designer loafers.

Mattie parked the Bronco beside a bright red fire engine that looked shiny enough to eat off of. The Airstream reflected the glow like a candy wrapper. The sheer amount of shine created a mirror I desperately did not want to look into.

As I climbed out of the Bronco, my reflection made me jump. “Sweet mother of maple syrup! I should have worn the smaller coat.” I hissed as I grabbed a handful of my voluminous silver puffer jacket. I looked like a distressed Michelin Man. My bright-red knit toboggan, which read: If Found, Return To Central Heating, was doing nothing to help.

Beside me, Mattie stepped out of the Bronco, perfectly crisp in a tailored black wool coat and leather gloves, looking like she was about to debrief the Secretary of State.

“I look like I drove twelve hours straight and then tried to wrestle a bear for my luggage.” I rifled through my purse for lipstick, only to find a half-chewed Sharpie Goldilocks dug out from under the seat. It is red… no, you aren’t that desperate.

“The rumpled, homely look will do wonders to cure Law Firm’s crush.” Mattie grinned. “You look fine, sweetheart.”

“Gee, there’s a ringing endorsement.”

Inside, I saw movement through the tall, arched windows—someone sweeping the bay floor, and the warm flicker of a wood stove tucked in a back corner. The double doors featured intricate carvings in thick wood. It was the kind of detail that made you believe the place had survived blizzards, blackouts, and at least one suspicious fruitcake fire.

Wren pressed her nose to the glass. “Is that a horse in there?”

Sure enough, a massive Clydesdale stood in the corner, brown with a shaggy white blaze, wearing a halter with his name stitched in red: BARNABY. He lounged next to a pile of hay like he owned the joint.

“Oh, I love him already,” Wren said. The girl never met a critter she didn’t want to take home. “The gentle giant of Maple Ridge.”

“The department keeps him as a mascot,” Mattie said, checking her notes. Where that particular tidbit came from, I didn’t know. “Part of the town’s syrup-hauling heritage.”

We stepped out into the crisp afternoon. Snowflakes drifted down lazily, melting on Goldilocks’s nose as she pranced beside me in her pink plaid sweater—an outfit chosen for maximum adorableness and practicality.

The firehouse door swung open with a cheerful creak.

And there he was.

Dean Taylor Bradley.

The man looked almost exactly as I remembered him—same kind eyes behind rimless glasses, same neat part in his hair—but older, wiser, with a touch of that New England respectable vibe. He wore a paramedic jacket over a crisp, navy quarter-zip sweater, and I could practically smell his moneyed upbringing under the faint aroma of antiseptic and coffee.

“Patsy Steffanelli,” he said, smiling as he stepped out. “As I live and breathe.”

“You do seem to be breathing,” I said, feigning relief. “Good start.”

Dean’s gaze shifted past me, his smile faltering slightly as he saw the woman behind me. “And Mattie McDonald. Goodness. It’s been… two decades?”

Mattie gave a stiff, polite nod, remaining by the Bronco. “Yes, Dean. The years went by. You still look like you expect a gold star for participation.”

Dean laughed, a little awkwardly. “Always the wit, Mattie. And who is this young lady?”

Before I could answer, Wren zipped around the Bronco with the energy of a puppy on espresso.

“I’m Wren!” she said, extending a hand to Dean with practiced, professional charm. “Wren Warner. I run the socials and behind-the-scenes content for the podcast. First question: What is your ulterior motive for calling us here? Aunt Patsy, your college sweetheart of all people?”

Dean held up his hands in surrender. “No ulterior motives, I promise.” He smiled, focusing entirely on me. “No mistaking she’s related to you, Pats.”

Barnaby snorted like he seconded the sentiment.

Dean chuckled. “Come on in. It’s freezing out here.”

The firehouse interior was a perfect mix of old and new—creaky floors, brick walls, tall arched windows, and shiny modern equipment tucked into the corners. A faint scent of woodsmoke mingled with oil and coffee. Goldilocks made a beeline for Barnaby, who lowered his massive head like a knight greeting a lady. One gentle nudge later, and Goldie wagged her entire backside.

I covered my smile with my gloved hand. “They made fast friends.”

“Barnaby loves everyone,” Dean said. “He’s a retired logging horse. Lives here now, keeps morale up.”

“I just adore horses,” Wren said. “Clydesdales are so majestic.”

“Don’t get any ideas about taking him home, Girly.” Mattie looped an arm through Wren’s. “He can’t fit in the Airstream.”

Dean motioned us toward a small office near the back. Maps of the region covered one wall, with the Tappington slopes circled in red. He set a steaming mug of cocoa in front of me. “So,” Dean said, taking a breath, a faint relief washing over his expression. “I’m delighted you decided to come after our talk. Honestly, I wasn’t sure you would.”

I wrapped my hands around the cup, the heat a welcome relief. “Well, you made a very dramatic pitch, Dean. And I don’t typically drive five states just for the scenery.”

“You’d better make it worth the trip,” Mattie added.

Dean’s smile faded into a more serious expression. “I think Cisco Tappington was murdered.”

There it was—the spark under the snow.

Mattie crossed her arms. “We read the file. Official cause: cardiac arrest. Locked gondola. No evidence of foul play.”

Dean nodded. “That’s what the report says. But as I explained to Patsy, I was one of the first responders that night. I saw the body before anyone else. Something about it didn’t add up.”

“Such as?” I prompted.

He hesitated, glancing at Wren, who was quietly sneaking Goldie a marshmallow. “Let’s just say the timeline and the symptoms didn’t fit a heart attack. But the moment I suggested foul play, the family shut it down. Ebenezer Tappington, the patriarch, made sure of it.”

“Why?” Mattie asked.

“He said the family didn’t need a scandal,” Dean said. “And if you knew the Tappingtons, you’d know he meant it. That man controlled this town.”

“Past tense?” Wren asked.

“He died a few days ago. Long battle with cancer.” Dean removed his glasses and polished the lenses. “The lodge, the slopes, the rentals, the syrup—the Tappingtons control everything in Maple Ridge.”

As intrigued as I was, the facts didn’t quite line up for me. “And you think Ebenezer covered up his grandson’s murder? Why?”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “I think he covered it up to protect someone.”

“That’s a heavy accusation,” I said. “Who’s worth protecting more than the heir apparent?”

Dean exhaled. “Family. That’s all that matters to them. The Tappingtons would burn this town down before letting one of their own take the blame.” He leaned back in his chair. “Cisco was their golden boy. His parents died young—car crash—so he was raised by his grandparents, Ebenezer and Faith. His aunt and uncle helped out, too. They’re a close-knit bunch.”

I arched a brow. “And yet you think one of them killed Cisco?”

Dean held up his hands. “Suspects are your guys’ department.”

“You’ve been thinking about this for almost a year,” Mattie said. “You don’t have a single suspicion?”

“Well, there is Evangelina, Cisco’s brand-new bride.”

“The Christmas Eve wedding,” I said, recalling the podcast notes. “And widowhood before midnight on New Year's. That’s one way to ring in a tax bracket.”

Dean gave a grim nod. “They were all there that night. The whole family. They always come back for the holidays—take over Tappington Manor, the massive mansion on the hill. They even have a private gondola line to the lodge. Keeps them out of sight, and everyone else out of mind.”

“That kind of isolation makes it hard to investigate.” Mattie frowned. “No open case, no leverage. How are we supposed to get these people to talk to us?”

I leaned back, smirking. “Don’t worry, Mama. I’ve seen every episode of Knots Landing, Dynasty, and Dallas—even the Bobby Ewing dream-death season. I am uniquely qualified to handle wealthy family dysfunction.”

“That isn’t your only plan, right? Experience derived from television?” Dean blinked. “You’re joking.”

“Only about half the time,” I said, standing and brushing my coat. “The rest of the time, I solve murders.”

Goldilocks barked, as if to say, "And she does it fabulously."

Dean didn’t smile. He leaned forward, his eyes fixed intensely on mine. He lowered his voice to a pitch that barely carried. “Listen to me, Patsy. This isn’t just a twisty true crime story for your new season.” He reached across the desk and grabbed my gloved hand, the sudden contact sending a nervous flutter through me. “Whatever you do, don’t trust anyone with the name Tappington. Not one of them.”

He pulled his hand back, leaving a chill in the air colder than the Vermont snow. The command was absolute. I looked from Dean to the map on the wall, where the Tappington slopes were circled in ominous red.

“That’s going to be tricky.” I crossed my arms. “They own the town, Dean.”

“Exactly,” he whispered. “And they never let anyone leave.”

---

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