Maple Ridge...Unsolved - Episode 4
- Brittany Brinegar
- 6 hours ago
- 15 min read
Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under
Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 3
Pacing a groove into a priceless Persian rug was probably frowned upon in the Tappington household, but that was a problem for Morning Patsy. Night Patsy was busy rehearsing her imminent doom…more aptly named Mourning Patsy.
Goldilocks gave up on my anxiety spiral over an hour ago. She’d tunneled under the duvet of the four-poster bed like a golden-flecked princess and snored into a mountain of throw pillows.
I clutched my phone to my ear. “Someone sent me a threatening letter, Mama. I need to call off the whole thing. The jig is up.”
Silence hummed on the line. Not the comfortable kind, either. The kind where every creak of the old house crept into my imagination like an assassin.
Somewhere in the distance, I could’ve sworn I heard an owl. Was Mattie in the woods? Or did Wren adopt another woodland creature?
“Why aren’t you more worried about this?” I peered through the blinds, ducking instinctively even though no one but a six-foot fern and a smug dog could see me. “I’m staying with a murderer under an assumed name, and my cover’s been blown.”
A breeze rumbled against Mattie’s end of the call, like she was standing outside in a blizzard. She probably was. That woman treated weather like a suggestion.
“We don’t know that,” Mattie said, voice so calm it was maddening.
“How much clearer can a cryptic note be?” I snatched the rectangle of paper off the nightstand even though she couldn’t see it. “It literally says, You don’t belong here, ‘Patrice Marie.’ They used air quotes, Mama.”
“They aren’t air quotes when written. They’re regular quotation marks.”
“Thank you so much for the grammar lesson. I feel better already.”
“It’s just noise, sweetheart. It doesn’t mean they know you’re not their cousin. It could have nothing to do with your cover. It could be about the inheritance. Someone wants to scare you.”
“Well, mission accomplished.” I jabbed the paper with an accusing finger. “I am one hundred percent thoroughly, deeply, existentially scared.”
Goldilocks snorted in her sleep, as if to say, Speak for yourself, I’m thriving, living the life of a maple syrup heiress.
“Calm down,” Mattie said. “Take a breath.”
“I can’t calm down. I’m blowing this popsicle stand and coming home to the Airstream.” I stalked to the frosted window and peered out at the darkness of the East Wing courtyard. “Think the ski lift runs after midnight? Maybe they have an ‘I’m being hunted by my fake cousins’ emergency line.”
“You can’t leave. You’re in the perfect position for investigating.”
“Perfect position for what? A nervous breakdown?” I pressed my forehead against the icy glass. “I infiltrated the Tappington stronghold under false pretenses, my mother and teenage cousin are off having crime-scene adventures without me, and now someone slips me fan mail from the You Don’t Belong Here club. If I look outside and see a guy with a coat hanger for a hand…”
A sudden, heavy THUNK-THUNK-THUNK rattled the panes.
I levitated three inches off the polished hardwood floor and between me, the dog, and the plant…maybe screamed a little.
The knock came again—hard, urgent, and very much not from the tasteful hallway door. It came from the window.
“Mama,” I whispered, clutching the phone like a lifeline. “Someone’s knocking outside. If this is the end, I have one important thing to tell you: I told you so!”
“Don’t be silly. Open the window.”
I whipped around to stare at the glass. A shadow loomed just beyond the thin curtains. Human height. Petite woman shaped. Not, say, Santa.
“Sorry, Mama, got to go. A crazy old woman just appeared at my second-story balcony.”
Goldilocks finally stirred. She poked her head out from under the comforter, blinked at the shadow, and offered a single, half-hearted woof before burrowing back into her duvet burrito.
“Some help you are.” I rolled my eyes. “What if she were a real intruder?”
Goldie yawned, a long, squeaky exhale that translated to, Wake me if she has snacks.
Another knock, more impatient this time. “Patsy, it’s cold.”
I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and marched to the French doors that led to my private Juliet balcony.
I threw open the doors, and snow flurries knifed into the room, followed by a figure swinging one leg gracefully over the stone balustrade like she’d done this a thousand times. Snow-dusted boots, dark jeans, bright pink cable-knit sweater under a puffer jacket, blonde hair tucked into a knit cap, cheeks flushed with wind, and way too much competence.
Mattie McDonald, my mother, ladies and gentlemen.
I blinked. “How did you get up here? We’re on the second floor.”
She swung the other leg over and straightened, barely winded. “I climbed.”
“Climbed what?” I shuffled forward and peered over the balcony edge. Just the thought made me woozy. “There’s no ladder, lattice, or even a roped-together bedsheet.”
“I scaled the tree,” she said with a flick of her wrist, as if she accomplished something mundane like ordering a latte. “Then I swung over.”
“That’s ten feet from the balcony.”
“I swung.” She brushed a pine needle off her sleeve. “Good reach and momentum.”
“While on the phone with me?”
“Hands-free Bluetooth, darling.” She tapped her ear. “You know I multitask.”
I stared at her, at the tree, back at her. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, a little filing cabinet of childhood memories flung open.
“How did I spend most of my life oblivious to the fact that my mother is super spy Jamie Bond? All the signs were there—all the ‘business trips’ and the weirdly specific survivalist knowledge. You can make a tourniquet out of a sock and a Twizzler, but I thought that was just…quirky. What am I, stupid?”
She stepped past me into the room, patting my cheek with gloved fingers. “It was need-to-know, dear. And you didn’t.”
“Oh, sure. That clears it right up.”
She shut the balcony doors behind her, locking out the Vermont version of the Arctic Circle. “Would you like help searching the house?”
“Now?” My voice cracked on the word like a teenager’s. “It’s after midnight.”
“Exactly.” She tossed her hat on the dresser and fluffed her hair. “Couldn’t ask for a better time. Everyone’s tucked in bed asleep.”
“I, on the other hand, am awake enough to have a coronary.” I rubbed my temples. “Fine. But we have to be on the lookout for Silent McStatueface. He’s already suspicious of me. And my little dog too.”
Goldilocks thumped her tail under the comforter at the sound of dog, which I chose to interpret as a vote for adventure.
“I wonder if he left me the note.” I spun to the dresser, where the paper lay like a tiny, malicious snowflake. “Speaking of which, can you fingerprint it? Find out who sent it?” I picked it up carefully by the corner, pinkie extended like I was drinking tea with the queen.
“You want me to dust for prints?” Mattie asked, one eyebrow making the journey to her hairline.
“Don’t spies do that? You have, like, a portable CSI kit in your purse, right? Next to the breath mints and spare identities?”
“And what, exactly, am I supposed to compare those prints to?” she said. “Or were you planning to ink the entire Tappington clan after breakfast? I’m sure that wouldn’t raise any suspicions and jeopardize your cover.”
I pictured myself chasing Daphne down a hallway with an ink pad and a ‘Trust me, this is normal family behavior’ speech.
“So…ixnay on the prints.” I carefully set the note back down. “Guess we have no choice but to go snooping.”
“Attagirl.” She headed for the door with purpose. “We should start with Ebenezer’s home office. There might be something in the financials that indicates motive in the grandson’s death. Power shifts, sudden transfers. That sort of thing.”
“Hold your clandestine horses.” I darted to the closet. “I need to change into proper attire.”
“Here we go.”
It turns out espionage gear looked a lot cooler in my head than it did reflected in a gilded antique mirror.
I emerged from the walk-in closet in what could only be described as suburban ninja chic: black beanie, black turtleneck, black cargo pants with enough pockets to store an entire go-bag, and soft-soled sneakers. Every pocket bulged with something I thought might be helpful—mini flashlight, phone, protein bar, hand sanitizer, a length of nylon rope I’d picked up at the camping aisle, ‘just in case,’ and a pair of suction-cup thingies I’d impulse-bought after watching one too many heist movies. Were we scaling the outside of the manor? No. Did I feel cooler having them? Absolutely.
I threw a hand on my hip. “Say hello to the Cat Burglar Collection. Spring line.”
Mattie looked up from checking her watch. She blinked. “You look ridiculous.”
“Says the woman wearing bright pink.” I gestured at her cable-knit sweater. “You glow in the dark. Your color palette is Retired Barbie Goes to the Alps.”
She glanced down at herself, unfazed. “People in bright sweaters are invisible,” she said. “Staff assume they belong here. People in all black attract attention. You look like you’re about to rappel down from the chandelier and steal the silver.”
“I am blending,” I insisted. “I’m a shadow. A smudge. A stylish smudge.”
Goldilocks hopped off the bed, collar jingling, and trotted over to sniff my cargo pants. She lingered on a pocket and then looked at me expectantly.
“Fine,” I muttered, digging out a dog treat. “But that’s your last one. We’re on a mission.”
She crunched loudly, like a living alarm system.
“Okay.” I took a breath. “Game face. We sneak down the hall, ghost through the back stairs, avoid House Manager of Doom, and break into Ebenezer’s office. We grab some suspicious paperwork, confirm a motive, and get out without being impaled by a decorative spear.”
“Impaled?” Mattie said, opening the door a crack and checking the hallway. “How very unlikely.”
“You say that, but this house has serious ‘someone died by antique weapon’ energy.”
The East Wing corridor was dim and hushed, the kind of quiet that felt padded. Thick runner rugs absorbed our footsteps. Portraits of stern Tappingtons lined the walls, their oil-painted eyes following us like they’d been told the Florida cousin was tacky.
I stuck close to the wall, grateful for my dark ensemble—until we passed a window and my reflection in the glass made me jump.
“Good news,” I whispered to Goldie, who pranced at my side like we were going to a midnight snack bar instead of an illegal office search. “If we get caught, I can pretend I’m part of a modern dance troupe doing an interpretive piece about Johnny Cash.”
We slipped down a narrow servant staircase that spiraled toward the main floors. The air grew cooler, tinged with lemon polish and old paper.
Goldilocks trotted ahead, nose twitching. Her tail wagged at a decorative console table stationed at the corner, the kind that existed purely to hold things you shouldn’t touch.
“Goldie, no,” I hissed, as she zeroed in on a large porcelain bowl artfully piled with potpourri—cinnamon sticks, mysterious flakes, beige bits.
She snatched a dried orange slice between her teeth.
“Drop it,” I whispered.
Goldie held my gaze, bit down, and sneezed.
The explosion of dried floral dust and cinnamon showed up on every available surface: table, wall, my pants, Mattie’s sweater. We stood in the middle of a snow globe of scented regret.
I slapped a hand over my mouth as Goldie continued with three more sneezes, each louder than the last, sending another burst of potpourri confetti into the air.
“That’ll teach you to steal stuff that looks like food but is actually decoration,” I said, trying to corral the mess back into the bowl with my hands. “Wait until you find out about plastic fruit. They’re lousy with it in this place. Plastic pears, apples, grapes, the works. It’s like an orchard of disappointment.”
Mattie plucked a cinnamon stick off her shoulder and flicked it back into the bowl. “Save the commentary and focus.”
“Narrating is how I focus.” I brushed petals off Goldie’s nose.
We continued, snouts full of cinnamon, until we reached a heavy door of dark wood with a brass plate. No name, just an air of importance and the faint whiff of cigar smoke sunk deep into the grain.
Ebenezer Tappington’s lair.
Mattie approached it like she’d done this a hundred times—and knowing her, she had, just with different millionaires.
“Locked?”
She tested the knob. “Of course.”
“Maybe we should turn back and—”
Before I could complete the sentence “come back at a sensible hour with a lawyer,” she was already fishing in her hair. She produced a long, slender pin—silver, wickedly sharp.
“Did you just pull Excalibur out of your bun?”
She knelt, studied the keyhole, and slid the pin in with practiced ease.
“Did you just use a bobby pin to pick that lock?”
“It is a hatpin, darling. Sturdier and much more effective.”
Ebenezer’s office felt like stepping into a mahogany cigar box. Dark paneled walls, a deep green rug, and a massive desk positioned in front of a bank of tall windows overlooking the snowy grounds. Shelves lined one wall, sagging under the weight of leather-bound ledgers, framed photos, and tasteful trophies of empire-building.
And on the wall opposite the desk, dominating the space like a shrine, was a large display shelf.
I drifted toward it, drawn like a moth to branded merchandise.
“Mama, look.”
The shelf was lined with mugs. Dozens of them, in a neat, reverent row. Thick glass, each engraved with the same logo: a stylized maple leaf, the Tappington crest, and beneath it, The Midnight Tap.
I leaned in.
NYE I.
NYE II.
NYE III.
The Roman numerals marched on, year after year, a chronological gallery of hangovers. All the way up to NYE XXX at the far end, still empty, waiting for this coming New Year like a tiny clear tombstone-in-progress.
My gaze snagged on one in particular.
NYE XXIX.
Last year.
The same design as the mug Dean had shown me in his crime scene photos. The one Cisco clutched in his hand when they found him slumped in the gondola, drink spilled, maple-scented secrecy everywhere.
From the description, the Midnight Tap was a cocktail potent enough to dissolve secrets and at least two layers of enamel.
I reached out, fingers hovering over the glass. “Evidence of a long tradition.”
Behind me, drawers whispered open and shut with efficient clicks. Mattie moved straight to the big desk, rifling through its contents with the speed of someone who had zero romantic feelings about office supplies.
“You said the lodge serves that drink every year?” she asked.
“Every holiday season. Thanksgiving to New Year’s Eve,” I said, still studying the mugs. “Different garnish, same recipe. Ebenezer loved the pomp. Special edition glass, limited run, like they sold exclusivity instead of diabetes.”
My reflection wavered in the glass. What if somebody turned that tradition into a weapon? I shivered at the thought.
“All right, nothing surprising in the top drawers,” Mattie said. “Stationery, fountain pens, an aggressive number of branded coasters.”
“What about hidden compartments?” I left the mug display and drifted toward the bookshelves, nerves pricking. “This place screams secret safe. Or at least a revolving bookcase that eats nosy podcasters.”
Goldilocks stayed glued to my hip, nose twitching. Her tags jingled softly every time I moved—the tiny, traitorous cymbals of stealth missions.
I ran a finger along the spines of the books. Ledgers, history tomes, and a complete set of Vermont Business Quarterly that looked untouched. Every surface gleamed. “If Scooby Doo taught me anything about creepy old mansions, one of these books will open either a secret room, a trapdoor to the basement, or something that beheads you.”
“There was beheading in Scooby Doo?”
The book stayed solidly in place. No trapdoor. No ghost. Just me, my reflection in the window, and the ticking of a grandfather clock.
Mattie moved to the filing cabinets behind the desk, her fingers flipping through folders with terrifying speed. “Here we are. Tax returns, vendor contracts, shipping manifests.” She hesitated. “Nothing screams reason my grandson was murdered.”
“Maybe the motive’s on a sticky note.” I took another lap around the room. “Your standard ‘Dear Self, don’t tell anyone about the poisoning’ reminder.”
Goldie cut in front of me. I side-stepped, misjudged the distance, and my hip bumped against the paneled wall beside the desk.
A quiet thunk answered.
I froze. “Did you hear that?”
“I heard you walking into things,” Mattie said. “Which is hardly new.”
“No, there was…a hollow sound.” I pressed my palm flat to the wood. It felt the same as the others—glossy, expensive—but when I tapped lightly with my knuckles, one section sounded subtly different. Less solid. More…promising.
“Come here.”
Mattie joined me, eyes sharpening. “Where?”
I knocked again. Tok tok tok.
Her gaze narrowed. “Move, sweetheart.”
She took my place and ran her fingers along the thin seam running vertically down the paneling, so subtle I never would’ve noticed if my gracelessness hadn’t introduced itself.
“There,” she said, pressing one corner.
The panel shifted.
A small piece of wood, no bigger than a paperback, eased outward like a tongue.
I stepped back, heart climbing up my throat. Inside, nestled in the shallow cavity, lay a thin manila file secured with a rubber band.
“Well, hello,” I breathed. “That’s definitely not Tappington stationery.”
Mattie snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves she’d produced from who-knew-where—her pocket, her soul. “Let me.”
“Right, yes.” I clasped my hands to keep from grabbing it myself. My fingers itched. “You do the honors. I’ll…stare meaningfully while you read.”
She lifted the file out with careful fingers and carried it to the desk. I hovered over her shoulder, Goldie parking herself like a furry footstool between us.
Mattie eased off the rubber band and opened the file.
A stack of invoices sat on top, neatly paper-clipped. The letterhead read: North Ridge Investigative Services.
“Private investigators,” I breathed. “Of course. Rich people never Google; they outsource suspicion.”
Each invoice was dated within the last six months. My eyes snagged on the description line.
Subject: Francisco “Cisco” Tappington: Death Review & Circumstances
“Ebenezer hired a PI to look into Cisco’s death,” I said. My voice felt thin, distant, like it belonged to someone narrating my life. “Months after everyone insisted it was natural causes.”
“Or he hired them to make sure it stayed covered up,” Mattie said.
Beneath the invoices, folded into thirds, lay a single sheet stamped with an official-looking hospital logo. The bold heading across the top made my skin crawl.
TOXICOLOGY REPORT.
My throat went dry. “Oh boy.”
Mattie glanced at me. “Read it out loud.”
“Why do I have to read it?”
“You’re the one with the podcast voice.”
“Podcast voice does not equal ‘please narrate medical horror.’”
Mattie tilted her head. “I figured you’d want to record the moment for the show. Any of those pockets contain your portable mic?”
I slid the paper free, unfolded it, and let my eyes race down the dense columns of text and numbers.
Cisco’s name. Age. Time of death. Specimen descriptions. A list of compounds with words longer than Wren’s Christmas list.
“There’s a lot of science here,” I whispered. “I barely passed chemistry. The only compound I can reliably identify is caffeine.”
“Look for the conclusion,” Mattie said. “Bottom of the report.”
I skimmed, heart pounding.
And then my gaze snagged on a paragraph, the bolded words leaping out like they’d been waiting for me.
Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy (HCM) not supported by toxicology findings…presence of digitalis glycoside…cardiac arrest…consistent with poisoning…
The room tilted.
Cisco hadn’t just keeled over due to a heart condition. According to the neat block of text, he’d had just enough of a very specific something in his system. A substance that, in small doses, helped hearts. In larger, stir-this-into-your-signature-cocktail-doses, it stopped them dead.
“Digitalis glycoside. Foxglove,” I said.
Mattie arched a brow. “Suddenly you’re the expert?”
“It's an old-school heart med. And a murder weapon in half the British mysteries I’ve ever binged.”
“Ah.”
The report spelled it out in terse clinical language: the concentration detected, the known effects, how, combined with high-proof alcohol, it could trigger sudden cardiac failure that looked an awful lot like a young man’s bad genetic luck.
Only…it wasn’t luck.
My pulse roared in my ears. The words on the page blurred at the edges. “The death certificate listed HCM. But this says…this says there were clear traces of a digitalis glycoside. Enough to stop his heart. It even notes that the presentation could mimic a natural cardiac event, especially in someone presumed to have a hereditary condition.”
Mattie’s jaw tightened. “Either Dr. Tappington is bad at his job, or someone made sure he didn’t look too closely.”
“Do you think the killer switched his meds? Or dropped it in his drink and weaponized his favorite holiday tradition?”
“Based on how digitalis reacts with alcohol, the Midnight Tap is a good guess for the delivery system.”
I nodded. It was the one drink he was expected to hold. To be photographed with. To toast with. To gulp down while fireworks lit up the sky over the mountain and the town cheered below, believing in the immortality of money and youth.
Goldilocks nudged my knee, whining softly. I hadn’t realized I’d sunk into the desk chair.
I looked up.
Mattie’s face, usually composed to the point of smugness, had gone pale under her winter flush. Her eyes flicked from the report to the mugs on the wall and back again, lines deepening around her mouth.
“This wasn’t some random incident,” I said, the words scraping out of me. “It was planned. Deliberate. They used the one drink nobody would question, on the one night nobody would suspect anything but too much celebration.”
“And Ebenezer knew,” she said, tapping the invoices from the PI. “He paid for this report. He read it. He hired an investigator to confirm it. He knew Cisco was murdered.”
“And still let everyone believe it was a heart condition.” The weight of that settled on my shoulders like the world’s heaviest throw blanket. “Ebenezer told Dean not to rock the boat. He kept the sheriff from reopening anything. Let an entire town keep toasting the Tappington legacy while his grandson’s killer walked free. Under the same roof. Wearing the same family crest.”
The floor creaked overhead.
We both froze.
Somewhere down the hall, a clock chimed the quarter hour. Goldie’s ears flicked toward the noise, but she stayed pressed against my leg, vibrating with alertness.
“He was murdered, Mama.” My voice didn’t sound like my own; it sounded like the voice from my podcast intro, stripped of jokes and gimmicks. Just raw. “Cisco Tappington was murdered. And Ebenezer knew it.”