Maple Ridge...Unsolved - Episode 11

Brittany Brinegar
18 minutes ago
9 min read

I Drink Well with Others

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 3

The hotel bar at Tappington Ski Lodge looked less like a lounge and more like a crime scene where the only victim was someone’s dignity. It was the kind of room designed for nursing a grudge and a vintage scotch in equal measure.

Dim amber lighting turned everything golden and expensive. Cut‑glass decanters gleamed behind the bar like trophies. A gas fireplace flickered in a stone hearth, more vibes than heat, and the air carried a faint perfume of citrus, juniper, and the ‘I’m on my third husband and my fourth martini’ attitude.

Barbara Rey Tappington fit the place like she’d been installed with the fixtures. She was draped over a leather barstool with a tragic, glamorous sort of gravity, one elbow propped, her fingers wrapped around a heavy crystal glass. Her dark hair fell in glossy waves that looked artfully tousled rather than hungover, and her lipstick was a precise, defiant red. She wore black cashmere, a string of pearls, and the expression of a woman who’d seen it all and ordered another round.

Goldilocks trotted at my side, nails clicking on the hardwood. She sniffed the air, wrinkled her nose, and looked up at me like, Whatever they’re serving smells worse than the pickle I accidentally ate.

Barbara Rey’s gaze slid over us, sharp behind mascaraed lashes. “Well, if it isn’t Florida Patsy,” she drawled. “Come to see how the other half unwinds?”

“After skiing with your mother, I need a little pick-me-up,” I said, hoisting myself onto the neighboring barstool with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. “Is this seat taken?”

“Only by poor life choices. Sit.”

Goldie parked herself between our stools, tail swishing slowly, ears perked as if waiting to see whether this was going to be a therapy session or an interrogation.

The bartender drifted over, wearing a holiday bowtie. “What can I get you?”

I glanced at Barbara Rey’s glass. Dark amber liquid clung to the sides, looking way too potent and out of my price range. What I knew about liquor came from Cheers. But following in Norm’s footsteps and asking Sammy for a beer didn’t fit the vibes.

“I’ll have the signature holiday thing,” I said. “The Midnight Tap. In the souvenir mug?”

He smacked the counter. “You got it.”

A minute later, he set down a hefty glass mug etched with NYE XXX and a stylized maple leaf. Steam curled up, carrying scents of whiskey, citrus, and maple syrup with a sinister undercurrent of something medicinal.

I took a brave sip.

It tasted like fermented pine needles and jet fuel.

I nearly choked, coughing as my eyes watered. My lips puckered into a full Lucy Ricardo grimace, complete with the internal eieeeee noise and curled lips. “Can I exchange this…” I wheezed, “…for the one you serve the kiddies?”

Goldilocks gave a soft whuff and placed a comforting paw on my knee, as if to say They taught us the Heimlich in doggy therapy school, but I missed that day chasing a squirrel. Shall I wing it?

Barbara Rey didn’t even blink. She lifted her own glass and took a long, unbothered sip, as practiced as breathing. “The Midnight Tap is popular but entirely too sweet for my taste.”

I inhaled through my nose. Yeah, that was the problem. I coughed, attempting to relocate my poise. “I’m just not much of a drinker.”

“You get used to it,” she said. “Like family drama. Or Spanx.”

“I think Lucy’s Vitameatavegamin would taste better than this,” I muttered, setting the mug down carefully so I didn’t spill the battery acid on my hand.

Barbara Rey leaned in slightly, the scent of expensive perfume wrapping around the air between us. Up close, I could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes—some from laughing, some from squinting at ledgers, some from staring down a mountain full of expectations.

“I’m not sure what I expected when I was invited down here to hear Uncle Ebenezer’s will read, but I didn’t expect…that.” I reached for the mug, stopped myself, and slid it out of reach, so I didn’t absently choke on another pine needle.

“Poor Mother.” Barbara Rey traced the rim of her glass. “The thought of selling the mountain just about killed her, but she’d finally come to terms.”

“Faith didn’t want to sell?”

“She’s a saint, really, but it all became too much after Cisco died. Especially with Daddy as sick as he was.”

She hadn’t answered my question. I wasn’t even sure she heard it.

I grabbed a handful of bar nuts and considered a better approach. “Deciding to put a ‘For Sale’ sign on a century of history... that’s a heavy lift. Did the family reach a breaking point, or did the Finance Bro make an offer you couldn’t refuse?”

“Mother didn’t have the stomach for the business anymore. Selling wasn’t greed; it was mercy.”

I blinked, trying to reconcile that image with the Faith I’d seen—steel spine, hawk eyes, skiing like she owned the snow and everyone on it. From what I observed, Faith was a cunning businesswoman and a commanding matriarch. The type of woman willing to do anything to protect the family and the legacy. But that was my outsider read. Surely her daughter knew the truth under the glitter better than a fake Florida cousin who’d known her for five minutes and two jump‑scares.

“So if selling wasn’t mercy for Faith, what was it for you?”

She swirled her drink, watching the ice clink against the sides. “For me? It was…inevitability. Mother is tired. I’m…unsuited. Zer is…” She trailed off, lips curving.

“A delight?” I offered.

“A blunt instrument,” she countered. “He’s much better at looming in doorways and checking security feeds than he is at reading a P&L statement.”

You could say that again. A chill danced across my spine as I remembered the not-so-subtle recon project he did on me. Since day one, I had him at the top of my suspect list.

“How did Zer feel about parting with his legacy? He’s Ebenezer’s namesake. This kingdom was supposed to be all his.”

Barbara Rey snapped at the bartender for a refill. “He was the one pushing the sale. He wanted the payout so he could go play soldier of fortune in some country with no taxes.”

Goldie huffed. I translated that as: Even I know that’s a bad life plan.

“So Zer gets cash and a passport stamp,” I said. “What about you?”

“I have a trust. Daddy made sure of that.”

I propped my head on my arm. “But that trust is only a fraction of what you were owed.”

“I’m not worried about money. I’m worried about…our brand.” Her eyes drifted toward the window, where snow swirled against the glass. “This place is Tappington. Every tree. Every lift. Every overpriced hot chocolate. To have it run by a girl from who‑knows‑where?” She took another sip. “It’s enough to make a woman order a double.”

“You mean Evangelina?” I asked. “You don’t think she has what it takes?”

Her eyes snapped back to mine, sharper now. “The Little Widow? Ha!”

“Not a fan?”

“She’s an interloper who learned the melody before she even knew the lyrics,” Barbara Rey said. “An outsider who saw a grieving old man and filled a void. It’s a con as old as time wrapped in a black veil.”

Faith said practically the same thing about Evangelina, and I couldn’t decide whether that made it corroborating evidence or bias. Either way, I needed to feed into it and keep her gossiping.

“Evangelina does seem overly comfortable here.”

“Right? Who stays with the in-laws after being married for a week? There’s grieving, and then there’s Evangelina.” Barbara Rey gave me a once-over that took in my boots, my windburned cheeks, and the Maple Ridge Lodge logo on my sweater. “At least you are honest about being an interloper. She thinks she deserves top billing.”

I took an absent-minded sip of my drink and immediately regretted my life choices. My taste buds tried to file for divorce.

I cleared my throat. “How do you feel about Ebenezer accusing one of you of murdering Cisco?”

Her laugh came out light and airy, like a champagne bubble—if champagne bubbles were laced with arsenic. “Oh, darling. Daddy always had his quirks. At the end, he saw conspiracies in the maple syrup.”

“So, you aren’t buying the murder angle?”

“He was senile, plain and simple. That’s why we’re contesting the will. You can’t leave an empire to an outsider based on a hallucination.” She arched an expressive eyebrow. “That’s the thing about geniuses and lunatics. The Venn diagram overlaps.”

“How do you feel about the sale being off the table now that Evangelina owns the majority?”

Barbara Rey’s grip on her glass tightened. Her knuckles whitened against the pale crystal. “It’s a tragedy.”

My eyes widened, surprised by the honesty. “Strong reaction.”

“Tragedy, not for the money lost—I told you, I have my trust—but for the legacy. To have a Tappington mountain run by a silly girl who knows nothing of the business…” She exhaled. “That’s the kind of thing that makes Mother imagine conspiracies in the syrup, and Zer imagine…solutions.”

Solutions was doing a lot of work in that sentence.

We sat in silence for a few beats. Goldie propped her head on my swaying foot, eyes half‑closed, the picture of patient judgment. The fireplace flickered; the snow flurries outside tapped at the windows, asking to be let in.

I shifted on the barstool. “Did you ever think that maybe Ebenezer was right? That Cisco’s death wasn’t…natural?”

She studied the bottom of her glass as if the truth might be hiding under the ice. “Here’s what I think. Cisco was the golden boy, and golden boys don’t die. Not in fairy tales. Not in this family. So when one does, the people left behind must decide which story hurts less: ‘The universe is random and cruel’ or ‘Someone did this on purpose.’ Daddy picked door number two.”

“And you?”

“I think the universe is random and cruel,” she said. “And also tacky.”

Goldilocks let out a sigh that sounded suspiciously like agreement.

Barbara Rey ordered another “just to keep the chill away,” and another after that, and by the time I suggested heading back to the house, she had the pleasantly glassy look of a woman whose edges had been dulled by top-shelf liquor and years of disappointment.

Goldie and I flanked her on the walk back through the lodge. Snow whipped against the glass doors; the lobby glowed warm and inviting; tourists stomped snow from their boots, their cheeks pink and eyes bright. It felt like walking a soap‑opera character through a Hallmark set.

As we stepped out into the cold for the short walk to the private gondola, she slipped a little on the packed path. I grabbed her elbow. Goldie pressed against her other side like a furry cane.

“Careful,” I said. “The last thing this family needs is another tragic fall.”

She snorted. “If I fall, it’ll be on purpose. Onto a chaise lounge. With a martini in hand.”

By the time we reached the front porch of the manor, her steps had gone from loose to outright wobbly. Even by Barbara Rey’s standards, this seemed excessive. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to drink away guilt or just history.

The manor door opened before I could reach for the handle.

Mattie—in full undercover maid regalia—stood there, eyes sharp, hands on hips. “Why don’t you answer your phone?” she asked, her voice hushed and clipped.

“I’ve been busy,” I said. “Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

“Better put on your poker face,” she whispered.

My stomach dipped. “Why?”

Before she could answer, the air in the foyer changed temperature.

Faith Tappington appeared at the top of the sweeping staircase like she’d been summoned by dramatic theme music, heavy on the piano. Her hand rested on the polished banister; her expression could have flash‑frozen lava.

“I don’t know who the heck you are,” she said, voice echoing off the wood paneling.

Barbara Rey blinked up at her. “Mother, don’t start throwing accusations—”

Faith held up hand. “This is not Patrice Marie.”

Internally, every bell and tiny voice screamed Run! Save yourself! But amateur detectives and true crime podcasters never did the expected. When our lies were exposed, we doubled down and played it off.

I giggled like a schoolgirl. Nervous and caught skipping class by the headmistress. “What makes you think—”

“Hi, everybody!” a bright, peppy voice chimed from behind me.

I turned.

There, framed in the parlor doorway, stood a tall, blonde woman in white jeans, a sparkly pink puffer, and boots with more faux fur than practicality. She had big hair, big teeth, and big “bless your heart” energy. Her suitcase was monogrammed. Her smile was blinding. Her eyes were about two beats behind the conversation.

“Who are you?” Barbara Rey asked.

“Aside from perpetually late?” She snorted at what passed for a joke. “Sorry, I’m so late. Flights out of Tampa are a nightmare. I’m Patrice Marie!”

I looked from Faith, to the newcomer, to my mother-the‑maid, and back again. “Whoops.”