Maple Ridge...Unsolved - Episode 7

Brittany Brinegar
Dec 30, 2025
14 min read

What I Really Meant to Say

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 3

Fast-walking in snow boots should count as high-intensity interval training, or at the very least, a valid excuse for a medical-grade nap. By the time I cleared the last corner of the admin hallway, my heart wasn't just beating; it was performing a frantic, off-beat tap dance against my windpipe. My cheeks burned with the kind of flush you only get from a combination of sub-zero wind and the soul-crushing realization that you’ve been caught in 4K.

My brain kept replaying the wall of monitors in Zer's office like a horror movie trailer edited for maximum jump-scares. It turned out Zer hadn’t given a maple-glazed hoot about monitoring the ski lifts or the hot cocoa bar. He’d been archiving me. Every awkward fidget, every nervous hair-smooth, and every ill-advised, ‘casual’ conversation with the Sheriff had been cataloged and time-stamped. I wasn't just a guest at the Tappington Resort; I was the star of my very own twenty-four-hour true-crime channel, and the executive producer looked like he was ready to cancel my show—permanently.

Goldilocks trotted beside me, toenails clicking on the tile, occasionally glancing up as if to say, You good? Because you look like you’re about to hyperventilate. I shoved my hands deeper into my gloves and burst through the main lodge doors.

The shock of cold slapped me in the face, but at least out here, there were no cameras. Probably. Hopefully. I refused to look for hidden lenses in the icicles.

“Okay,” I muttered. “New plan: find Mama, debrief, flee town under cover of darkness…and send Dean a postcard with a case closed stamp.”

Goldilocks grumbled at me and covered her nose with a snowy paw.

“What? I’m not brave, but I never pretended to be. That’s Mama’s department.”

I headed toward the snowy RV park, but before I made it halfway, I spotted a bright pink peacoat. Mattie stood near the base of the gondola station, her wool coat a cheerful beacon against the field of navy parkas and muted tourist puffers. Wren was at her side in a teal parka, hood up, filming something with her phone. They weren’t alone.

An entire cluster of guests formed a semicircle, like ducks at feeding time, listening to a woman in a white belted coat and fur-trimmed hood hold court. Her glossy dark-brown hair spilled down her back in camera-ready waves. She gestured animatedly as she spoke, words spilling out in a cheerful, rapid-fire stream.

“…and of course, everything we do here is about tradition. We believe in honoring the past while embracing innovation. You can’t pour syrup into the future without respecting the trees that started it all. At least that’s what I believe.” She smacked her gloved hands together. “I’m Evangelina Franchetti-Tappington. And for the next hour, I’ll be your tour guide to all things Maple Ridge. So let’s get started. We have like 200 years of history to cover.”

Cisco’s widow.

I tried to catch Mama’s eye with a nod and a mini wave. When that didn’t work, I subtly melded into the group even though I didn’t have a tour ticket or an official lanyard.

Up close, Evangelina looked like someone had taken a lifestyle anchor from morning TV and dropped her into a snow globe. Perfectly done makeup despite the cold, dramatic olive-brown eyes, scarlet lipstick that never seemed to smudge on her teeth. Her coat cinched at the waist over slim black pants tucked into faux-fur boots that said, I hike, but only if there’s a mall at the top.

“Hi!” She pivoted mid-sentence to flash me a smile that could power the Christmas tree lights. “Come on and join us, Patsy! Don’t be shy.” She flicked her eyebrows at the tour group. “Guys, this is my cousin by marriage. She’s visiting for the first time in like…forever from Florida.”

Goldie sniffed her boots, decided they were acceptable, and gave one polite tail wag.

“Oh!” Evangelina clapped her gloved hands. “And this little diva is Goldilocks the Goldendoodle. If I’m not careful, she’ll hijack the whole tour and make it the Goldie Show. Which, honestly, some of you might prefer.”

The group chuckled.

Wren’s eyes flicked to me over the tops of her sunglasses, the universal teen signal for we have things to discuss.

I pasted on my best Florida-cousin smile and waved back at Cisco’s widow. “Wouldn’t miss a tour of all things Tappington. Especially if it comes with a knowledgeable guide.”

Evangelina beamed. “Oh, you’re sweet. All right, folks! As I was saying, we’re starting here at the lodge, the beating heart of the resort, and then we’ll head over to the Sugar Bush and Processing Plant—where the magic actually happens. So if anyone gets motion sick, now is your chance to pop extra Dramamine before we load up in the shuttle.”

She launched back into her patter—town history, amenities, a joke about how the hot cocoa bar was the real reason guests renewed their season passes—and the crowd shuffled forward. I took the opportunity to slip in beside Mattie, keeping my back to the lodge like that would shield me from Zer's cameras.

“What are you and Wren doing here?” I hissed under my breath.

“Tour,” Mattie said, not taking her eyes off Evangelina.

Wren bobbed her head. “We signed up for research.”

“Of course, y’all did.” I edged closer, trying to look like a woman politely fascinated by the history of ski-lift engineering. “We have a problem.”

“Just one?” Mattie’s mouth ticked upward.

“It must be Zer,” I whispered. “He’s watching me.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked quietly, lips barely moving.

“His office.” My words came out in puffs of steam. “He has a wall of screens, and they’re not just pointed at sticky-fingered tourists in the gift shop. He had footage of us chatting with Sheriff Nelson yesterday.” My brow furrowed. “Correction. Not us. Me. You were doing your usual blur-into-the-backdrop routine. By the way, how is it that you manage to avoid every security camera within a five-mile radius?”

“Years of practice.”

Evangelina raised her voice, pointing up at the gondola cables. “These beauties were upgraded three years ago. Faster, smoother, and safer than ever.”

Except for when men drop dead mid-ride, my brain helpfully supplied.

“What did he say when you confronted him?” Mattie asked.

“I…didn’t confront him about the stalking.”

Her eyes snapped briefly in my direction. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t have a death wish,” I whispered. “You didn’t see his office. It’s like the Pentagon in there. I bet he has the state-of-the-art facial recognition they use at casinos to spot card counters. I’m on his radar, and he didn’t care if I knew he knew.”

Mattie tossed long blonde hair across her shoulder. “That’s a missed opportunity.”

“It’s called being smart,” I snapped back under my breath. “The fact that he’s got a highlight reel of my movements all but confirms he sent the note.”

“If he hasn’t confronted you, he doesn’t have proof. You should stay in place.”

“No way, Mama.” My voice squeaked; I turned it into a fake cough. “We don’t know enough about Patrice Marie to keep up this charade. I found out today she’s a psychiatrist. I can’t pretend to be a therapist! I barely have my life together.”

Mattie’s attention shifted fully to me now, her brows knitting. “Who told you that?”

“Zer hinted at it,” I said. “Called me a shrink. I did my best to play it off, but he said it like he knew something for a fact, not like in a jokey way.”

She frowned, her eyes intensifying. “There’s nothing in her employment history or education background to suggest that. Patrice Marie Tappington is an assistant buyer at a department store.”

“You had her employment records this whole time?”

“Not the whole time.” She tracked Evangelina as the group began drifting toward a waiting shuttle van, snow crunching underfoot. “The background check just came through this afternoon.”

“Background check?” I scrubbed my face, likely smudging my makeup with snow. “Why talk to me about my concerns when you can just run surveillance on the poor unsuspecting Floridian we stole an identity from?”

Goldilocks bumped my leg, reminding me that at least someone in this operation didn’t purposely leave me in the dark.

“Okay, team!” Evangelina clapped like a cheerleader about to top a pyramid at homecoming. “Let’s head to the Sugar Bush! And be sure to bundle up. This is where you get to live your lumberjack fantasy.”

The crowd surged toward a long, open-sided snow vehicle—half van, half tracked monster, like a bus had sprouted tank treads and decided to climb mountains for a living. We piled in with the others and snagged the row in the very back. Wren filmed the ride for behind-the-scenes podcast content on our socials. Goldie wedged between my boots like a furry foot warmer. As the engine roared to life and the lodge receded behind us, I forced myself to breathe. In. Out. Focus.

If Zer was watching, then we needed answers faster. And the woman currently narrating the history of maple tapping into the microphone? She had plenty of answers. Whether they were true was another question.

If someone had airbrushed a high-fantasy movie set for extra magic, it would have looked exactly like the Sugar Bush. We tumbled off the snow beast into a hushed cathedral of white and silver. Bare maples rose up like ancient pillars, their branches etched against the sky with surgical precision. Clear tubing spiraled from trunk to trunk, a high-tech spiderweb connecting metal spouts to the collection tanks below. It smelled like the best parts of December: woodsmoke, biting cold, and the faint, sticky promise of sap.

A small log building nestled in a grove of trees, smoke curling lazily from a tin chimney. The old Sugar Shack. Its timbers were darkened with age and smoke, the door hanging slightly crooked. A wooden sign over the entrance read TAPPINGTON SUGAR SHACK EST. 1854 in faded paint.

“Welcome to the heart of the original Tappington empire,” Evangelina said, sweeping an arm out like Vanna White when someone bought a particularly popular vowel. “This is where it all began. Back then, it wasn’t all about skiing and the latest trendy spa treatments using snails for facials. It was get up before dawn, tap trees, and boil sap until your eyebrows smelled like smoke.”

A few tourists chuckled. One man in a neon beanie raised his hand. “Do we get to tap a tree?”

“Absolutely!” Evangelina said. “We’ll do a mock demonstration. No trees will be harmed in the making of your Instagram content.”

She herded the group toward a cluster of already-set-up trees with shiny demonstration taps. Staff members in red parkas waited with little mallets and pre-drilled holes, ready to guide eager guests.

I scanned the small crowd, my eyes darting between expensive parkas and designer beanies. Somewhere in the trees, Mattie and Wren did their own version of ‘investigative touristing.’ And I was a solo act—or as solo as one can be with a dog in a sparkly sweater.

“Go ahead and try it.” Evangelina waved tourists toward the forest. “And remember: the trees like it when you talk to them. They’re especially fond of knock-knock jokes, woodn’t you know?”

While the tourists lined up to whack at bark and take selfies, I drifted closer to Evangelina. She moved through the snow with practiced ease, boots leaving neat imprints. Goldie trotted along, pausing occasionally to sniff the base of a maple, as if considering a career change to pancake taste tester.

Evangelina linked her arm through mine. “I’m glad we get this chance to hang out away from the family, Patsy. Cisco talked about his hot older cousin from Florida.” She tilted her head and scrunched her nose. “Although he didn’t call you that exactly. That would be creepy.”

I choked on my own breath. “I…that’s…good to know?” Hot? I’d barely wrapped my mind around Florida identity theft, and now a suspect was making this middle-aged mom’s day. How was I supposed to interrogate someone so sweet?

The spouse is always a suspect, Patsy. Don’t be distracted by flattery.

“He said you were funny and fearless,” Evangelina added. “The cousin who always got into trouble at family reunions.”

“Funny…good.” At least the real Patrice Marie and I had that in common.

A kid in a purple snowsuit thumped a tap into a tree with the concentration of a tiny lumberjack. Evangelina clapped and narrated encouragement into the cold air. Wren caught my gaze from across the clearing and pointed subtly at Evangelina, then at her eyes—watch, watch.

Time to do what I did best: ask intrusive questions while pretending not to.

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong,” I said, pitching my voice just loud enough for her to hear over the sound of mallets and tourist chatter. “Being from the Florida branch, I mean. They’re not exactly rolling out the red carpet. What about you?”

“Me?” She laughed, a bright, practiced trill. “So here’s the thing, I may have only been married to Cisco for fifteen days, but…” She lifted her chin, eyes flashing. “I’m family now. And legally, they don’t have a leg to stand on.” She punctuated the sentence with a sharp little shrug. “So what are they going to do?”

“Fifteen days,” I repeated. “That’s…a whirlwind.”

“You have no idea.” For a second, something flickered behind her eyes—hurt, anger, something sharp—then the gloss slid back into place. “We eloped fast. Sometimes love doesn’t care about timelines. Or prudence. Or pre-nups.”

“You inherited everything intended to go to Cisco?” I asked.

“That’s what annoys Grandma Faith,” Evangelina said. “She had a whole vision board of how things were supposed to go. Cisco takes over, Faith micromanages from the sidelines, everyone lives happily ever after on top of the mountain.”

She brushed snow off a nearby stump and sat, crossing her legs at the ankle. Goldie immediately hopped up beside her, placing one paw on Evangelina’s thigh like they’d known each other for years.

Evangelina scratched Goldie’s ears absently. “Only, life had other plans.”

“She doesn’t strike me as the…go-with-the-flow type,” I said, easing onto a stump and not bothering to clear the snow.

Evangelina’s mouth twisted. “Faith is…a force. She likes things her way. She likes the right people in the right roles. And she does not appreciate surprises. Like a grandson’s new wife who didn’t ask her permission first.”

“Thus the tension at dinner.”

Grandma Faith’s smiles had been as warm as the fireplace and twice as controlled.

Evangelina held my gaze. “Between you and me…” She leaned in. “Faith could tell you right now who she thinks should run every inch of this place. Lodge, sugar bush, syrup plant, charity galas. It’s all a chessboard to her. Cisco was her king. Everything else is a pawn.”

It wasn’t the first time someone had hinted Faith was more than just a grieving matriarch, but hearing it from the inside hit differently.

“I’m sure some of the family is…dubious about your intentions. Cisco had a sizable trust, not to mention his inheritance.”

She smiled, but with a thin edge. “I stay out of principle. It doesn’t matter how long we were actually married. We were supposed to share a life together. Here.” Her gaze drifted over the trees, the tubing, and the old shack. “The Tappingtons don’t get to snatch that away because the timeline wasn’t to their liking.”

“So you didn’t stay for the money?”

“Do I like the security that comes from being a filthy rich Tappington? Sure. That’s nice, of course.” She shrugged. “But the biggest factor: I like living in a real-life Hallmark town and meeting interesting tourists. And I love maple.” She stretched the word, dialing up the enthusiasm. “Do you know how many recipes you can put syrup in? Coffee, cocktails, desserts, marinades, glazes, salad dressing—”

I tried to control my resting skeptical face. Her answer sounded a little rehearsed, like she’d had to defend this exact point before, over and over.

“But the resort wasn’t always this…thriving,” I said. “There were rumors.”

Her smile dimmed. “The Tappingtons dismiss any talk about money trouble as baseless rumors. Bad for the brand. But before old man Ebenezer turned things around, the resort was hemorrhaging.”

My heart skipped a beat. This is a new wrinkle. “You mean under Cisco’s leadership?”

“He was over his head and not ready for the responsibility of running this entire empire by himself,” she said. “But with his grandfather sick, the last thing Cisco wanted to do was disappoint him. So he zipped his lips, put on a brave face, and played the dutiful heir apparent.” Her fingers tightened in Goldie’s fur. “I’m certain the stress of all that exacerbated his heart condition.”

“You weren’t with him on the gondola when he had his attack, were you?”

Her shoulders slumped slightly. The constant sparkle in her eyes dimmed. “We were supposed to be,” she said softly. “We had this whole romantic plan. There’s a little fire pit clearing up the mountain, just off one of the side trails. You can see the fireworks perfectly from there without all the noise from the lodge crowd.

“We went up early to light the fire and set up blankets. It was all very…” She took a breath, air fogging in front of her. “Cisco kept saying he wanted the night to feel perfect, like we were starting the new year with the life we’d always talked about.”

Goldie gave a soft, sympathetic whine.

“I’ve been married quite a few years, and that's usually a recipe for bickering over something stupid like using the good blanket in the snow. Did you two fight?”

“Barely a bicker, really. I was supposed to bring the drinks. It was my one job,” she said, a watery laugh escaping. “He’d been talking for weeks about toasting the new year with the Midnight Tap, the family cocktail. I don’t usually drink, but it was my first holiday as a Tappington…”

“And it’s tradition.”

“I offered to go down and grab them, but he insisted. Said I’d freeze if I had to ride the gondola twice.” She blinked rapidly, lashes catching snowflakes. “So he went down to the lodge to grab two mugs and bring them back up. He kissed me, said, ‘Don’t let the fire die,’ and left.”

“How long until you knew something was wrong?” I asked.

She swallowed. “It felt like forever, but it was probably…twenty minutes? Thirty? I kept checking my phone for texts, thinking they were just slow at the bar. Then the fireworks started without him.”

She stared down at Goldie’s paw on her leg. “I didn’t find out what happened until later. They came to get Faith first. I was just…waiting in the woods, like an idiot, guarding a fire that didn’t matter anymore.”

My chest tightened.

Dean’s crime scene photos flashed in my mind—Cisco slumped in the gondola, one mug spilled, one drink, one victim. If he’d really been fetching drinks for both of them, where was hers?

“There was only one drink in the gondola.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Evangelina looked up, eyes shining. “What?”

“Nothing,” I said, forcing a smile. “Just trying to picture it. You waiting up there. It must have been…awful.”

“It was.” Her voice wobbled, but she steadied it. “I sent him down for those stupid drinks. If he’d stayed with me, maybe…”

She trailed off, choking back emotion. My eyes narrowed, my inner journalist searching for the holes in her delivery. Admitting guilt was a classic play—the raw, ‘it's my fault’ confession that usually stopped an interview cold. It looked like the truth, but in my experience, the most convincing performances were the ones that used a little bit of the truth to hide a whole lot of lies.

“Okay!” Evangelina smacked her thighs as she stood, suddenly, snapping her tour-guide voice back into place. “Who wants to see how the sap becomes syrup? Time to head into the Processing Plant!”

The group cheered, stomping cold feet as if we were heading to a concert. Really, I think they were excited to get out of the snow and would have celebrated joining a long checkout line at Walmart.

The tour shifted from 'pioneer days' to 'corporate takeover' in the span of a few yards. We left the timber-framed shack for a modern annex that looked like an architect with a grudge against wood had designed it. Through the massive windows, I saw the industrial heart of the operation: stainless steel gleaming under fluorescent lights and steam rising in ghostly, controlled plumes. I instinctively slowed my pace, Goldie matching my heavy steps as the rustic fantasy of the resort literally gave way to a factory.

Evangelina had given me plenty: Faith as a controlling matriarch, financial trouble that threatened the empire, Cisco drowning under pressure, and an alibi wrapped in remorse.

But the image wouldn’t leave my mind: a single, lonely mug—NYE XXIX—on the floor of a gondola, sticky with the last sip of a man who never made it back to the fire.

Either Evangelina was lying.

Or Cisco was.

Or something else was very, very wrong.