Maple Ridge...Unsolved - Episode 14

What was I Thinkin'

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 3

The firehouse kitchen smelled like cumin, smoke, and second chances. Dean’s chili simmered in a dented silver pot the size of a toddler’s bathtub, steam rising in confident curls.

Goldilocks stationed herself beneath the table with laser focus.

Barnaby the Clydesdale, tethered just outside the open bay doors, leaned his massive head inside like he’d also been invited to the meeting and was waiting on his portion.

“This feels like a trap,” I said, eyeing a pot of chili that would make any Texan cringe. “There are beans in there.”

Dean scooped the poor excuse for chili into bowls. “Don’t be ridiculous. The firemen never complained.”

“Smoke damage to the taste buds, no doubt.” Mattie scooped up a spoonful and let it drop back into her bowl.

Goldilocks, who was less picky than her name suggested, attempted to insert her entire snout into Wren’s lap.

“Down,” Wren whispered, trying to protect her files. She not so subtly slipped Goldie a hunk of cornbread.

Barnaby huffed loudly from his stall across the bay, offended he’d been excluded from indoor seating.

I smiled.

Not the tight, defensive smile I’d been wearing at Tappington Manor. Not the apologetic smile from the jail cell.

A real one.

I wasn’t undercover here. I wasn’t pretending to be anyone. I wasn’t defending my reputation.

I was running theories with people I trusted. And for the first time since Maple Ridge went sideways, the panic had settled into something sharper.

Purpose.

I set my spoon down and leaned forward. “Okay. Let’s look at the case through a new lens. Faith as the killer.”

Saying her name out loud felt different than suspecting it in whispers.

“Walk through the details like we’re telling the story to our listeners,” I said.

Wren froze mid-bite. “Do we have enough proof?”

“For an arrest?” Mattie shook her head. “No. But all signs are pointing to the matriarch.”

Dean leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching us like a bomb technician trying to decide if we were cutting the red wire or the blue one.

I closed my eyes and visualized everything we knew about the murder. Every clue, every loose thread, every witness statement. “About thirty minutes before twelve, Cisco rode the gondola down the mountain to get Midnight Taps for him and Evangelina.”

“But he ordered three drinks from the bartender,” Mattie said. “Why?”

“What if Faith met him out in front of the lodge, her pocket jingling with a bottle of digitalis?” I felt the rhythm click into place as a story unfolded. “Maybe she complained that he was spending the holiday with the new wife instead of the family.”

Wren’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, what if she gave him one last chance to think about selling?”

“Cisco brushed her off,” Mattie said.

“And said something like…” I clutched my fist and channeled my sixth-grade theater class. “‘Grandpa would never want us to sell. I’m going to honor those wishes.’”

Dean gave a low whistle.

Mattie’s gaze sharpened. “And that was the last straw. Waiting out her sick husband was one thing. Her thirty-year-old grandson? That’s the moment Faith convinced herself this was the only way.”

“She waited outside by the gondola,” I said, picturing the murderous scene. “And asked Cisco to get her a drink.”

“Totaling three,” Wren said, holding up her fingers.

Mattie pinched off a piece of cornbread and dunked it in the chili. “When he came back out with the mugs, Faith slipped the lethal dose of foxglove/digitalis into his drink.”

“Which was masked by the liquid-forest-fire taste of that pine syrup.” I made a childish face at the thought of the Midnight Tap. “So, they ride the private gondola back up the mountain, but Cisco isn’t drinking.”

Wren’s eyes expanded. “Why not?”

“He’s saving it for the fireworks,” Mattie said. “A romantic toast at the summit with his new bride.”

“But Faith is done with patience. She needs to ensure the job is done before she leaves the gondola.” I mimed lifting a heavy glass mug. “She toasts the new year. He drinks. And just like that, the Tappington succession is settled.”

“Given his heart condition, the poison works fast.” Mattie picked around the beans that had infiltrated the chili. “By the time they reached the top, he was already in distress.”

My brow furrowed. I couldn’t picture what came next. “Faith gets out…” I closed my eyes. “And… takes the other drink with her? Why?”

Mattie didn’t hesitate. “She worried how it would look if Cisco were found in the gondola with two drinks. People might start looking for a second passenger. That raises questions about foul play. And leads to an investigation and testing for poison.”

“So instead, she took the drink meant for Evangelina.” I arched a brow. “Leaving me with even more questions.”

Wren shook her head. “How could a grandmother just turn her back and leave her grandson there to die?”

Silence settled between us because that was the part that made people hesitate. Not the method. Note even the motive. It was the execution.

Dean cleared his throat. “There’s one problem with your theory.”

We all turned to him.

“The gondola was at the bottom of the mountain when we were called.”

My spine straightened. “What?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Cisco was down by the lodge.”

The pieces I’d just assembled trembled.

But Mattie was already recalibrating. “It’s possible Faith sent it back down after she got off. Simple push of a button.”

“To give the appearance that he was alone, and never made it back to the top,” I said, picking up the thread.

Wren flipped through a copy of the report. “I can’t find anything in the police report about the 9-1-1 caller.”

Dean frowned. “What are you looking for?”

“The person who called it in,” she said.

I leaned forward. “Wren’s right. The gondola is a private line. If the family was all up top to watch the fireworks, who saw Cisco and called for help?”

Dean adjusted his glasses. “The caller didn’t identify himself.”

Mattie met my eyes. “We need a copy of that call.”

Goldilocks whined beneath the table. The momentum shifted. We weren’t guessing anymore. We were closing in.

I nudged Dean. “What’s the problem? Aren’t 911 calls public record?”

“Most of the time.”

I shrugged my shoulders, not understanding his hesitation. “You’re an EMT, don’t you have access?”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, looking from Mattie to me. “I’m not a dispatcher. You’d need to go through official channels for a records request.”

“How long will that take?” Wren asked.

Mattie huffed. “Weeks if not months.”

“We don’t have weeks.”

Dean let out a long, slow breath. He looked at his phone, then back at us. “Gladys works the dispatch desk on Tuesdays. She’s eighty-two, has the best snickerdoodle recipe in the county, and she’s been sweet on me since I patched up her prize-winning tabby three years ago.”

“And Gladys has access?” Wren asked, her eyes lighting up.

“Gladys has access,” Dean said, already pulling up his contacts. He wiped his hands on a dish towel, crossed to the metal desk in the corner of the firehouse kitchen, and opened his laptop.

It only took a few minutes for good ole Gladys to come through.

Dean motioned us over. “Make it snappy, we don’t want this break in protocol getting back to Sheriff Nelson.”

Goldilocks perked up at the shift in tone and abandoned her chili stakeout. Barnaby let out a low huff from the bay doors, as if bracing for drama.

Dean clicked play.

A soft hiss of static filled the kitchen before a dispatcher’s voice came through, bright and procedural. “Maple Ridge 9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”

There was a brief shuffle, like the caller adjusted the phone in his hand. Or maybe had second thoughts about reporting the crime. “Yes. There’s a man unconscious in one of the private gondolas near the lower lodge.”

The voice was male. Controlled. Annoyingly composed.

“Sir, is he breathing?” the dispatcher asked.

“I don’t believe so,” the caller said. “His name is Cisco Tappington. He’s not responding.”

“How long has he been unconscious?”

“I just found him.”

“Are you with him now?”

A pause. Not frantic. Not distressed. Just calculating. “Yes.”

“Okay, sir, I’m going to need your name, and I’ll walk you through CPR—”

Silence. Then the faint click of a call disconnecting.

Dean stopped the recording and stared at the waveform on the screen. like maybe, if he glared hard enough, the caller would give his name.

The firehouse suddenly felt smaller. Not physically smaller but quieter in a way that made you aware of your own breathing.

Goldilocks, who had been smacking a rogue uncooked bean across the floor, froze mid-sniff and looked up at us like, Who turned off the show? It was just getting good.

Barnaby shifted his massive weight and let out a low huff that fogged the air beyond the bay doors, as if even he found the silence uncomfortable.

I leaned back in my chair and replayed the voice in my head.

I listened to hundreds of 911 recordings over the years as a reporter.  They were usually frantic, dramatic, or afraid. But not this guy. It wasn’t the voice of someone who stumbled upon tragedy in the snow and didn’t know what to do with his hands.

It was tidy.

Efficient.

Like he was reporting a loose brick on the sidewalk.

He gave Cisco’s full name. Identified the location clearly. Answered exactly what was asked. No more, no less. And the moment the dispatcher offered instructions—real ones, the kind that require kneeling in freezing slush and pressing down on a chest—he ended the call.

He wasn’t the norm. Far from it.

Panicked mothers. Breathless hikers. Neighbors who couldn’t finish a sentence without crying. Even the calm ones had something underneath—urgency, confusion, adrenaline.

This voice had none of that.

It had irritation.

Like the evening had been interrupted.

I pushed my chili aside, my appetite officially gone.

“I’d recognize that irritated, condescending tone anywhere,” I said, lifting my gaze to the rest of the table. “That’s Stern McStatueface.”

Wren blinked. “Who?”

“The butler at Tappington Manor.” I rubbed the pounding ache behind my eyes. “The human coat rack with perfect posture and judgy looks.”

“Stan McSween,” Mattie corrected.

“Right. Him. I didn’t catch his actual name, but that’s definitely his voice.” I tapped the table. “I’ve made a career out of knowing voices.”

Dean folded his arms, brow furrowed. “Maybe I’m slow on the uptake, but you guys are acting like this is a major revelation. What does the butler calling it in prove?”

Goldilocks hopped up on my lap like a giant, fluffy toddler. “It’s suspicious,” I said, absently scratching behind her ears. “He didn’t leave his name. He didn’t stay on the line. He didn’t wait around to explain what happened to the first responders.”

Barnaby snorted loudly, as if volunteering his own strong opinions about proper emergency response.

“Wouldn’t a loyal family employee at least attempt CPR?” Wren asked.

“Unless he’s loyal to someone else in the family.” Mattie steepled her fingers. “We need to look into his financial records.”

I released a long, slow breath. “No need. I can already attest that McStatueface living well beyond butler means. Tricked out Bentley. And a Rolex. The kind of watch that tells time in multiple countries.”

Dean shrugged. “It’s not uncommon for a wealthy employer to give holiday bonuses to longtime staff.”

I stared at him. “If that’s true, I’m going to butler school after this case wraps.”

“The Bentley is hush money.” Wren typed on her tablet, likely Googling the car and why it cost so much.

Dean shifted his weight, trying to follow the thread. “So what exactly are you ladies saying?”

Mattie spread her arms. “McSween saw too much.”

“Correction.” I tilted my head. “McStatueface saw just enough.”

“He didn’t happen to find Cisco in the gondola,” Mattie said. “He saw it all go down.”

“And instead of giving his name or trying to save Cisco, he saw a payday.” I leaned back in my chair. “He blackmailed Faith. Silence in exchange for a retirement plan.”

Goldilocks lowered herself back to the floor and rested her chin on my boot.

“It’s a well-thought-out story, Patsy, but we have no proof,” Mattie said. “No physical link between Faith and the digitalis. And McSween’s involvement is nothing more than a very expensive hunch.”

McStatueface wasn’t the kind of man who did anything without leverage. And Faith wasn’t the kind of woman who gave out Bentleys just because. Their relationship wasn't built on loyalty; it was built on a very expensive set of receipts. He knew exactly what she’d done, and she knew exactly how much it cost to keep him happy.

“So, we follow the money.” I looked at the waveform on the computer screen, the 911 call looping in my mind.

Faith may have held the poisoned glass, but the butler was holding the bill. And money always talks.

Season Finale: Part 2

 

The lodge glowed against the darkening sky, every window warm and golden, while the grounds shimmered silver under a thin crust of fresh snow. It was that in-between hour where it felt like midnight, but your watch insisted it was barely four-thirty.

We chose the lower terrace for our clandestine meeting, a secluded notch of stone just off the conservatory. A frozen fountain dominated the space, featuring a stone cherub caught in a perpetual, mid-sneeze grimace beneath a layer of ice. Nearby, towering pine trees groaned under the weight of the frozen tundra, their heavy branches sagging like curtains to shield us from prying eyes.

Goldilocks trotted ahead of us, nose buried in powder, occasionally sneezing in indignation.

He was already there.

Simon McSween—aka Silent McStatueface—stood near the fountain, coat perfectly tailored, posture military straight, hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting troops instead of being summoned to his own undoing.

He didn’t look nervous. He looked mildly inconvenienced.

“Mrs. McDonald,” he said evenly as we approached. “Mrs. Steffanelli.”

That was it. No warmth. No question mark.

Mama didn’t waste time and dove right in. “Mr. McSween. Let’s dispense with pleasantries.”

I appreciated that about her. When she shifted into full spy mode, the air pressure changed.

She stepped closer, boots crunching softly in the snow. “Financial records show a quarter-million-dollar withdrawal from a Tappington discretionary account one week after Cisco’s death.” She placed a highlighted report on the bench. “The same day you purchased a Bentley in cash. We obtained a statement from the dealership. The salesman identified you without hesitation.”

McSween didn’t blink.

“Then there’s the jeweler who sold you the Rolex two days later. I guess you had a little pocket change leftover.” She opened her manila folder and removed a still from a security camera. “Quite a celebratory week for a butler.”

The wind picked up, sending a fine swirl of snow across the terrace.

“Not to mention the recording of the 911 call that places you on the scene when Cisco was murdered.”

Silence.

Not flustered silence.

Not angry silence.

Strategic silence.

“Need I go on?” she asked.

“Maybe we do.” I stepped forward before when he refused to respond. “Mr. Mc…McSween, you had access to the old man’s digitalis prescription. You handled his medications.”

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“The same stuff that someone ground into a powder and slipped into Cisco’s drink.”

“Now, we don’t think you poisoned Cisco,” Mattie said with a sweet lilt to her voice. “You’re not a killer.”

She paused, awaiting a response, a twitch, something. But I didn’t give him the moniker Silent McStatueface for nothing.

“But if you don’t start talking,” she continued. “We’ll be forced to turn everything over to the authorities.”

I tilted my head, studying him. “And if you hadn’t noticed, Sheriff Nelson isn’t big on details. He’ll see this pile of evidence and rubber-stamp your murder charge. That’s easier. Less politically risky than going head-to-head with Faith Tappington.”

That landed.

McSween’s intense eyes started calculating. He adjusted his leather gloves. “I just have one question for you.”

Mattie inclined her head. “By all means.”

“Didn’t I hire you a few days ago as a maid?”

I almost smiled.

Mattie tucked a hand in the pocket of her wool coat. “I was working undercover.”

“I knew your references were too good to be true.” He interlocked his fingers. “So tell me. What incentive do I have to spill my guts to a couple of amateur podcasters who are facing their own legal troubles?”

That one stung a little.

But Mama didn’t flinch. “I have friends in the District Attorney’s office.”

“Do you now?” His tone remained smooth, unimpressed. “So, Pandarus, you’re promising me a sunny day in the middle of a blizzard?” He chuckled, much too proud of his Shakespeare reference. “I didn’t survive three generations of Tappingtons by believing the first person who offered me a coat. If you want me to turn on Faith, you’re going to need more than ‘friends.’ You’re going to need a miracle.”

Goldilocks chose that moment to bark at a drifting snowflake as if it had personally insulted her.

“Friends isn’t the right word. I was being overly modest.” Mama tapped her chin. “More like influence. Pull. And a list of people from here to Washington who owe me favors. How do you think I got the charges against my daughter dropped?”

I whipped my head toward her. “Dropped?” I hissed. “Really? Why were you sitting on that good news?”

She shot me a not now look so sharp it could have cut glass, then turned back to McSween. “If you cooperate. I think they’d be willing to cut a deal.”

“As it stands, you can be charged as an accessory to murder after the fact,” I said, casually dropping a legal tidbit from Michael. “Carries at minimum, five years.”

McSween’s eyes flicked between us, calculating the odds. We had money trails. We had timing. We had the 9-1-1 call. We had motive adjacency.

And he knew it.

He steepled his fingers. “You get me a deal in writing, and I’ll play ball. I’ll even wear a wire and get Faith to confess to killing her grandson.”

“Wow,” I muttered. “Straight to Season Finale energy.”

Mama’s gaze narrowed. “You won’t need a wire.”

McSween tilted his head. “No?”

“The library’s already equipped for surveillance.”

I turned very slowly toward Mama as snow drifted softly between us. “The what?”

She adjusted her cuff as if she’d just commented on the weather. “I told you I installed audio and video before the will reading.”

“I thought you were joking.”

“What’s important is that Faith believes that the room is private. It isn’t.”

“Is that legal?” I asked. Because if I was going to live dangerously, I at least needed to read the footnotes.

“When it comes to recordings, Vermont is a one-party consent state,” Mattie said. “And one party has already agreed. Isn’t that right, Mr. McSween?”

His jaw muscle twitched.

I glanced at him, then back at her. “Sometimes it’s almost unsettling how competent she is.”

He didn’t smile.

Mama leaned forward slightly, voice low, precise. “Faith thinks she controls every room she walks into. Let’s test that.”

The library at Tappington Manor felt like the perfectly theatrical location for a dramatic confrontation. Floor-to-ceiling shelves. Rolling ladders. Roaring fireplace. It was the kind of room where secrets would feel comfortable.

Which made it the perfect place to dismantle one.

But Mama and I weren’t in the library.

We were two rooms over in what used to be a walk-in supply closet—now temporarily repurposed into a control room that would have made Zer swoon with jealousy. Monitors lined the desk. Audio levels flickered green and red. Camera angles showed every inch of the library: the desk, the fireplace, the antique globe, the leather chairs arranged like a board meeting waiting to happen.

Sheriff Nelson stood near the doorway, arms crossed, jaw set in the expression of a man who reluctantly agreed to trust amateurs and deeply hoped it didn’t make his top ten list of biggest regrets.

“You’re certain this is legal?” he asked for the third time.

“One-party consent.” Mattie adjusted a knob on the audio board. “Mr. McSween is the consenting party.”

McSween stood in the hallway outside the library door, visible on Camera Two. Shoulders squared. Face composed. The stoic gatekeeper preparing to take down his boss.

He glanced toward the ceiling—toward us—and gave the faintest nod.

Goldilocks lay at my feet, unusually quiet, as if even she understood this was not the moment for comedic relief.

I hated giving up control of such an important moment. If this went bad, we wouldn’t get another chance.

Sheriff Nelson gave a short nod toward the screen. “Let’s see what your butler can do.”

Faith Tappington sat at the desk, lamplight casting her in gold and shadow. She didn’t look surprised to see him. If anything, she looked inconvenienced.

“Yes?” she asked coolly when she caught him hovering.

McSween approached, stopping just shy of the desk. “Ever since that podcaster showed up asking questions, I’ve gotten the urge to ease my conscience. I’m not sure I’ll be able to squash it.”

I felt my pulse quicken.

Faith clicked the lid of her gold fountain pen. “Try harder.”

“Incentive helps.”

“You got all the incentive I’m willing to give.”

He clasped his hands behind his back. “A car is nice. But I’ve been an employee for thirty years. At best, that car is a bonus for loyalty.”

“Yes, McSween, you have been a good little soldier.”

“But covering up a murder?” His deep brown eyes drooped. “That’s at least worth a nice house to retire to.”

Sheriff Nelson shifted beside me. “Your boy is going right in for the kill.”

I shushed him. “Quiet.”

Faith’s eyes sharpened. “You think you can extort me?”

“Certainly not,” McSween smirked. “This is blackmail.”

I nearly choked.

Faith’s lips twitched, and she scooted from the desk. “Cute. But I’ll pass.”

McSween blocked her path. “Your chain is weak, Mrs. Tappington. That Florida cousin is ready to break.”

Faith waved a hand dismissively. “Patrice Marie doesn’t know anything important.”

“But I do,” he whispered. “That’s why I deserve more. And that’s why you’re going to give me double. I want half a mill. In cash.”

Faith glared up at the butler, a look of pure indignation on her face. “Do you?”

“Yes,” McSween said. “Or I go to the police. Today.”

Faith stepped closer to him. Not afraid. Not flustered. Measured. “You’re overestimating your leverage.”

“I’m playing the game.”

She leaned in just enough for the microphone to pick up every wonderful word. “I killed my grandson—my flesh and blood—because he squashed my sale.” She looked McSween up and down. “You think I’ll even hesitate to do the same to a blackmailer?”

The confession echoed in our small control room.

Clear.

Unmistakable.

Behind me, Sheriff Nelson inhaled sharply.

Mattie nudged him with a not-so-gentle shove. “That’s your cue, Sheriff.”

Nelson pushed off the wall and strode toward the library door, hand already reaching for his cuffs.

We followed, knowing some things were better in person than on screen. Faith turned, composed even in surprise.

“Mrs. Tappington,” Sheriff Nelson said. “You’re under arrest for the murder of your grandson, Cisco Tappington.”

The matriarch didn’t fight. She lifted her chin, eyes scanning the room as if calculating how long it would take to regain control.

But this time, the room wasn’t hers.

“We got her,” I whispered.

Faith struggled against the handcuffs. “You’re making a big mistake, Nelson. I’ll have your job for this.”

“No ma’am,” he said with a shake of his head. “We, uh, got you on tape admitting to the whole thing.”

Her lip curled in a snarl as she locked eyes with me. She wanted to argue, to make her case, explain why she was smarter than everyone else involved… maybe even offer us a handsome bribe to forget everything we ever knew about foxglove.

Instead, she played it smart. “I want a lawyer.”

“You’re going to need one,” Sheriff Nelson said as he guided her toward the door.

We followed—not because we had to, but because some victories deserved front-row seats.

The family lined the staircase, practically listening in with a glass pressed to the wall.

Zer stood at the top, stiff as a fence post, glaring at his mother like she were a stranger. Beside him, Barbara Rey pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes darting between the handcuffs and the exit.

Halfway down, Daphne froze like a glitch, her phone raised to film the scene before her thumb hovered, paralyzed, over the record button. How would a girl obsessed with engagement deal with her grandmother murdering her brother? As it turned out, even in the age of the viral clip, some family secrets were too big for a TikTok.

At the bottom, Evangelina stood in the center of the foyer, perfectly still. She didn’t move, didn’t flinch—she simply watched Faith with the bright, dry eyes of a woman who finally got justice.

Dean stood apart from the Tappington line, stationed by the heavy oak doors in his EMT jacket. He didn't look triumphant; he looked relieved. He’d spent nearly a year carrying the weight of what he hadn’t done for Cisco, and as Faith passed him, he didn't look away. He stood his ground like a man who had finally finished a shift he never should have started.

Faith straightened, eyes scanning the escape route. She’d have to pass each and every person she betrayed on her way to the cruiser.

“This is an indignity,” she snapped. “In my own home.”

I tilted my head. “Not so fun when you’re on the other end of a perp walk, huh?”

Goldilocks trotted proudly at my side as if she personally orchestrated the arrest.

Zer’s jaw flexed. “Why’d you do it?”

“Because she’s a wicked woman.” Barbara Rey whispered. “Always has been.”

Faith lifted her chin one last time. “You think this changes anything?”

I smiled. “It already has.”

Sheriff Nelson escorted her through the grand doors and into the snow-dusted evening.

Flashbulbs didn’t go off. No reporters waited outside to shout questions like in the movies.

Just family.

And consequences.

The door shut behind her, the thud echoing through the foyer. Silence settled over Tappington Manor like fresh snow—cold, heavy, and absolute.

Wren leaned toward me, her voice a low conspiratorial hum. “Well, this is going to make one heck of an intriguing season finale.”

“You ladies are as good as advertised.” Dean clapped, a sharp, satisfied sound that broke the spell.

Mama adjusted her scarf, her mouth twitching at the corner. In Mattie-speak, that was basically a standing ovation. “Turns out your instincts were right, Law Firm. It was murder.”

“And this time, she can’t bury her crimes under money, legacy, or snow.”

---

Thank you so much for reading Maple Ridge…Unsolved — Episode 14 

and for spending this season with Patsy, Mama, Goldie, and the wonderfully complicated town of Maple Ridge.

Season 3 may be wrapped here on the blog, but the story isn’t quite over yet.

The full novel edition includes six bonus scenes you won’t find in the weekly episodes—extra moments, quieter character beats, and some just-for-fun scenes I couldn’t resist writing. (Yes, that includes more Patrice Marie…and a hike with Patsy and her boys.)

If you loved this season and want to experience everything Maple Ridge has to offer, you can pre-order the full book now and secure your copy with all the bonus content included.

Thank you for reading, cheering, theorizing, and coming along for the ride!

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