Whispering Pines Murder - Episode 1

Drive South

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 1

My exit from the house resembled a low-budget action movie gone wrong, starring yours truly as the perpetually flustered protagonist. I was already operating on ‘podcast o’clock’ time—roughly fifteen minutes behind schedule and escalating—for what was, technically, my first day on the job.

And if there’s one thing Patsy Steffanelli excels at, it’s making a memorable first impression, even if that memory involves a face-plant.

I pivoted to summon Goldilocks, my ridiculously fluffy goldendoodle who shed enough hair daily to knit a small yak, and instead executed a graceful—in my own mind, anyway—stumble over the wayward wheel of my overstuffed suitcase. But no display of my inherent clumsiness would be complete without a dramatic landing. Today’s stunt coordinator? A ceramic garden gnome, affectionately nicknamed ‘Gnomey the Grim’ by me and the subject of seventy-three passive-aggressive emails and nine certified letters from the Homeowners Association. Apparently, Gnomey’s festive pointy hat and vacant stare were an ‘eyesore,’ a ‘threat to neighborhood morale,’ and possibly in violation of bylaw 3, subsection F, regarding ‘unauthorized lawn ornamentation with demonic undertones.’

As Gnomey’s cheerfully painted beard dug into my lower back, rendering me momentarily breathless, I wasn’t in a particularly persuasive position to argue his aesthetic merits. Goldilocks, bless her overly empathetic heart and her complete inability to differentiate between a dramatic fall and actual cardiac arrest, took my stillness as a sign of imminent demise and commenced emergency face-licking protocols.

“Wrong signals, my furry therapist-dropout. No wonder you flunked out of guide dog school.” I gasped, wiping slobber from my cheek. “Just a classic Steffanelli maneuver. No paramedics necessary.”

The front door groaned open, revealing my incredibly handsome, infuriatingly grounded husband, Michael, looking devastatingly sharp in his Navy dress blues. Even upside down, his jawline could probably cut glass. “Why, exactly, are you communing with garden gnomes?” he asked, his voice a mixture of amusement and mild concern.

“I was… conducting a vital pre-departure landscaping assessment.” I pushed myself onto an elbow with a moan that would have been unnecessary in my twenties, but vital to my momentum at forty…fickle-fackle. “I’m ensuring Juan’s meticulous lawn care adheres to the tyrannical two-millimeter allowance.”

He lifted me to my feet in one fluid motion, the kind that still made my stomach do a little fluttery thing, even after all these years. There was a reason I said ‘I do’ to that man, and it wasn’t just his encyclopedic knowledge of naval regulations. “That’s not what I meant, Patsy.”

“Oh. The other thing.” I waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah, the whole ‘quitting my perfectly stable soul-crushing office job to travel the country with Mama and solve murders for a podcast’ thing? It’ll be… an experience.”

“As long as you’re doing it for the right reasons.” His eyes held a hint of playful skepticism.

“Always,” I lied with the conviction of a seasoned politician. I straightened his perfectly aligned cover and gave him a goodbye kiss. “So, how does it feel now that the flipper is on the other foot and I’m the one shipping out?”

“Just promise me you and your mother won’t get into too much trouble.”

“Don’t fret, darling. I travel with bail money…and a surprisingly effective taser disguised as a lipstick case.” I blew him another kiss and hurried, as much as one could hurry while still recovering from gnome-induced trauma, to the curb to wait.

Agnes Periwinkle, the neighborhood’s reigning queen of suburban surveillance, was across the street, feigning an intense interest in the three fallen leaves on her meticulously manicured lawn. Any moment now, she’d have a far more compelling reason to engage in some serious rubbernecking than my usual gravitational challenges. Or maybe it wasn’t just my inherent clumsiness that glued her to the window; blending into a crowd wasn’t exactly my superpower. Imagine a giraffe in a sequined muumuu trying to play hide-and-seek in a cornfield. That was me.

As I waited, the weight of Michael’s well-meaning doubts settled in. Did I really know what I was getting myself into? Trading spreadsheets for skeletal remains? Water cooler gossip for witness testimonies? It was uncharted territory, a bizarre landscape populated by unpredictability and the lingering ghosts of childhood trauma…mostly mine.

A mental slideshow of my motivations flickered to life, and I made a pro list because no one in their right mind cared to list cons.

Reasons to produce an unsolved mystery podcast with Mama: enrich our relationship, provide closure for victims’ families, travel across the U.S., and, most importantly, spite Loretta. My sister will be so jealous when she realizes I’m podcast-famous.

The schadenfreude alone was practically a travel stipend.

A rumble echoed down the street, sounding both vintage and vaguely alarming. It could only mean one thing. My ride arrived, and subtlety, as always, was not invited to the party.

Mama’s arrival was less ‘grand entrance’ and more ‘slightly terrifying vintage parade.’ Barreling down our perfectly ordinary suburban street was a vision in pink and chrome: a beautifully restored 1976 Ford Bronco convertible, looking like it had escaped from a stylish vintage car show, and trailing behind it, like a glamorous silver comet, was the Clue Cruiser—our 1950s Airstream. Naturally, it sported matching pink racing stripes, because Mama believed if you’re going to solve murders, you might as well do it in style. And apparently, with enough horsepower to launch a small rocket.

As I stood at the edge of my driveway, Goldilocks practically vibrating with joyous anticipation at my heels, trying to project an air of calm that completely belied the internal monologue screaming about the sheer audacity of my life choices. The key to surviving this, I suspected, was mastering the art of the bewildered-but-willing shrug.

Mama, her long white-blonde hair, a glorious cloud of natural curls, billowing in the wind, waved with the unrestrained enthusiasm of a homecoming queen acknowledging her adoring public. Even from half a block away, her smile possessed the wattage to power a small town.

With a practiced ease that spoke of years spent maneuvering oversized vehicles in tight Texas parking lots—and possibly a few covert CIA operations involving less conventional modes of transport—she parallel-parked the Clue Cruiser with unnerving precision. Six inches from the curb, a millimeter to spare on Mrs. Periwinkle’s prize-winning petunias.

“Patsy, darling! Ready for adventure?” she asked, her voice brimming with the infectious excitement of a child heading to Disneyland.

Her tone didn’t do the impending doom—errr, adventure—justice. She acted like we embarked on a scenic drive, not a potential descent into small-town secrets and the fifteen-year-old mystery. Smart, considering my fight-or-flight response was heavily skewed towards flight, preferably in the opposite direction at Mach speed.

Goldilocks nudged my hand with her damp nose. I smiled, appreciating the comfort. “Mama, the last time you said that to me, it involved a white-water rafting trip and a near-death experience.”

Mama just laughed, a sound that could charm the pants off a rattlesnake. See, Mattie McDonald wasn’t your typical purveyor of small-town gossip and classifieds. Oh no. She was also a retired CIA analyst—something she kept secret until, well, recently.

And while my journalistic pursuits involved a strange combination of post-game locker room quotes, green screen weather reports, and deciphering police blotter jargon, I was less ‘intrepid reporter’ and more ‘easily startled observer with a pen.’ This road trip was going to be interesting.

And by interesting, I meant absolutely bonkers.

“You packed the mic equipment, right?” Mama practically bounced out of the Bronco, looking like she sold Mary Kay with a license to kill. She sported a tailored blazer in a shade of pink so bright it could probably stop traffic—the kind of pink that dared you to underestimate her. Underneath, she wore a crisp white blouse and dark-wash jeans. Even her sensible-yet-stylish ankle boots seemed to say, ‘I’m here to solve a murder, and I’ll look fabulous doing it.’

“Yes,” I confirmed, gesturing with a dramatic flourish toward the overflowing duffel bag. “Mics, mixer, laptop, and enough emergency caffeine to restart a small nation.”

“And the tactical snacks?”

“Mama, I wouldn’t embark on a road trip without proper rations. I’m not a heathen.”

She clapped her hands, her silver rings flashing in the sunlight. “Then, my dear Patsy, let the games begin.”

Goldilocks punctuated the proposal with an enthusiastic bark that echoed through the quiet suburban street, her tail whipping back and forth like a metronome set to double-time.

A few morbidly curious neighbors emerged to witness our departure. Mrs. Henderson, clutching her garden shears like a weapon, offered a tight, strained wave. Mr. Abernathy stood on his porch, shaking his head with the weary resignation of a man who’d seen it all from that out-of-control Steffanelli woman. We were the kind of rolling show that made people smile and call the HOA.

I wrestled Goldie into the backseat, gave my normal house one last look, and slid into the Bronco’s passenger seat. Today’s ensemble was carefully curated for maximum ‘quirky but approachable’ vibes. It involved a pair of well-worn but fashionable skinny jeans paired with a soft, slightly oversized graphic tee featuring a vintage band I doubt anyone under fifty had ever heard of. Layered over that was an open-front cardigan in a chunky knit in muted blues and greens.

For my footwear of choice, I considered combat boots because you never know when you might need to make a quick getaway or kick down a door. But let's be honest, Mama would probably handle the door-kicking. So, I opted for a pair of stylish, cognac-colored ankle boots with a low heel.

Mattie adjusted her oversized sunglasses, the lenses reflecting the Virginia sky like twin pools of mystery. “When I envisioned my golden years, it involved fewer murders.”

I smirked, already feeling a sliver of that podcasting adrenaline. “And more afternoon teas?”

“What am I, British? I hope you mean tee times.”

Shooting under her age was on her bucket list. I couldn’t hit under my age at Putt-Putt.

The drive to Timber Ridge was a swift descent into breathtaking beauty. One minute we were navigating cul-de-sacs, the next we were swallowed by the ancient embrace of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The scent of pine and damp earth riffled through my blonde bob, and sunshine bathed my cheeks.

Leaves blushed into their autumn best—russet reds, pumpkin oranges, and maple golds fluttering like confetti in the crisp air. The Blue Ridge, with its smoky blue silhouettes and whispering pines, felt like something from a dream. Or a postcard. Or a dream about a postcard.

Mattie inhaled deeply, a look of pure contentment on her face as she eased into a subtle bend of the road. “Now this is fresh air. Not that recycled stuff they pump into your ‘luxury’ townhome.”

“No bickering, Mama. The mic is hot, and we’re rolling. We want people to believe we’re the best of friends who never argue.” I glanced at the blinking red light on my laptop. “Welcome to Murder, Mystery, and Mom—the podcast where I, Patsy Steffanelli, your slightly unhinged guide through the murky waters of unsolved crimes, and my mother, Mattie McDonald, the Texas tornado with a surprisingly extensive knowledge of lock-picking—”

“Don’t tell them that. You make me sound like a criminal.”

“—delve into the cold cases that keep us up at night… and occasionally give Goldilocks nightmares. My goldendoodle, not the fairytale character.”

“This week, we find ourselves in the seemingly idyllic town of Timber Ridge, Virginia, investigating the fifteen-year vanishing act of Elvira Vance. Elvira…Giddy up, um-poppa-um-poppa…”

Mattie cut her eyes from the road to glare at my singing. “Get it out of your system?”

“Mow, mow.” I nodded. “I’ll cut that part out when I edit the podcast.”

Her gaze lingered for far too long, allowing her Spidey senses to do the driving. “Artist, local darling, and… suddenly gone without a trace.”

From the back, Goldilocks let out a low, mournful whine, as if sensing the weight of the unsolved.

I cleared my throat and refocused on my notes. “Elvira was last seen at the annual Timber Ridge Art Showcase, the event we’ll attend in a few days. She walked out of that gallery and… poof.”

Mattie expertly navigated a hairpin turn, the Bronco hugging the winding mountain road. “The police file paints a frustratingly murky picture. Three people saw her that morning: her own flesh and blood, Uncle Ralphie Dale Gentry; her then-boyfriend, Porter Caine, now the esteemed Chief of Police; and her artistic nemesis, Teegan Teagarden.”

“No body. No evidence of foul play. No frantic goodbye note. Just… absence.”

“But absence is just a puzzle waiting to be solved.” A hint of a smile played on Mattie’s lips. “And darling, you know how much your mama loves a good puzzle.”

The weight of the unsolved case settled in the pit of my stomach. The whispering pines outside held their breath, guarding fifteen years’ worth of secrets. “Elvira Vance has been missing for a long time, but Mama and I have a knack for finding what is lost.”

I thought about Elvira, about the life that had simply…stopped, and about the three people who held the missing pieces of her story. One was family, one was law enforcement, and one was a rival. Any one of them could hold the key.

Somewhere in this seemingly peaceful mountain town, a perp walked free for fifteen years. And they had no idea that the Clue Cruiser, carrying two determined women and a goldendoodle with a nose for trouble, had just rolled into Timber Ridge, ready to shake those secrets loose.

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