Maple Ridge...Unsolved - Episode 6

Brittany Brinegar
Dec 24, 2025
10 min read

Updated: Dec 30, 2025

If We Make It Through December

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 3

The Tappington Resort was Maple Ridge’s crown jewel, and it knew it, too. The moment I stepped through the glass double doors, the temperature shifted from colder-than-a-well-digger Vermont cold to curated, expensive warmth. Tall windows let in bright winter light that bounced off polished wood and brushed steel. The lobby was all soaring timbers, stone hearth, and designer furniture arranged like a ski magazine had exploded and landed artfully.

A wall of sleek digital screens rotated through trail maps, lift statuses, and looping promo videos: smiling families, clinking champagne flutes, slow-motion snow spray as some impossibly toned skier cut down the mountain. The soundtrack was a tasteful mix of acoustic guitars and whatever indie band rich people pretended to discover.

Goldilocks trotted at my side in her pink plaid sweater, nose twitching as a parade of scents hit her—wet wool, fancy coffee, a faint whiff of cologne that probably cost more than my monthly grocery bill. Snowflakes clung to her curls; she shook them off onto the slate floor, earning a few indulgent smiles and one scowl from a woman in a fur-lined parka that screamed ‘Instagram influencer’ and ‘I do not carry my own luggage. I have people for that.’

Staff moved through the space with precise, trained efficiency—red parkas with the Tappington crest, perfect posture, predatory politeness. This wasn’t the cozy, slightly mismatched charm of Main Street. This was the heart of the machine: polished, bustling, ruthlessly competent. The town might wear wool and flannel, but the resort wore a suit.

I paused for a moment, my breath catching as I looked toward the center of the soaring lobby. A team of staff members, equipped with ladders that looked like they belonged on a fire truck, were draped in miles of twinkling lights, painstakingly decorating a balsam fir so large it probably had its own zip code.

It was a masterpiece of cozy excess. Tiny, hand-carved maple leaf ornaments shimmered alongside vintage glass baubles, and the scent of fresh pine was so thick it nearly drowned out the expensive cologne of the guests. For a fleeting second, I wanted to sit by the hearth, order a cocoa, and pretend I was the person I was pretending to be.

But the massive Christmas tree wasn't just a decoration; it was a reminder. Everything here was curated, perfect, and very, very expensive—precisely the kind of thing people might kill to keep.

I shook myself out of the festive trance and gave Goldie’s leash a gentle tug. “Okay,” I murmured to my four-legged partner as we passed a concierge desk stacked with glossy brochures. “Head of Security’s office. That has to be in the ‘we don’t want guests to see this’ zone.”

We followed a discreet sign that read ADMINISTRATION – STAFF ONLY down a hallway that bleached out the lodge’s rustic ambiance. The décor quietly downgraded from ‘rich lumberjack fantasy’ to ‘corporate hallway anywhere USA’ with white walls, gray carpet, and framed black-and-white photos of the resort in its early days. The air felt cooler and the smiles scarcer.

A man in a blue blazer gave me a once-over as he passed. I gave him my best I have every right to be here because I am technically a Tappington by fictional blood smile. Goldie wagged like we were on a tour, which helped sell our story.

At the end of the corridor, a brushed steel plaque read:

HEAD OF SECURITY

EBENEZER T. TAPPINGTON, JR.

Of course, his office would be ten miles from anything as whimsical as the cocoa bar.

I knocked once, then opened the door before I lost my nerve.

If the lodge lobby were a catalog, Zer’s office belonged in a completely different book. The room was clinical. No cozy wood. No stuffed moose. Just white walls, gray industrial carpet, and a metal desk that looked like it had been airlifted from a government facility. One wall was covered in security monitors, each showing a different angle of the resort—lifts, lobbies, parking lots, corridors. The images flicked and cycled, a never-ending surveillance kaleidoscope.

The furniture was functional and bleak: two metal guest chairs meant for delivering bad news, a file cabinet, and a small coat rack with a single, neatly hung parka. No family photos. No knick-knacks. Nothing personal except for a folded American flag in a triangular display case, occupying a prominent spot on a floating shelf.

Zer sat behind the desk, big frame making the metal look undersized. He wore a black Tappington security polo that stretched over solid muscle, his arms corded and tanned despite the Vermont winter. His dark hair was buzzed short, jaw clean-shaven, expression carved from granite. The only softness on him was the crease in his brow, the kind you earned from a lifetime of squinting at trouble.

He looked up as we entered.

“Howdy, cousin Zer,” I said, instantly regretting it.

One of his eyebrows ticked upward. “Howdy? Is that a Florida thing?”

More like a Texas thing. Stellar work, Patsy. Two seconds back undercover and you’re already blowing it. Play it off. Most people up here can’t spot the difference between a boat guide from the Everglades and a rancher from Amarillo. All rednecks sound alike to Yankees.

“Anywho…”

That’s weirder than the howdy. Talk normally! You’re a chatterbox. You have a degree in broadcast journalism, for goodness’ sake. You can—and do—talk in your sleep. Stop being a weirdo.

Goldie sniffed the air, decided the metal-and-disinfectant vibe wasn’t worth her time, and scooted over to investigate the base of his desk. She gave it a thorough once-over and looked personally offended by the lack of crumbs.

Zer watched her for a beat before he returned his gaze to me. His eyes were a cool, assessing gray, the kind that measured risk before deciding if it needed to be eliminated.

“I was thinking about taking a tour of the Tappington operation,” I said, hoping my voice sounded breezy and not like someone whose deodorant had just surrendered. “Figured you could point me in the right direction since you…run things.”

He blinked. “I’m just security.”

“Oh, I figured you were taking over the reins. You’re Junior.” I pointed to the plaque on his shiny glass desktop, which was somehow absent of any fingerprints except mine and Goldie’s nose print where she’d just licked the corner, checking for candy. “Ebenezer Tappington, Jr. That sounds like heir material to me.”

“I wasn’t next in line.”

Short. Flat. Edited for court.

“Who is running things these days?” I asked.

“As we explained at dinner, it’s a transition period.”

There it was again. Transition period. The Tappington family’s favorite euphemism after ‘cardiac event.’

His gaze sharpened. “Why all the questions? Why are you really here?”

I covered with a laugh that sounded only marginally hysterical. “You think I have an ulterior motive?”

“Most people do,” he said. “Especially where there’s lots of money concerned.”

Goldie, sensing my spike in tension, abandoned the desk and padded back to my side. She pressed her warm head into my lap, a quiet canine grounding wire.

“It’s been years since I visited.” I cleared my throat. “I don’t expect anything from Uncle Eb aside from maybe a family photo album.” I gestured vaguely. “His mug collection would be neat. But I’m not after anyone’s money.”

“If you were, that’s exactly what you’d say to throw us off.”

I shifted gears, inhaling the metallic ting in the air. “I should have come back sooner…after what happened to Cisco. I regret not visiting my uncle one last time.”

“That’s what brings you here? Regret?”

I shrugged under his heavy stare. “Death has a strange way of either bringing families closer together or driving them further apart.”

“Let me guess,” he said. “You’re the ‘bring enemies together’ type?”

“We’re enemies now, cousin?” I attempted to smile, but it felt unnatural, like it had been ironed onto my face. “I thought we were at worst frenemies. Maybe a cautionary alliance. That sort of thing.”

Zer’s eyes narrowed into an intimidating squint. “I don’t trust you, Patsy.”

Okay then. Bonus points for being direct, I guess.

My heart skipped a couple of beats and lurched down to my stomach. Interviewing was one of my greatest strengths in my pre-podcast days. I excelled at getting even the most nervous people comfortable on camera. Some even became downright chatty under my tutelage.

Not Zer; no, sir. He did a great impression of an irritated bust and refused to crack. But that didn’t mean I was ready to stop trying.

I propped an elbow on the edge of his desk. “It’s hard keeping up with the Vermont cousins via email. Uncle Eb never let on he was as bad as he was.”

“Dad was stubborn that way.”

“And we hadn’t a clue about Cisco’s heart condition. That really threw us for a loop. Did you know?”

Zer leaned back in his stiff, industrial chair. “Everyone did. It runs in the family.”

“But he was on medication to manage it, right? Digitalis or something?” The word tasted bitter in my mouth, layered with last night’s overly scientific reading material.

“Do I look like a pharmacist?” He grunted. “How would I know what Cisco was on?”

“You were close, with your nephew,” I said. “You worked together. Same family, same doctor. People talk.”

“People gossip,” he said. “I don’t.”

I pressed on. “People with a heart condition like his don’t usually drink excessively. But he was drinking on New Year’s Eve, wasn’t he?”

“The Midnight Tap is tradition,” Zer said. “And my sister ensures no one’s mug is ever empty.”

Barbara Rae. If she was pouring the drinks, that meant she had access to Cisco’s. “She’s…not quite how I remember her.”

“Neither are you.”

“Guess we all changed and grew up.”

My heart gave a little stutter at the close call. Note to self: Don’t say things that open up cans of worms you can’t explain. Avoid cute little comments that set me up for closer scrutiny.

I fiddled with a no-nonsense notepad parallel to the computer monitor. “I know it isn’t my place to say, but y’all seem…fractured. Like the family is splitting apart.”

“Is that your professional opinion as a shrink?” he asked.

The question felt like a sock to the stomach, knocking the wind out of me. Was Patrice Marie a psychologist, or was Zer making a funny?

Pretending to be a head doctor was way out of my comfort zone. I’d never even been to therapy. Though, considering who my Mama was, I should probably start. Could doctors get clearance to talk about CIA-induced childhood trauma?

I shook the thought and tried to focus on the problem at hand. Suddenly, my undercover persona went from the junior tennis champ who sold her bike to a graduate degree in head-shrinking.

Great. The only things I knew about psychologists came from Frasier and Niles Crane, and neither of them was a model example of the profession.

Play along, Patsy. Silence is helping no one.

“I’ll send you my bill.” I filled the gap in conversation with an awkward laugh. “But next time, let’s do this at my office. My couches are way comfier.”

One corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile—more like his face had considered it and decided against. “Thanks for stopping by.” He turned back toward his monitors. “But I have work to do.”

He might as well have stamped REJECTED across my forehead.

I still had questions, but no idea how hard to push without having my cover crumble like a poorly baked cookie.

“For the record,” I said, standing, “I think you’d make a terrific leader.”

That got his attention. He looked back at me, eyes narrowing. “And why’s that, doc?”

“You’re tall, intimidating voice, military posture.” I glanced at the flag in its glass case. “You walk into a room, and people pay attention. That counts for something when you’re steering a ship this big.”

“Is that all it takes to run a business?”

“Well, no, but your family is looking for someone to guide them through this difficult time. Why not you?”

He snorted, a sound halfway between humor and disgust. “Take it up with dear old Dad,” he said. “Because no matter how tall I am or how scary my voice, that couldn’t compete with fancy degrees.”

There it was: the chip on his shoulder.

“There are some things you can’t learn in a classroom.”

He shifted his gaze back to the monitors. “If you want a tour,” he said, clearly done with the topic. “Talk to Evangelina. She runs that side of things.”

Evangelina. The widow who smiled like a Hallmark ornament and clutched grief and opportunity in the same manicured hand.

“Can I admit something to you, Zer?”

“Sure, but then I’ll have to bill you.”

Goldie huffed, unimpressed with his attempt at humor.

I lowered my voice. “I’m surprised Evangelina is hanging around. She was married to Cisco all of a week. Don’t you find that…strange? Doesn’t she have a family of her own to go back to?”

Zer’s jaw flexed, a slow, rhythmic movement that reminded me of a predator deciding whether to strike or toy with his prey a little longer. “I tried my best to get rid of her. But as Cisco’s widow, she has a claim to the family business. That’s a few million reasons to stay, don’t you think?”

I looked past him, my eyes snagging on the wall of security monitors. For a second, my brain short-circuited. I saw a flash of pink plaid and a woman with frantic hair. I gasped, thinking for one dizzying heartbeat that I saw my own ghost—that I was somehow in two places at once.

Then the reality settled in, cold and heavy.

This wasn’t a live feed of the resort’s daily grind. Zer didn’t give a maple-glazed hoot about the ski lifts or the cocoa bar.

He was watching me.

The screens were a curated loop of my first forty-eight hours in Maple Ridge. In one square, a pixelated version of me stood in the lobby, nervously smoothing my hair as if I could hide my anxiety behind a knit cap. In another, a grainy wide-shot showed me and Mama talking to Sheriff Nelson. I was squarely in the frame, looking every bit the person-of-interest, while Mattie expertly blurred into the background, avoiding the lens like a seasoned spook.

The last window held the most recent reel: me, pacing down the administration hallway ten minutes ago, looking way too guilty for a woman just seeking her ‘cousin.’ He had me queued up, paused, and analyzed like evidence.

I wasn’t a guest. I wasn’t even a fake cousin. I was a data point on Zer’s grid. A suspicious blip in his perfectly controlled world.

I voluntarily entered a room built for surveillance to interview a man who specialized in eliminating risks about a murder the family successfully buried for a year. Me: a podcast host with a phony name whose only backup flunked doggy school and wore a plaid sweater. I was officially out of my league.

Goldilocks pressed closer to my leg, a low, nervous vibration humming against my calf. She looked at Zer, her ears pinned back as if she could smell the suspicion radiating off him in waves.

Evangelina might have had a million reasons to stay, but looking into Zer’s cold, assessing eyes and seeing my own face mirrored on his wall, I suddenly had a million reasons to run.