Maple Ridge...Unsolved - Episode 3

Mi Vida Loca

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 3

Goldilocks sprawled across the enormous four-poster bed like she owned the entire East Wing. I, meanwhile, sat cross-legged on the rug, hair in curlers, laptop balanced on a velvet ottoman, existential dread simmering as I Googled my new identity.

“Okay,” I muttered, clicking the next result. “Patrice Marie Tappington of Sarasota. Likes: sunsets, minimalism, and posting inspirational quotes that contradict each other.”

Goldie woofed gently, which I took to mean, You’re doing amazing, sweetie, even though I was absolutely not.

“This isn’t as easy as I make it look. Who’d of thunk it that there are at least three different Florida Tappingtons?”

She sneezed.

“Exactly.” I stabbed at the mousepad. “I spent the last twenty minutes memorizing the wrong one. That woman lived in Tampa, not Sarasota. Completely different vibe. Tampa Tappingtons rollerblade on boardwalks and wear neon. Sarasota Tappingtons play tennis and speak country club. Maybe I should do an accent?” I cleared my throat. “Come on, Muffy, it’s nearly tee time at the golf course, which precedes tea time at the club.”

Goldilocks buried her nose under her paws.

“Okay, so I’m no Katherine Hepburn. Nixing the accent.”

I clicked on an archived article. “Says here she was the city tennis champ in sixth grade.” I nodded, practicing how I could subtly drop that into conversation. “I can absolutely work that in. ‘Yes, Barbara Rey, I was quite the athlete at age twelve.’”

Goldie tilted her head, doubtful.

I waved her off. “Don’t judge me. I’m athletic, and I’ve swatted tennis balls before. And I could definitely hold a racket and look confident.” I cowered under my dog’s judgment. She’d seen me run after her on walks. “Worst case, I fake shin splints.”

Google loaded another page. “Bingo! Now, I’ve hit the motherlode.” I executed an over-the-top fist pump. “Patrice Marie Tappington’s Facebook profile.”

I squinted at a pixelated headshot that looked like it had been taken twenty years earlier with a Razor flip phone's camera.

“And look at this.” I clicked the lone social media image my new identity had blessed the internet with. A shadowy beach silhouette taken at sunset. “This is perfect. You can’t tell anything from that. No hair color, no face shape. It’s just… a blob with aspirations.”

Goldie licked my cheek.

“Plus,” I said, scrolling through the rest. “She mostly posts dog memes and pictures of her golden retriever.” I looked at Goldie. “You’re a Goldendoodle. That’s basically a golden retriever with extra frosting. We’re fine.”

She wagged proudly as I scrolled further, memorizing my history.

“She also… recently sold her bike on Facebook Marketplace? Eh.” I wrinkled my nose. “I won’t lead with that. That’s more of a dessert fact. Something you drop when everyone’s tired and ready for pie.”

Goldilocks got up, padded over, and plopped her head onto my shoulder with a soft huff that was the emotional support equivalent of Mom, stop spiraling.

I shut the laptop.

“Okay,” I breathed, standing up and pacing. “Dinner with the Tappingtons. I can do this. I am undercover. I am composed.” My stomach flip-flopped. “I am… mildly nauseous, but that’s part of the mystique.”

I stared at myself in the mirror—curlers, silver puffer jacket tossed on a chair, the world’s most judgmental antique wardrobe looming behind me.

“Think like Mama,” I told my reflection. “Channel your inner spy. What would Mattie do? Some of her brilliance must be running through your blood.”

I closed my eyes and pictured her in my shoes.

“Mama would waltz downstairs, charm every suspect, and secure three confessions before dessert.”

Goldie barked twice, in complete agreement.

“And what will I do?” I asked.

Goldie barked once.

“Correct,” I said. “Not that.”

Still, some part of me felt… ready.

Or at least Mattie-adjacent.

Spy-lite.

Spy Zero Sugar.

I slipped into my nicest sweater—navy with tasteful sparkles—and a pair of boots that said, I can walk on ice, but I would prefer not to. Goldie wore her best bow collar, which had tiny embroidered snowflakes and a rogue penguin.

“Here’s the plan,” I said, kneeling beside her. “We don’t speak unless spoken to. We deflect personal questions. And if anyone asks where we’ve been for the last twenty years, we say Florida and pray they don’t ask about gators because my knowledge stops at ‘never swim at dusk.’”

Goldie sneezed.

“And for the love of all that is holy, do not let me accidentally confess to a crime I didn’t commit. That feels like a real possibility tonight.”

A sudden knock made me jump a full inch off the carpet.

Three firm, rhythm-less taps. The sound of a man who had never smiled in recorded history.

I opened the door an inch. There stood Silent McStatueface, the Tappington house manager, looking like he’d been carved from marble. His posture was so impeccable that it made gravity seem lazy.

“Dinner is served, Madam.” His eyes flicked to Goldilocks.

She wagged politely.

He gave her a brief, withering side-eye—the kind of look that said canines belong in doghouses in the backyard, not mansions—but he didn’t forbid her.

“Excellent,” I chirped, voice artificially bright. “We’ll be right there. Just need to…”

I mimed… something. A gesture that might’ve meant adjust my aura.

He did not blink. “Very good, Ms. Patrice Marie.”

Oh Lord.

It was starting already.

Goldie and I exchanged a look. I ripped the curlers from my hair and did the upside-down fluff that always gave women on TV effortless beach waves.

“This is it,” I whispered to her as we stepped into the hall. “Our first mission.”

She trotted ahead as if she’d been undercover her whole fluffy life.

And I followed, praying my borrowed identity—and my nerves—would survive dinner with a family who definitely wasn’t mine and a murderer.

 They must have timed my entrance to a drumroll I didn’t hear coming, because the entire room turned like a team of those synchronized swimmers in slow motion and locked on me. My pulse did jazz-hands, and my heart went full-on parade in my rib cage.

Silent McStatueface (whose real name I heard but didn’t recall) swept my chair out like it was my red-carpet moment. I took one careful step toward it, palms damp, rehearsing not-to-trip choreography in my head.

The entire Tappington dining room—a vast, silent, intimidating landscape of mahogany and silver—felt like it was silently judging me. Every single eye at the table, from Zer’s critical stare to Faith’s watchful assessment, was locked on the simple act of me sitting down. I felt less like a fake cousin and more like a bearded lady doing the high-wire circus act.

And then Goldilocks slid into my seat like she owned equity in the manor. She made a slow, deliberate turn, sinking her entire body into the cushion and instantly turning the elegant chair into her personal chaise lounge. She looked over her shoulder as if to say, I have claimed this throne. Bow before me, peasant.

I swear, even the chandelier blinked in sympathy.

A hot flush immediately climbed my neck. I could feel the family’s judgment thickening the air; they were watching to see if the "Florida cousin" knew how to control her dog—or, more accurately, how to control herself.

I placed a hand on my hip and huffed, which is the sound a person makes right before they commit canine eviction. “Goldie, get—”

Goldie, unimpressed, flopped her chin on the armrest and refused to move.

I clamped my mouth shut. Any visible struggle could shatter my thin disguise. I imagined Barbara Rey instantly dialing her social archives to confirm that ‘Patrice Marie’ was a world-renowned dog training assistant of Cesar Millan, and that she would never let a dog treat her like antique velvet like a doormat.

 “Excuse me, your seat is reserved for humans. Must be this tall to ride.”

No one laughed. Goldie snored.

I attempted the forceful approach: I tried to lift her. She turned into a furry bag of dead weight.

I attempted the graceful approach: I sat on half the chair, losing half my dignity in the process.

With a wiggle, I tried to get comfy. It wasn't sitting, exactly—it was more of a cramped, unstable perch that only utilized three inches of the cushion, but at least I was off my feet. I quickly grabbed the linen napkin, thankful the ordeal of not making a scene was over.

“Patrice Marie,” Faith said, booming with the kind of voice that made curtains take notes. “You certainly know how to make an entrance.” Her laugh was big and slightly theatrical, like someone who’d been practicing for decades. The sound had the same authority as a gavel.

Faith Tappington was shorter than I expected, but she controlled the room like a matronly godmother with a ledger. Cashmere sweater, no-nonsense pearls, the posture of a woman who’d once commanded a naval vessel, and a dinner service simultaneously.

Barbara Rey eyeballed my hair as if I forgot to take out a curler and raised her tumbler in a slow, deliberate sip. The sound of liquid and crystal sliced the air. The aunt of the deceased looked like she’d been airbrushed into being: black velvet suit, pinpoint eyeliner, an eyebrow that punctuated any argument.

Ebenezer Tappington Jr., Uncle Zer to the victim. He grunted from the end of the table, all solid slabs of muscle and a face that only cracked for things like a well-grilled steak or a good scolding. He ate with the efficiency of someone who ate to live, not lived to eat. He polished his first course salad and fixed me with a look that was part curiosity, part interrogation.

Cisco’s baby sister Daphne flounced like a breezy Instagram filter with knees. She had the breathless energy of someone who lived between hashtags, and her eyes darted for the camera-worthy angle even while she jabbed her fork.

Evangelina—new widow and bubbly enigma—talked with her hands so much it was a minor miracle the dressing stayed on her plate. She was the sort of person who’d bring a soundtrack to a eulogy and sing along.

Faith clapped her hands once, a small percussion that brought the servants scurrying with tureens of maple-glazed ham. The smell hit—sweet, smoky, entirely too convincing. The ham shimmered under an amber lacquer of Tappington Reserve syrup, hunks of roasted apples tucked around it. Faith’s pride in that syrup was practically audible.

“We have the finest chefs at the lodge,” Faith said, nudging a silver platter my way. “We use our family reserve as a glaze. This is Maple Ridge on a plate.”

I dipped my fork in a polite nibble—more for survival than appetite. My nerves hummed so loud I could hear my teeth tap in Morse code. I tried my best not to look like I was about to faint, which involved delicate forksmanship and pretending to be utterly unaffected by an opulent house charged with recent death energy.

My fork rested on the rim of my plate and approached the next topic with care—the same way I did TV interviews back in the day when I wanted someone to talk without feeling cornered.

“It’s a strange time to be a Tappington,” I said, my voice casual-like despite the nervous frog in my throat. “It’s all changed so fast. I’m curious, who’s actually running the operation day-to-day?”

Faith folded her hands over her napkin. Her laugh had that same authoritative cadence as before, but softer and more reflective. “Ebenezer insisted on coming off the bed rest and taking the wheel after Cisco died. Oh, that sweet, stubborn fool of a husband. Obstinate to the end.”

Control of a ginormous syrup company was motive for murder. But who was next in line? Ebenezer skipped over his children, leapfrogging to Cisco. Would Zer or Barbara Rey take over next? Cisco’s sister? His widow?

“Big shoes to fill. Cisco took over when Ebenezer first got ill, didn’t he? He was meant to be the next one up.” I asked. “Who’s in charge now?”

Zer grunted as if that were a point of contention.

“We’re still in a transition period.” Faith interlocked her fingers. “So, Patrice Marie…

“She goes by Patsy now, Mama. Honestly, do you ever listen to anyone’s wishes?” Barbara Rey rolled her eyes. “Zer’s head of security, which suits him better than dealing with people. Daphne’s…not ready for the responsibility of a goldfish. Evangelina isn’t a true Tappington. And I was sidelined for reasons everyone knows. Something tells me we should go with an outside hire.” She tapped her lip with the stem of her glass as if tasting the injustice.

Zer snarled at his sister. “You started on the gin a little early, even for you, Barb.”

I let the sharp comments and bitter history fly past me, thankful for the polite cover of a linen napkin. It was all a lot to take in. The Tappingtons were supposed to be Patrice Marie’s family, but I had trouble keeping their power dynamics straight.

So, I decided to simplify. I ironed out the facts flying through my brain, arranging them like the cast of a perfect soap opera clan. To make sense of it all, I had to treat the maple syrup empire like Ewing Oil.

• The Deceased Heir (Cisco): Took over when the patriarch, Ebenezer, first fell ill. Cisco’s sudden death almost a year ago was the catalyst.

  
  

• The Patriarch (Ebenezer): Refused to step away even after Cisco's death, stubbornly holding the reins until his own recent demise.

  
  

• The Outsider (Evangelina): Cisco’s widow. Barbara Rey was right: she wasn't a "true Tappington," meaning her claim, if she had one, was weak.

• The Black Sheep (Barbara Rey): Edged out of power—the constant gin glass was the loudly whispered reason. Her sidelined position was a clear motive.

  
  

• The Muscle (Zer): Runs security, doesn’t have his father’s business sense. He's the loyal, blunt force, likely a valuable asset, but not a boardroom contender.

  
  

• The Wild Card (Daphne): Dismissed as too flashy and too young for the long-game company decisions.

  
  

My Spidey senses tingled—transition period equals opportunity for a killer. And dodgy family dynamics equal suspects.

Barbara Rey nursed her drink, unconcerned by the daggers the family shot her. “So how are the Florida Tappingtons, dear?”

I prepared for this question with a solid twenty minutes of Googling. “Sunny. Loving Sarasota. Perfect weather for tennis, which is my favorite sport. As you might recall, I was a junior city tennis champion at twelve.” I tried to drop the facts casually like a general dinner conversation.

Instead, it landed like I brought up politics at Thanksgiving.

How did none of Mama’s CIA skills rub off on me? Maybe I needed a DNA test, something to prove I was switched at birth at the hospital. There was probably a perfectly normal, klutzy family out there, confused by their highly skilled, gymnast sniper daughter who learned eight languages before graduating high school.

Mattie would have been smooth as butter. She would have layered the tennis anecdote beneath a complaint about the Florida heat, prompting the Tappingtons to share memories of the real Patrice Marie. Meanwhile, I fell into a syrupy trap of my own making.

Faith snapped her fingers, and another platter drifted toward us, carried by a server who moved with the reverence of someone handling priceless artifacts. This dish was roasted root vegetables lacquered with what I could only assume was more Tappington syrup, because everything in this house appeared to be either inherited, monogrammed, or maple-infused.

I took a polite spoonful, then another, but mostly rearranged them as if working a puzzle. My stomach still behaved as if it held auditions for Cirque du Stress.

Daphne noticed my tinkering, despite burying her nose in her phone. “Our Florida cousin is eating like she’s making a ‘What I Eat In A Day’ video that starts with three peas and ends in starvation.” She shrugged. “But even that is preferable to Zer’s chewing.”

He glared. “What’s wrong with my chewing?”

Daphne pivoted like a heat-seeking gossip missile. “Do you swallow gravel for fun, or is that a new diet?” She leaned in, relentless. “Seriously, Uncle Zer, you sound like a malfunctioning wood chipper.”

He stopped mid-chew, looked at her with a glacial, deadpan stare, then resumed eating with the exact same volume and tempo.

I silently awarded him a medal.

Barbara Rey let out a delicate, world-weary sigh. “Daphne, sweetheart, must we comment on everyone’s eating habits at the dinner table? It’s rather rude.”

“Would you rather I comment on everyone’s drinking habits, Auntie?” Daphne said sweetly.

To hopefully blend in better, I reached for the ham again. It glistened under the golden glow of the chandelier, practically humming with syrupy pride. I took another tiny bite. Nerves kicked it right back into the holding pattern beneath my diaphragm.

Faith dabbed her lips and looked around the table with an air of someone about to refocus a group discussion in a corporate meeting.

“Let’s try talking about something pleasant,” she said.

“Oh!” Evangelina shot upright like she’d been waiting for a cue. “Speaking of pleasant—”

And then she was off. Faith had practically wound her up with a crank.

Evangelina clasped her hands under her chin, bracelets jingling. “Okay, guys, pleasant things are my specialty. I think the world needs more pleasantness. More comforting. More… Hallmark.” She held up a finger. “Don’t groan at me, Zer.”

“I only grunt when you say stupid things.”

“Everyone laughs at me for loving those holiday movies, but you know what? There’s nothing wrong with being happy.” Evangelina launched into her speech with the warm, sparkling confidence of someone reviewing a cherished recipe. “Snowfalls! Bakery montages! Former rivals falling in love while building a gazebo! They’re wholesome!”

She knocked into her water glass from too much gesturing; Daphne caught it mid-tip without looking up from her phone. Evangelina didn’t even notice.

“People say they’re predictable,” she continued, waving a dramatic hand. “But predictable is good! Predictable is safe! Predictable is knowing the couple will kiss under the mistletoe with fake snow falling and live happily ever after. What’s wrong with a guaranteed happy ending?”

Her lip trembled with earnest enthusiasm. The whole table blinked.

Wanting a happily ever after made sense. Especially from someone who’d been a bride for one week before becoming a widow. A young, newlywed widow.

Still, the cynic in me couldn’t help wondering. Was her sunshine real… or a cleverly placed spotlight?

Before I could ponder further, Daphne shifted her attention back to me, clearly bored with sentimentality.

“So, cousin,” she said, chin in hand, eyes sharp. “I know we’ve never met, but you look so familiar to me. Really familiar. Maybe I follow you on Insta? Or maybe you’re on TikTok? Are you an influencer?”

I nearly sprayed cider through my nose. “Goodness, no,” I sputtered. “My kids still make fun of me for the chin selfie I accidentally posted when I was trying to take a picture of my dog. Stupid forward-facing camera.”

Goldie huffed in a way that suggested she wholeheartedly blamed me for that embarrassing story.

“I probably just have one of those faces.”

Daphne looked me over, judging everything from my hair to my outdated wardrobe. Nothing about me said ‘influencer,’ but I couldn’t help worrying my cover might be blown. “That must be it.”

At the far end of the table, Zer pushed away his empty plate and wiped his mouth. “We didn’t think you were coming,” he said, tone flat but intent heavy.

My shoulders tensed. “Pardon?”

“To Daddy’s will reading,” he said. “The executor contacted you. Never got an answer.”

Oh boy. The real Patrice Marie had ghosted the family estate.

I rubbed my napkin between my palms, fighting the urge to sweat-cascade down the chair.

I pressed my napkin to my lips, more worried about a nervous lip-sweat than a mashed potato mustache. If I didn't stop this nervous sweating, I was going to look less like a visiting cousin and more like a squatter who’d been caught soaking in the Tappington hot tub.

“I was surprised to be invited, honestly,” I said, the lie flowing with gentle confidence. “I didn’t want to intrude. But then I thought…Uncle Eb must’ve had a reason to bring me here.”

Internally, I screamed. Uncle Eb? Really?

Million-to-one odds Patrice Marie ever called him that.

The more I talk, the worse this gets. Abort mission. Eat ham.

I stuffed the tiniest piece of ham into my mouth to silence myself, praying no one noticed the tremble in my fork.

A muscle twitched in Zer’s chiseled jaw. “Or you figured there might be something to gain, financially.”

I jolted into my best outraged cousin face, even though my stomach did the Macarena. “Gosh, no. I just wanted to pay my respects. Felt right, you know? Family.”

I flashed the tightest smile known to dentistry. Zer didn’t buy it. His stare stretched long enough to count as a background check, and I was convinced he’d bust me then and there.

“As fun as this dinner has been, I think it’s time I call a truce and ask everyone to return to their quarters.” Faith rose, signaling the end of the meal with the crisp finality of a court adjourning. “And just to be perfectly clear,”—her gaze speared each of them—“I will not have this family challenging Ebenezer’s will. If he wanted to leave the company to the Florida Tappingtons, that was his prerogative.”

“He didn’t, though… did he?” Barbara Rey asked, swirling her gin like she expected answers to float to the top.

Faith smiled, cold and confident. “I suppose we’ll find out at the reading.”

And boom. Dinner adjourned.

Chairs scraped. Bracelets jingled. The Tappingtons scattered, no one willing to challenge Faith’s authority.

I eased off the half-seat I’d been clinging to like an acrobat and stood. Goldilocks stretched, her first-class seating experience clearly restorative. She hopped down and shook, ruffling her fur with a smugness I found positively irritating.

I pivoted toward the exit—only to find Zer positioned by the massive stone fireplace, arms crossed, a one-man human barricade. A dragon guarding the drawbridge.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just flicked his eyes. A silent verdict saying: You’re lying.

A bead of sweat traced my spine, and I mustered a Florida chuckle. What made it Florida, I couldn’t say. “Great ham, Cousin Zer.”

He didn’t grunt. Didn’t twitch. The man had the stoicism of a Greek statue carved by someone who hated emotions.

Goldie gave me a warning growl—not aggressive, more like, We can take him, but let’s not. I took the hint and hurried after Silent McStatueface, who’d already ghosted halfway down the hall.

The corridors felt colder than before—portraits of stern Tappington ancestors narrowing their painted eyes as I passed—whole walls of oil-painted suspicion.

By the time I reached my suite, I practically dove inside. I shut the door, twisted the lock, and leaned against the wood like a damsel who’d barely outrun a vampire.

“I survived,” I panted. “We did it, Goldie. We endured a family dinner without getting excommunicated. Or executed.”

Goldilocks, unfazed, checked the perimeter for rogue crumbs.

I peeled off my sparkly blazer and tossed it and the last of my dignity onto the bed. Hot shower time. Steam would fix everything: identity theft anxiety, undercover flop-sweat, and dining with possible murder suspects.

I made it three dramatic steps toward the bathroom when a soft, whispering sound hissed behind me.

shffft…

I froze mid-step.

Goldie’s head whipped toward the door, ears up, tail doing suspicious punctuation swishes.

We both stared.

A small, crisp rectangle slid onto the Persian rug like a ghost-mailed Christmas card.

I crept forward and snatched the paper.

No envelope.

No signature.

Just six words in clean, surgeon-precise handwriting:

You don’t belong here, ‘Patrice Marie’.

Goldie pressed against my leg, a low growl vibrating like a warning alarm.

I swallowed hard. My alias had just been called out in handwriting sharper than a threat needed to be.

Someone knew.

And they were done being subtle.

Goldie nosed my hand, eyes saying what my brain screamed: We are not safe.

“Okay,” I whispered, pulse racing. “Game on.”

---

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