Maple Ridge...Unsolved - Episode 12

Brittany Brinegar
10 hours ago
7 min read

Can't Run from Yourself

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 3

“Whoops.”

That was what came out of my mouth when the real Patrice Marie materialized in the foyer like a Bedazzled subpoena.

Not ‘This is a misunderstanding.’

Not ‘Allow me to explain.’

Not ‘I have a podcast, and I’m not afraid to use it.’

Just ‘Whoops.’

My drinking buddy, Barbara Rey, blinked at the newcomer like her afternoon pick-me-up caused her to see double. “I’m confused.”

“That makes two of us,” I said through a nervous giggle.

The real Patrice Marie beamed at the room, rolling her suitcase across the marble like she’d arrived for a girls’ ski weekend instead of my public execution.

“Oh my gosh,” she said, clapping. “This place is even prettier than I remember! It smells like cedar and money.”

And doom.

Faith descended two steps, slow and regal. “This woman,” she said, gesturing toward me like I was a decorative vase purchased in error. “She has been impersonating you.”

The real Patrice Marie’s mouth fell open in delighted disbelief. “Impersonating me? Like Single White Female, but with better hair?” She reached out and touched a strand of my hair, tucking it behind my ear with the familiar bossiness of a woman who has never met a stranger. “I mean, I love my Sarasota stylist, but your volume is just... fabulous. Do you use a thickening mousse, or are these extensions? What’s your secret?”

“Bad water pressure.”

My heart thumped, and my tongue itched. Was that a sign I was having a heart attack? An itchy tongue was weird; it had to mean something catastrophic, right?

“Oh my stars, this whole thing is wild.” She put an arm around me. “Look at us! We’re both just big, tall, blonde silly billies! I mean, if we went to the mall in matching outfits, people would lose it.”

Yes, but not the way she thinks.

“This is not charming, Patrice Marie.” Faith’s voice cut through the fluff. “This imposter tried to claim your inheritance.”

“My inheritance?”

I stepped in quickly. “Don’t get too excited, it’s more of a scholarship-adjacent thing.”

Faith propped an elbow on the banister. “This is completely, utterly unacceptable. You should be ashamed of yourself… whoever you are.”

Zer stepped forward, jaw flexing like he’d been rehearsing this moment in the mirror. “I knew something was off about her.”

“And after I shared my secrets with you at the bar?” Barbara Rey’s eyebrows danced in rhythm with her anger. “I poured my heart out, and you were just... taking notes to defraud us?”

The room quieted as they awaited my explanation. You can do this, Patsy, you talk for a living. You’ve talked your way out of way worse.

The silence stretched as I searched for the right words. But my itchy tongue kept tripping over the words. What could I say to make any of this less awful?

Now would be a great time to pull the killer’s name out of thin air. Which Tappington looks most guilty?

My eyes darted to Mama for a lifeline, but Mattie McDonald, ever the professional, clung to her cover and left me to fend for myself. Goldilocks buried her head under her paw, absolutely no help.

Think, Patsy, think.

And what did my brain deliver in this life-altering moment? Facebook Marketplace trivia.

“So, were you ever able to sell that bike?”

Patrice Marie blinked as if she had forgotten to pay attention.

Faith elbowed her in the ribs. “Did you hear what she said?”

“Sell my bike?” Patrice Marie repeated slowly. “Like… my pink beach cruiser from Facebook? From eight years ago?”

Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the best anecdote to lead with.

She stared at me for so long that my lungs forgot how to lung. “Wait. So you didn’t just steal my identity.” Her eyes widened. “You’ve been stalking me?”

Oh no. Abort mission—no more anecdotes.

“I want her arrested,” Patrice Marie said, pivoting from Hallmark to Dateline in under three seconds. “Faith, this lady is a cyber-creeper!”

Cyber. Creeper.

Faith didn’t hesitate. “I phoned the sheriff the second you arrived, dear. He should be here any minute now.”

And right on cue, three official, rhythmic knocks rattled the oak doors.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Stern McStatueface sprang into action and invited the lawman into the foyer to participate in the modern dance interpretation of Clue. I glared at the butler, considering whether I could somehow push all the blame to him. There was the ‘butler did it’ trope for a reason.

“Faith, you phoned about an imposter?” Sheriff Nelson slunk inside like a man who had been bamboozled.

Barbara Rey pointed a shaky finger at me. “Her.”

Nelson took in the room. The tension. The duplicate blondes. The luggage.

Then he looked at me. “I knew something was off about you.”

Practically word for word, he repeated Zer’s reaction.

I closed my eyes. “That’s the consensus.”

“I welcomed you here,” he said. “Shared maple donuts with you.”

“And local tips. Like, avoid the bear claw.”

He did not smile. “This is no time for jokes. These are serious charges being laid against you, Mrs. Steffanelli.”

Oh. So we were using government names now.

Nelson scanned the foyer. “Where’s your mama accomplice? That woman from the Sugar Shack? Is she in on this?”

Behind him, the undercover maid dusted the mantle with professional serenity.

I did not look at her. I did not look at her. I absolutely did not look at her.

I looked everywhere but the fireplace. I practiced my ‘I have never seen this maid in my life’ face, which probably just looked like I was having a localized stroke.

Faith stepped aside with icy precision. “This fake Patsy is the only fraud in this room.”

The real Patrice Marie crossed her arms. “I mean, I would have shared the spotlight if she’d asked nicely. But identity theft? That’s just rude.”

Zer moved closer, looming. “All the sneaking around. The questions. The lies.”

“You let me believe you were one of us.” Barbara Rey’s voice wavered.

“I was trying to find out who killed Cisco,” I said, the words landing flat in the air.

Daphne flinched, and it finally hit me. She might be my ally in this—the one person who could corroborate my story and prevent my arrest.

“I’m a podcaster here to solve a murder. Daphne, help me out.”

Her eyes flicked to Faith. To Zer. To the sheriff. Then back to me. “I don’t have the faintest idea who you are or what you’re talking about.”

“What?!”

Daphne didn't even meet my eyes. She stared at a spot on the floor near Faith’s sensible heels and gave the tiniest shrug as she mouthed: Sorry. She wouldn’t get involved in the family drama to back up my story.

That was the moment. Not the knock. Not the accusation. Not even the Cyber Creeper comment. That was the moment I realized I was actually in trouble.

The clink of the handcuffs echoed off the vaulted ceiling as Sheriff Nelson stepped forward. “Patsy Steffanelli, you’re under arrest.”

“For what?” I asked.

“I’ll think of something.”

Goldilocks barked, offended that she was being left out.

Nelson reached for her leash. “Dog comes too.”

“On what grounds?”

“Accessory.”

Goldie wagged her tail, and her collar jingled as she set out on her perp walk. She had no idea a ‘walk’ could ever have a negative connotation.

As the sheriff turned me toward the door, I finally allowed myself one pleading glance at Mama. But Mattie, the undercover maid, didn't even look up. She just flicked the duster over a picture frame with the kind of zen-like focus that suggested she was already planning my breakout—or at least checking if the jail had decent surveillance.

She offered a barely visible nod: Go with it.

The ride to the station didn't involve a siren, but it did involve a pine-scented air freshener that smelled like a free giveaway after ten car washes. I sat in the back with Goldilocks, who was trying to lick the plexiglass divider.

The Maple Ridge jail wasn't just small; it was intimate in all the wrong ways. It was a one-room operation where the ‘booking desk’ was a laminate table cluttered with half-empty coffee cups and a stack of dusty warrants. The holding cell was a cage of cold iron and peeling grey paint, positioned perfectly so that anyone coming in to pay a parking ticket could get a front-row seat to my professional collapse. It smelled like wet wool and wounded pride.

Sheriff Nelson locked the gate. The sound of the key turning was the most depressing thing I’d heard all week.

I plopped on the narrow bench, wrists finally uncuffed, heart thudding. “Is this really necessary? We aren’t a flight risk.”

Goldilocks settled at my feet like this was an Airbnb with bars.

“I already believed you once. And look where that got me.”

My foot bounced up and down, tapping out the beat to Folsom Prison Blues. “What am I being charged with, Sheriff?”

He opened and closed drawers as if trying to remember where he kept the paperwork for arrests. “Impersonation with intent to defraud.”

I stared at him. “I think you need to thumb through your patrol guide again and refresh your memory, Sheriff.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that being an overeager podcaster is a personality quirk, not a felony. If being an awkward blonde were a crime, half of Florida would be on death row.”

His jaw twitched. “You lied about who you were to defraud a grieving family.”

“I did not lie. I introduced myself as Patsy.” I chewed my lip. “I just didn’t correct anyone when they assumed I was cousin Patrice Marie from Florida.”

“You obstructed—”

“I asked questions.”

“You infiltrated—”

“I attended a will reading.”

“You—” He stuttered. “You broke laws.”

“Name one.”

He opened his mouth and closed it. “I’ll find something. At the very least, we got you on trespassing.”

I leaned back against the cinderblock wall. “Fine. Then I want my one phone call.”