Maple Ridge...Unsolved - Episode 10

Fine Line

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 3

The pines were so burdened with snow they looked like hunched-over old men in white coats, gossiping about the family secrets and taking bets on which Tappington would combust first. The sky was that flat pewter gray that promised either more snow or a murder confession, and I wasn’t sure which I preferred.

The frigid winter air nipped at any exposed skin it could find, making my nose glow like Rudolph. My lungs crackled with every breath. Sunlight ricocheted off the slopes in a way that made me seriously reconsider purchasing sunglasses by frame color and not polarization.

And to make matters worse, I was encased in a neon‑teal jumpsuit that made me look like a giant highlighter. It was vintage and borrowed—code for smells like a mothball’s funeral. The fabric swished with a sound that could definitely be heard from space. And every time I shifted my weight, my skis tried to make a run for the Canadian border.

Meanwhile, Faith Tappington looked like a winter goddess in charcoal cashmere and custom goggles that were probably retrofitted with target-acquisition software to spot which family member was trying to skim from the maple trust. Her helmet was perfectly matte. Her lipstick was perfectly red. Her expression was perfectly unimpressed. She had the sturdy, matronly build of someone who’d raised a family and a company in the same breath and somehow still found time to carve perfect parallel turns on the weekend.

The lift line buzzed with tourists in neon and toddlers in tiny helmets arguing about hot chocolate. A ski instructor herded a class of wobbly adults toward the bunny slope, chanting. Somewhere, a teenager whooped as they launched off a small jump, the sound echoing across the mountain.

I shuffled my skis into place beside Faith at the loading zone, trying not to telegraph the fact that I was seconds away from passing out from sheer anticipatory terror.

Faith planted her poles, sizing me up. “Do you ski, Patrice Marie?”

“Usually on water.” I stabbed into the ground to prevent a faceplant. “Florida’s official sport”

The truth was much more complicated. I didn’t ‘ski’ so much as I ‘negotiated with gravity,’ and most days, gravity won the debate.

One of her eyebrows quirked, just barely. For Faith, that was practically a belly laugh.

The chairlift swung around, and Faith slid forward with practiced ease. I did my best impression of someone who knew what to do, shuffled, and promptly sat a fraction of a second too soon. The metal bar thunked me in the back of the knees, and I flopped onto the seat like a poorly timed stuntwoman.

The chair lifted us off the ground.

The bottom dropped away.

I did not scream.

Not out loud anyway.

The town shrank under our dangling skis. Gusts of wind slapped my face like a cold open hand. I wrapped my gloved knuckles around the safety bar and decided that if I survived this ride, I would count it as cardio, exposure therapy, and penance all in one.

“I wanted to check on you,” I said once my voice un‑squeaked. “After the will reading.”

“I’m fine.”

The words were cold and hard, like what a granite statue might say, if granite statues could talk and also run multigenerational empires.

Below us, skiers sliced down the runs in graceful S‑shapes, carving patterns into the snow like signatures. Faith watched them with the detached gaze of a queen surveying her kingdom. I watched them with the panicked gaze of someone mentally reviewing her medical deductible.

“I know it must have been a surprise,” I said. “Ebenezer leaving the company to Evangelina.”

Faith adjusted her ski pole with a gloved hand, the movement slow and deliberate. “Surprise implies I didn't see the wolf at the door, Patrice Marie. I saw her. I simply underestimated how quickly she could teach an old dog new, treacherous tricks. My husband didn’t leave her a company; he handed a blowtorch to a pyromaniac and asked her to watch the house.”

Note to self: Faith isn't grieving; she's reloading.

I tried to nod sagely, but the chairlift gave a violent lurch, and I spent the next three seconds clutching the safety bar like a shipwreck survivor.

By the time we reached the top, my thighs were gelatinous, and my soul had left my body twice.

We slid off the chair—Faith gliding like she’d been born doing this, me staggering like a newborn deer on roller skates. Somehow, I managed to stay upright. Barely.

Skiers flowed past us, a river of color and speed. We’d chosen a quieter blue run that curved around the side of the mountain, lined with trees and relatively free of witnesses—exactly the kind of place you’d take someone if you wanted privacy.

Or plausible deniability.

Faith pushed off, gliding a few feet down the gentle slope with that effortless, expensive grace that said she’d been doing this since before I was born. I shuffled after her, my skis trying to cross like they were working through a co-dependency issue.

“From where I’m standing,” I said, arms windmilling as I struggled to keep my balance. “It seemed like Zer and Barbara Rey were in an awfully big hurry to bring in the suits. I mean, the man from Wall Street barely had time to shake the snow off his briefcase.”

“I’m getting too old.” Faith sighed, a cloud of frost escaping her lips. “And the only child I had with a lick of business sense died young of a heart condition—just like his son.” Her gaze drifted up toward the summit, where the private gondola line disappeared into the clouds like an escape hatch for the elite.

I cleared my throat, trying to adjust my neon-teal sleeve. “So the Finance Bro was basically the ‘In Case of Emergency, Break Glass’ plan?”

“That’s a colorful way to phrase it.” She squinted at me behind her dramatic goggles. “Zer and Barbara Rey are skilled in other ways, but business isn’t one of them. Selling a controlling interest in this place is the only way to preserve our legacy.”

The word legacy hung in the air like a storm cloud.

I dug a ski edge into the snow before I accidentally rocketed sideways. My thighs burned in protest. “You mentioned the Tappington heart condition, so you don’t believe Ebenezer’s claim about Cisco being murdered?”

She let out a short, contemptuous snort. “Poor Ebenezer was a heavily medicated, dying man who lost his favorite grandson. He was grasping at straws, looking for meaning where there was none.”

We coasted forward in slow motion, the snow under our skis whispering secrets. The cold cut straight through to my bones.

“But say he was onto something.” I felt her glare and worried I might be pushing too far into blowing my cover territory. “Just for argument's sake.”

“Like a hypothetical?

“Sure.” My head bobbed. “Is anyone in the family capable of killing Cisco? There was a lot of money at stake.”

“You mean aside from that gold-digging wife?”

There it was—Evangelina’s honorary title, engraved in ice.

“But does she have a motive?” I asked. “Or did she back when Cisco was killed?”

Faith turned her head and gave me a look like she’d found kale in her brownie. “What kind of question is that?”

“I listen to a lot of true crime podcasts.” I giggled. “That’s a question they always ask.”

I did listen to a lot of podcasts; that much was true, but I neglected to tell her that I was the lead producer of one. It was a fine line between curious cousin and digital paparazzi, and with Faith, I was tight-rope walking it in rental boots.

She turned her gaze back to the slope, “Well, Evangelina definitely had a motive from the beginning. Even before Ebenezer changed his will, she stood to inherit Cisco’s portion.”

So Faith was well-versed in all versions of the inheritance tree. Noted.

We reached a slightly steeper pitch. Faith tipped her skis and slipped into neat, controlled turns. I followed in what I hoped was the same pattern and probably looked more like macaroni trying to escape a strainer.

“Uncle Ebenezer had plenty of time to change things,” I said, breath coming faster as my legs protested. “Why do you suppose he left virtually everything to her anyway?”

“From the moment that girl weaseled her way into our lives, I knew she was trouble.” Faith dug the tip of her pole into the snow like she was skewering a memory. We paused on a small shelf with a view over the valley, the wind tugging at our jackets. “She’s a fast-talking Italian who spins you around like a top. She had Cisco wrapped around her little finger.”

“You make your grandson sound like a lovesick pup.”

Faith adjusted her glove with precise, irritated tugs. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold and exertion, but her eyes were clear, sharp. “Cisco was a lost boy who needed a lighthouse. Instead, he got a siren. Evangelina didn’t just walk into this family; she colonized it. She’s the kind of woman who treats a wedding ring like a corporate takeover.”

Faith pushed off again, gliding in a clean arc that my knees could only dream of. I gingerly followed, my skis doing the cha‑cha. Every turn felt like a negotiation between gravity, fear, and the continuing desire to have intact ACLs.

“And once he was out of the picture,” Faith continued over her shoulder. “She turned that manipulation onto Ebenezer. That’s the only explanation for it.”

“You think she orchestrated all of this?”

“No.” Faith’s answer came sharp. She slowed just enough for me to pull alongside her again. “I don’t believe Cisco was murdered.” She skewered me with a look that nearly knocked me off my skis. “This is your little thought experiment, remember?”

“But—”

“She took advantage of not only my grandson but a dying man,” Faith said. “And now she’s the head of our family’s company.”

I tried to shift my weight so I looked more thoughtful and less terrified. My skis immediately tried to make a break for it. I flailed, windmilling an arm until I managed to catch my balance again. A teenager zipped past us, spraying a rooster tail of powder. Faith didn’t flinch. I, however, sat down from sheer startle.

“Are y’all planning to dispute the will?” I asked, re-establishing contact with friction and dignity in that order.

“I’m done fighting,” Faith said.

The steel in her voice didn’t disappear, but it softened around the edges. For the first time, she sounded less like a general holding a line and more like a grandmother who’d spent all her ammunition on grief.

“But Zer…” She exhaled, fogging the air. “Well, he doesn’t go down so quietly.”

“No,” I said. “I imagine not.”

“Zer has his father’s temper and none of his patience.”

“What about Barbara Rey?” I asked.

Faith’s mouth twitched, somewhere between fondness and exasperation. “She’s never been good with money. She’s better off with a heavily controlled trust. That’s the one thing my husband got right.”

We came to a natural pause where the slope leveled out, the mountain opening below like a snowy amphitheater. From here, Maple Ridge looked like a model village—tiny roofs, twinkling lights, plumes of chimney smoke curling into the cold air. The wind eased, but the chill remained, settling into my bones like an uninvited roommate.

Faith planted her poles and looked down at the town tucked in the valley, all twinkling lights and curated charm. Her voice dropped, almost swallowed by the open air.

“This mountain was supposed to be theirs. Cisco’s, his father’s, his children’s. Not some…cheap resort chain.”

I followed her gaze, my heart doing a small, uneasy flip. The wind tugged at my hood. My toes ached. My thighs burned. My brain spun.

The old men in snow coats—those sagging pines—stood like silent witnesses as we pointed our skis downhill. But as the wind whistled past my ears, I realized they weren't the only ones watching. A single, dark figure stood motionless at the edge of the tree line, their goggles reflecting the flat pewter sky like two cold, dead eyes. I blinked, and they were gone, swallowed by the shadows of the very trees that had promised to keep our secrets.

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