Maple Ridge...Unsolved - Episode 8

Brittany Brinegar
Jan 14
8 min read

Updated: Jan 21

It Just Comes Natural

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 3

The morning tasted like nerves and stale peppermint toothpaste. I flipped on the overhead light and squinted at the tiny date stamped on the travel-sized tube. “What do you suppose the health risk is for expired toothpaste?”

Goldilocks stretched across the foot of my bed, snoring blissfully unaware that her human was in the middle of an existential crisis with a shade of a fashion emergency. The Tappington Manor’s guest suite looked like a department store exploded. Clothes draped over armchairs, shoes lined up like judgmental soldiers, scarves hung from the chandelier. Apparently, espionage came with a side quest in fashion indecision.

“What does one wear to the reading of your fake uncle’s will?” I asked my goldendoodle stylist. “Black seems a little over the top. It screams grieving widow, and I’ve only committed identity theft, not mourning.”

Goldie snorted in agreement.

“A vintage band tee is too flippant. Even if Fleetwood Mac Rumors ʼ77 does scream ‘I have layers.’”

I held up a dress on its hanger and stuck my head through the neckline to see it in the mirror. Goldie covered her eyes with a paw.

“And now I look like I’m anchoring the six o’clock news.” I tilted my head. “Good evening, Maple Ridge. Tonight’s top story: Woman Pretends to Be Cousin, Dies of Own Incompetence.”

Goldilocks hopped off the bed and padded toward the door. She sank low and released a low growl.

I froze. “I hear it too.”

The wardrobe squeaked closed as I squeezed by, still wearing the hanger like a noose of poor decisions. Goldie stood rigid, ears perked. The house was old enough to have its own spooky ambiance, but this was different.

I twisted the lock and stuck my head into the hall. Empty. But soft, muffled voices drifted. My slippers shuffled down the runner, creating static. The distant murmur grew clearer.

It sounded like it was coming from the room across the hall. The hanger clanked softly against my shoulder as I pressed my ear to the door. The voices had a familiar ring…

Mama?

I stiffened.

And me?

Goldie tilted her head. I mirrored her expression. “Okay, either the ghosts have impeccable taste in podcasts, or this is about to get weird.”

With a deep breath, I twisted the knob.

My own voice floated out. “…welcome back to Murder, Mystery, and Mom—Whispering Pines, Unsolved.”

Someone was playing my show.

Before I could question where the bravery/stupidity came from, I kicked the door with an intensity that would make the lead character on a detective show weep with envy. “Gotcha!”

But the only thing awaiting me was the sound of my own blabbering and an empty room.

I stood there, frozen in a tactical crouch, pointing a finger at a stack of high-thread-count towels. There was no villain spinning around in a leather chair, no dramatic confession—just my own voice, echoing off the mahogany walls, enthusiastically describing how my dog fetched femurs.

It turns out that kicking down a door loses its cinematic edge when the only witness is a piece of furniture and a confused goldendoodle.

I straightened, trying to reclaim some shred of dignity as my "Gotcha" finger wilted. The room was a masterpiece of expensive, unoccupied stillness. The only sign of life was an iPhone lying face-up on a writing desk, its screen aglow like a small, digital snitch. My podcast streamed on, my voice narrating the tragic details of a cold case in Whispering Pines to an audience of dust motes.

Goldie padded in behind me, her nails clicking on the hardwood. She looked at the phone, then up at me, her head tilted in a way that clearly said, Wow, your listener stats are even more tragic than your timing.

I reached out and picked up the phone. "Well, at least we’re finally cornering the Dead and Spectral demographic. Our reach in the Great Beyond is trending way up. It's a very loyal audience. They literally never leave.”

The door slammed behind me.

I jumped.

“You aren’t Patrice Marie.”

A figure stood in the shadowed light, backlit by the stained-glass window. Blonde hair in designer waves, silk robe paired with Ugg boots. Daphne Tappington—Cisco’s little sister—looked like she rolled straight out of a pop star’s afterparty and into my worst nightmare.

I did the only natural thing. I threw my hands up—still wearing my dress and hanger as a necklace—and nearly strangled myself. “I can explain! This isn’t what it looks like.”

“It looks like you’re undercover and trying to figure out who murdered my brother.”

I wriggled out of the hanger with the grace of a cat in a bathtub, managed to smack myself across the bridge of the nose with the plastic hook, and then held the 'weapon' up like I was presenting the smoking gun to a grand jury. “Okay, so it is exactly what it looks like. I’m as transparent as glass. Sometimes frosted, maybe textured, but still glass.”

Daphne folded her arms. “No one else knows. They’re suspicious of you for different reasons.”

“No need to call the cops. I’ll be out of here in a jiffy.”

“Why?” she asked. “Your presence is working. You’re stirring things up.”

“And not in a good way.”

Daphne arched a dramatic eyebrow. “No, in a fabulous way.”

I slung the dress over my arm and tried to find my way back to detective mode. “I’d ask how you knew, but clearly stealth is not my superpower.”

She smirked. “I’m Facebook friends with the real Florida cousin. And you aren’t her.”

I blinked. “Really?”

“I know, I know. You’re on Facebook? With the boomers? It’s embarrassing. But I only use the profile for family stuff. Anyway, the Florida Patrice Marie is a totally different vibe. Her aesthetic is Sarasota Beige. You? You’re giving…anxious theater major. It’s a vibe, sure, but not her vibe.”

I stared. “Why didn’t you bust me?”

“At first—for the drama.” Daphne grinned. “Do you know how rare it is to witness the beginning of a con? Thought it might be juicy. Then I realized who you are. I’m obsessed with true crime and follow your TikTok.”

“I didn’t know I…ticked? Tocked?”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s snippets from your podcast. Your assistant posts them, and fans do their own hot takes. It was a hot minute, but I finally placed your voice.” She put a hand on her hip. “So, are you here doing what I think you’re doing? Because if so, I want in.”

I exhaled. “An old boyfriend is an EMT in Maple Ridge—the one who found your brother. He suspects Cisco’s death wasn’t natural.”

“On that, we can totally agree. Grandpa thought so, too. He promised to look into it, but he died before he got answers.”

A chill zipped through me. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Daphne, but—”

“You think I killed my brother? Seriously?”

“No!” Yes, I did, but I couldn’t tell her that. “But I’d like to rule you out.”

She huffed. “If you’re looking for a motive, I’m the youngest. I get whatever’s left after everyone else picks the estate clean.”

“That’s…forthcoming.”

“But I have an alibi.” She scrolled through her phone. “Check my ‘NYE in NYC’ highlight reel. I was livestreaming from a Manhattan rooftop the whole night—ball drop, fireworks, confetti, existential dread. I’ll send you the link. It’s like twelve hours of content and proof that I was nowhere near Vermont. Absolute cinema.”

“I believe you,” I said quickly. No universe existed where I’d willingly watch an influencer livestream.

“Nice, so you’ll let me help. What do you need?”

“For starters, did you send me a threatening note?”

“Duh.”

Scared by someone who uses words like duh and lit. How fun for me.

“Well, now that that mystery’s solved,” I muttered, checking off my invisible list. “What can you tell me about Cisco? Is there anyone who might have wanted him out of the picture?”

“This family is cutthroat,” she said. “Grandpa gave him the key to the castle, skipping over Aunt Barbara Rey. That did not go down smoothly.”

“You think your aunt could be involved in his death?”

“If she was on one of her benders, maybe.” Daphne flopped into an armchair like a cat claiming territory. “Half the time, she’s as classy as Martha Stewart. The other half, she’s throwing crystal at the fireplace.”

“A drinking problem isn’t exactly proof, Daphne.”

“My family treats me like a mascot because I dropped out of college and spend too much money on boots. They don’t realize I’ve been recording every dinner-table fight for a year.” She grinned, wicked and proud. “You want the real tea on the Tappingtons? I’m your deep-throat source. Just…use my good side for the cover art.”

I wasn’t sure whether dinner-table beefs would prove anything, but I had an eager, willing intern to sort through the evidence. “That might actually help. I’ll send everything to my tech guru.”

“This is fire.” Her thumbs flew across the screen as if fire were a good thing. “Now get out before Zer sees your heat signature on his iPad. We’ll talk at the will reading.” She paused, assessing me. “And wear the black dress—it’s I have secrets chic, not I’m here to fix your Wi‑Fi.”

I offered a nervous laugh and slung the hanger back around my neck. “Think I can start a new TikTok fashion trend? I saw it hanging on the rack and couldn’t resist.”

“No.”

I slipped out into the hallway, mind spinning with Daphne’s confessions. Cutthroat family. Recorded arguments. A tech-savvy heiress who said “duh” like a threat. I was so busy mentally outlining the next podcast episode that I didn’t notice the shadow by the linen closet until it moved.

I froze. “Goldie,” I whispered. “If that’s a ghost, bite first, ask questions later.”

A shadow stepped out, blocking my path.

I held back a gasp, which only made my squeal sound like a squeaky toy being run over by a semi-truck. I stumbled back, nearly tripping over my dress.

Standing before me was a maid. She wore a crisp uniform, thick-rimmed glasses that magnified her eyes to cartoon size, and salt-and-pepper hair pinned so tight her eyebrows were halfway to her hairline.

“Miss Patrice,” she rasped. “What are you doing lurking?”

“I—I was just—” I stammered, clutching the hanger like a weapon. “Checking the, um, structural integrity of the drywall. It’s a hobby.”

The maid tilted her head, lenses flashing. She stepped closer until I could smell…hot cocoa?

“Structural integrity?” she whispered. Then the posture changed: hunched shoulders straightening, blank stare sharpening to tactical glint. The raspy voice dropped.

“Honestly, Patsy,” the ‘maid’ said. “If you’re going to lie to domestic staff, make it about a lost earring. It’s cliché but at least believable.”

My jaw hit the floor. “Mama?!”

Mattie reached up, pulling the thick glasses down her nose to fix me with the patented Mother Is Disappointed glare. “You aren’t the only one who can infiltrate, darling.” Her gaze flicked to the hanger around my neck. “Though I see you’ve gone for the ‘clumsy dry‑cleaner’ aesthetic. Bold choice. Is that part of your cover, or did the closet fight back?”

“How are you even here?” I hissed. “You look like—well, you don’t look like you!”

“That’s the point of a disguise, Patrice Marie.” She adjusted her apron, every inch the tactical housekeeper. “Now ditch the plastic jewelry. We have a will to read, and I’ve already planted three microphones in the library. Move it.”

And with that, my mother—the CIA’s answer to Mary Poppins—melted back into the corridor’s shadows, silent and efficient as ever.

I turned to Goldie. “Okay, new rule: if it has a feather duster and looks like a stranger, it’s probably Grandma.”