Maple Ridge...Unsolved - Episode 2

You've Got the Wrong Girl

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 3

Dean and I were absolutely, one-hundred-percent not supposed to be on the private gondola line that whisked the Tappington family up to their mountain fortress.

Which was precisely why we were on it.

The Tappingtons might own half the mountain, but they also had the architectural hubris to hide their ‘private family only’ gondola behind nothing more than a tasteful wrought-iron gate and a sign written in a font so pretentious it practically begged to be defied.

Goldilocks sat between us on the velvet bench—velvet, on a gondola in Vermont, which was a design choice that could only be made by someone whose coat never touched actual snow. She fogged the glass with happy dog breath, leaving enthusiastic little nose stamps of joy.

Meanwhile, I fogged the rest of the glass with nerves.

“Just to be clear…” I whispered as the claustrophobic glass coffin creaked over a ravine. “This is not the murder gondola?”

“Probably not,” Dean said.

“That level of certainty does not comfort me.”

“It wasn’t meant to.”

Below us, the forest was a quilt of untouched white. Romantic, if you weren’t gliding directly toward the site of a suspicious death with your ex in a sealed car identical to the one in which Cisco Tappington keeled over. The sleek black exterior, the gold trim, the silent judgment—it all whispered, You should’ve taken the stairs.

Instead, I found myself gliding into the summit station, poised between felony curiosity and misdemeanor determination.

I’d had a full morning already conducting preliminary research. Dr. Weston Tappington, who had been on duty in the ER last New Year’s Eve, insisted Cisco died of HCM. For those without a medical degree, that stood for some sort of stealthy hereditary heart condition. The kind that takes out young, healthy thirty-year-old men suddenly and excuses his suspicious demise as natural causes.

As the Tappington doc defended his diagnosis, I wondered if the shared surname had anything to do with his case-closed certainty. But I nodded politely while Mattie whispered, “That doctor’s too smooth, Patsy. He signed that death certificate faster than a teenager blocks her embarrassing parents on social media.”

Then she and Wren abandoned me for reconnaissance at the Lodge, leaving me with the only person in town skeptical of the Tappingtons’ official story: Dean Taylor Bradley.

Dean walked me through the photos he’d taken on the night in question. He was suspicious from the get-go, and after his shift, returned to the scene before police incompetence cleaned it of all evidence.

There still wasn’t much to go on. Cisco was alone, heading to the mansion to enjoy the fireworks show. It struck me as odd that his new bride, Evangelina, wasn’t with him. They’d been married a week; wouldn’t they want to ring in the new year together? But the file said nothing about her whereabouts during the time of death window.

“Is this shoddy policework or corruption?” I pinched my fingers as I zoomed in on one of Dean’s photographs.

“Our sheriff is…naïve. Not malicious.” Dean chose his words carefully. “He believes his job is directing traffic and finding lost dogs. He’s out of his depth with a murder investigation.”

I maneuvered around the gondola until my orientation matched that of the photograph. The only thing out of place was a spilled drink in a souvenir glass mug. Dean called it the Midnight Tap, a special holiday cocktail. Rye whiskey, the Tappington Family Reserve Maple Syrup, and Amaro bitters. Strong enough to dissolve secrets.

The mug was engraved with NYE XXIX, an edition rather than a year. Roman numerals were for clocks and gladiators. Everything else—including the Super Bowl—should use digits like a normal person.

The gondola bumped into the terminal with a soft thunk.

Dean didn't just tug; he practically strangled the collar of his quarter-zip, his eyes darting back and forth like he waited for a sniper. Despite the chilling temperature, a nervous bead of sweat dripped down his brow. “Let’s move quickly before anyone notices we’re trespassing on private property.”

“They don’t shoot trespassers, do they?”

Dean arched a brow over his glasses as if to say, Don’t be so sure about that.

Not at all comforting.

The station looked like someone hired a Scandinavian architect and said, Make it rustic, but for billionaires. Dark timber, stone archways, and a chandelier made from iron that probably required its own zoning permit.

The gondola doors hissed open, and we stepped out into ankle-deep snow. Our breath puffed white in the frigid air. Goldilocks bounded happily ahead, tail wagging in cursive.

And then Dean froze. Not the casual freeze to avoid stepping in gum. The kind that usually accompanied the words, Duck!

“What are you…”

His arm shot out, rigid and urgent, slamming me back against the wall of the terminal. His hand covered my mouth before I finished the question, the rough leather of his glove pressing my lips against my teeth. He leaned in, his breath a sharp, caffeinated rush in my ear. “Be quiet.”

“What are you doing? I’m going to need stitches,” I managed to murmur against the glove.

He pulled his hand back, and his voice was barely a frantic whisper. “Zer.”

“What the heck is a Zer?”

“Ebenezer Tappington Jr.” Dean peered around the corner and checked his watch. “He is the security chief at the lodge. And he is… absolutely not supposed to be up here right now.”

I followed his gaze.

A giant of a man emerged from the maintenance shed. He was all dark angles: a black parka, a tight skullcap, and a stern, clean-shaven square jaw that looked carved from granite. He carried a heavy-duty tactical flashlight large enough to interrogate the sun. Shoulders so wide they had their own weather pattern.

He gave off serious I tag my duffel bags as body bags energy.

“He looks like a cartoon villain.” I motioned for Goldilocks to sit, which she interpreted as permission to dig in the snow. “On a scale of one to Danger Will Robinson, how worried should I be right now?”

“He can’t catch you up here.”

“Me? What about you?”

“I’m checking the area,” Dean breathed. “Responding to the 9-1-1 call.”

I whipped my head toward him. “The what now?!”

He adjusted his glasses and swallowed. “An anonymous call came through the base station—a medical emergency near the summit. I’m a paramedic. I had to respond.” His eyes darted to Zer. “If he sees you, you’re trespassing. If he sees me, I’m doing my job.”

“I can’t be your lovely assistant?” I glanced at Goldie. “With animal search and rescue.”

Dean grabbed my elbow, steering me toward the shadows along the station wall. “There’s a maintenance path that skirts the Manor and ends near the greenhouse. Hide. I’ll text you when he clears.”

“I can’t hide. Goldilocks and I leave more tracks than a lost Boy Scout troop going in circles.”

“Please, Patsy.” His eyes pleaded for me to listen. “I can talk my way through this. But not if he catches you.”

Before I objected, he jogged across the snow, waving wildly. “Zer! I got an emergency call from dispatch. Have you seen anyone in distress up here?”

His voice carried, cheerful but professional. Zero guilt. Ten parts paramedic authority.

The light faded fast. It was barely past four in the afternoon, but the sun already surrendered, pushing the sky into that deep, purplish-blue of early dusk. I swore that in Vermont, winter gave you maybe three hours of decent daylight before deciding it was the middle of the night again.

Zer grunted in reply, shining his massive tactical flashlight across the platform like he expected trespassers to spontaneously yodel. The beam cut a harsh, blinding white slash through the rapidly deepening shadows.

“Come on, Goldie.” I tapped my hip, and we tore off the platform, snow kicking up around us. The cold slapped me across the face with all the subtlety of a parade float.

Tappington Manor loomed ahead—massive, stone-faced, severe. The kind of house that would scold you for leaving fingerprints on its banister.

Halfway down the path, I ducked behind a colossal spruce blanketed in snow so thick it looked like it was auditioning for the role of enchanted forest guardian. My boots sank deep, my breath puffed out in frantic clouds, and my coat snagged on a branch that was definitely out to get me.

Dean’s instructions echoed in my head.

Hide near the greenhouse.

Wait.

Be patient.

I stared at the greenhouse—a gleaming palace of glass and frost, glittering like a diamond. Let me fold myself behind the rhododendron of shame and hope I don’t get frostbite.

I tugged my hat lower, and Goldilocks kissed my cheek. “Dean wants us to hide like a polite woodland critter, but my life only has two speeds: Zero and Full Soap Opera.”

Goldie tilted her head and whined. A fair point.

“We don’t wait for permission. Time to make a splash in this murder investigation.”

Her little tail wagged sharply in agreement.

The cold seeped through my boots, up my legs, into my soul. I straightened my scarf, squared my shoulders, and stared at Tappington Manor—the kind of place that could crush a man’s dreams and still have time to critique his shoes.

“Let’s go meet the suspects.”

And with all the confidence my body heat could muster, I stepped out from the tree line and strode straight toward the mansion.

Goldilocks trotted beside me, ready for whatever storm waited inside.

The front door of Tappington Manor loomed like a cathedral’s judgmental older sister—massive slabs of dark oak banded with iron and carved so intricately I half expected it to ask me for a password. Goldilocks and I stood before it, dusted in snow, looking like the wrong answer on a multiple-choice quiz.

“Okay,” I whispered, kneeling to adjust her pink plaid sweater. “You and me? Respectable. Not suspicious. No barking unless someone threatens us…or, you know, looks at us weird. But otherwise? Dignity.”

Goldie blinked and immediately ate a mouthful of snow.

“Perfect.”

I lifted the dramatic vintage door knocker and banged out Shave and a haircut, two bits.

The sound echoed like I dropped a church bell down a flight of stairs. Not that I had any experience with that specific noise…

A full two seconds later, the door cracked open with the slow, reverent creak of a haunted mansion. A man stood between the crack. Tall. Gaunt. Immaculately pressed black suit. Expression so blank it required subtitles. The silent house manager type—every wealthy family came equipped with one.

“Hello,” I chirped with forced confidence. “I’m Patsy. I’m—uh—expected. Sort of.”

His eyes flicked from my cheeky hat slogan to my silver puffer coat, then to Goldie, who wagged like the world’s friendliest menace.

Without a word, he stepped aside.

The universal sign for: I will allow this mistake to continue, but only for a half minute longer.

Inside, the foyer hit me like a museum gala had collided with a hunting lodge. Two stories of glossy dark wood, a staircase that screamed generational wealth, and enough taxidermy to suggest the family never let anything truly escape—including dinner guests.

A moose head stared at me like it knew I didn’t belong.

Goldie let out a soft boof that sounded exactly like: That thing better not move.

Before I introduced myself to the decorative wildlife, a woman swept in from a side parlor.

Barbara Rey Tappington.

Even though I only half paid attention to Dean’s case notes and photos of the family, I recognized her instantly. Cisco’s disinherited aunt. She had the kind of presence that demanded dramatic lighting. She wore a slim, black velvet pantsuit tailored with an uncompromising severity that whispered of couture and discipline. Her dark hair was styled into a perfectly geometric, high-volume bob, looking less like a haircut and more like a carefully engineered weapon.

Her eyebrows—thin, dark, and highly expressive—weren't merely sharp; they could perform a full, silent monologue of disdain without her lips ever moving.

She carried a heavy crystal decanter of something amber and expensive and an empty glass. I suspected the drink wasn’t her first of the day. She held the glass like an accessory, but I wondered if it was more like an emotional anchor, temporary relief from the strain of her father’s recent death.

She froze mid-step, and her eyebrows arched to the heavens. Her gaze swept me from hat to boots, pausing just long enough to decide she did not like my vibe. Then she took a long, slow sip.

“Well,” she said, voice smooth as bourbon. “Patsy, is it?”

I opened my mouth, fully prepared to admit nothing and explain even less, but Barbara Rey leaned in, lowering her voice to an incredulous whisper.

“Patrice Marie… is that you?”

A laugh nearly escaped me.

“Look, everyone,” she announced to absolutely no one. “It’s cousin Patrice Marie from the Florida Tappingtons. You go by Patsy now? You look exactly the same… although I haven’t seen you since we were both children.”

My brain did a complete cartoon double-take.

Then clicked.

Then screamed, This is free access to suspects. TAKE IT.

I smiled. “Just Patsy is fine. And yes—it’s been ages.”

Barbara Rey gave me the kind of approving nod reserved for cousins she planned to gossip about later. Then her attention dropped to my empty hands.

“Where are your bags, darling?” she asked, filling her glass and placing the decanter on an antique table under the moose. “It’s only a few days until the reading of Daddy’s will. You are staying with us, aren’t you?”

I cleared my throat. “Well, I planned to stay at the—uh—resort lodge. Don’t want to get in anyone’s way.”

“Oh, that’s probably for the best,” she said, dismissing the idea with a wave of her diamond-ringed hand. “But do tell! What is Aunt Viv wearing these days? I hear she’s sold that tacky Key West property. Did she finally unload it for the full asking price? And is cousin Julian still managing that boat charter business, or has he finally put his inheritance into something more respectable?”

Suddenly, I understood how the walls felt. Deer in the headlights, I didn’t know how to answer. Lucky for me, Barbara Rey had yet to notice my silence.

She leaned in, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “One assumes the Florida assets are still substantial, yes? With Daddy’s will being read soon, one likes to have the full picture.”

Before I wriggled off the hook, a firm voice cut in from above.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Barbara Rey, quit interrogatin’ the girl.”

We all turned, Goldilocks included.

Descending the staircase like a queen making her grand entrance was Faith Tappington. She was shorter than Barbara Rey and sturdier. She wore a high-collared cream cashmere sweater and tweed slacks. Her movements were brisk, decisive—the energy of a woman who did not ask permission because she’d never needed to.

“Patrice Marie, honey, you’re staying right here,” she declared. Her slight Southern accent, warm and commanding, softened the grand hall but not her authority. “A Tappington does not stay in employee housing unless they’re earnin’ a paycheck.”

Employee housing. Aka the five-star ski resort with a picturesque view of the mountains.

Faith gave me a once-over, far kinder than Barbara Rey’s but no less appraising. “You look cold, darlin’. We’ll have someone call the Lodge and fetch your things.”

Ah.

There it was, the moment my very poorly thought-out plan unraveled.

My bags wouldn’t be found at the lodge because they were tossed haphazardly in the Bronco towing the Airstream parked near a fire station with my dog’s chew toy graveyard inside.

I forced a warm smile. “That’s… very kind of you.”

Goldilocks chose that exact moment to sniff an ottoman, as if it plotted something suspicious.

Faith reached out, patting my arm with matriarchal confidence. “You’re family, sweetheart. And family stays together.”

Barbara Rey lifted her drink. “Amen.”

Goldilocks sneezed at the moose.

I had officially infiltrated the Tappington stronghold under false identity, terrible fashion choices, and a dog with no sense of secrecy.

And all I could think was:

Well, Patsy… you wanted front-row seats to a murder.

The house manager—Silent McStatueface—gestured for me to follow. No words. No smile. No acknowledgment that I’d brought a dog into the mansion and both of us tracked in melted snow.

Goldilocks trotted proudly beside me, tail high, as if she were the heir to the estate and not the world’s happiest trespasser.

“Stay close,” I whispered, which she interpreted as: please zigzag violently between my legs.

We moved through the manor’s main artery: long, cathedral-like hallways paneled in dark, glossy wood. Every footstep echoed back with the polite menace.

The tour was… bewildering.

One turn led into a wing of shuttered drawing rooms.

Another revealed a hallway lined with so many portraits that I swore the ancestors whispered, You don’t belong here, sweetie.

Then a narrow staircase spiraled into an unexpected third floor before splitting into two additional staircases, making me question whether the architect had been drunk or simply vengeful.

“This place is a labyrinth,” I half expected to find Picasso’s monstrous, half-bull creature wearing a cashmere sweater and complaining about the vintage of the chardonnay. “A bougie Minotaur could live here.”

The house manager didn’t react.

Goldilocks, however, snorted, appreciating my artsy humor.

We passed a pair of heavy doors that might as well be marked PRIVATE FAMILY QUARTERS, leading to the old wing, which looked like it had been built before the invention of heat. Then came the modern addition—expansive, sleek, and about as welcoming as a corporate boardroom.

The farther we walked, the quieter it got. The more the air pressed down. The more the grandeur stopped being grand and started feeling like a velvet-lined vault designed to keep the truth buried under tasteful lighting and expensive rugs.

“This house doesn’t want to be lived in. It wants to be obeyed,” I whispered to Goldie.

She sniffed an antique table leg in firm agreement.

At last, the house manager stopped before a long corridor so distant it might’ve technically been in a different time zone.

He opened a heavy birch door.

“Your room, Ms. Patrice Marie.” He gave the faintest quiver on the assumed name—judgment or confusion, unclear—and left without another syllable.

The door clicked shut. Quiet silence stretched before me, and I realized where I’d been placed—the East Wing. The farthest, most secluded, most acoustically abandoned part of the house.

The enchilada end.

That’s what I called the far-flung corner room—the one where eavesdropping required sonar, where footsteps evaporated in carpet thicker than political scandals, and where, frankly, you could start a small fire and no one would notice until the smoke alarm learned to scream in Latin.

My suite was enormous—bigger than some base apartments Michael and I lived in. King-sized canopy bed, velvet drapes, a fireplace big enough to roast a medium-sized hog, and a bathroom that looked like a spa married a Roman bathhouse.

Goldilocks immediately put her nose to the rug.

Then the baseboards.

Then the drapes.

She was on a mission, and the mission was “sniff every secret.”

“What is it, girl?”

She sneezed at the armoire like it owed her money.

Comforting.

I locked the door and performed a quick, Mattie-inspired sweep of the room. Checking behind lamps, under tables, around sconces.

Did I know what listening devices looked like? No.

Did I pretend I did? Absolutely.

“Clear,” I announced with authority, even though the only thing I’d uncovered was a Wi-Fi extender and a stray earring.

Time for reinforcements.

I sat on the edge of the bed, lowered my voice like a fugitive on a payphone, and dialed Mattie.

“This is a wild one, even for me. Where do I begin?”

Goldilocks hopped up beside me, placing one paw on my knee like: You got us into this mess…

“Hello?”

My heart raced at the sound of her voice. “Mama, I’m at the Manor. I’m not Patsy anymore. I’m Patrice Marie Tappington, the long-lost Florida cousin. And they’re sending someone to collect my things from the lodge, which they won’t find because they’re in the Airstream. I’m trapped at the enchilada end of the mansion.”

“Who is this?”

My eyes and entire body rolled. Now she decides to be funny? “What do I do, Mama? I might be bunking with a murderer.”

Mattie laughed. Actually laughed. A delighted, triumphant little cackle. “Patrice Marie? Oh, honey, that’s brilliant.”

“I—sorry—what? Mama?”

“That gives us access to every floor. Stay put, Patsy. That’s the best cover we could ask for. I’ll see you soon.”

“You’ll what?”

Dial tone.

“She hung up on me.”

Goldilocks stared at the phone in mutual betrayal.

“Did she just tell me to hold down the fort?” I dropped it onto the comforter. “Meanwhile, she gets to go crime-scene diving with Wren?”

Goldie tilted her head.

“Exactly,” I sighed. “I’m trapped in luxury. They’re off having adventures. The injustice.”

The fireplace crackled softly, and the silence of the East Wing pressed in.

And that’s when it hit me: I was alone, undercover, in a house full of suspects—while my mother and teenage cousin had clearly gone rogue.

Oh yes.

This was going to be a very long night.

---

Thank you for reading Maple Ridge...Unsolved - Episode 1.

Can't wait for the next episode? Pre-order now and secure your copy! 

Pre-Order

Want to learn more about my weekly serial: Murder, Mystery, & Mom?

Click here.