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Whispering Pines Murder - Episode 10

  • Writer: Brittany Brinegar
    Brittany Brinegar
  • Jun 25
  • 8 min read

Updated: 4 days ago

Trouble with the Truth

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 1

Whispering Pines Murder - Episode 10

The art show glittered on, unaware—or perhaps willfully ignoring—that the two women marching across the back lot weren’t there for pottery or prints. We weren’t there for kettle corn, either, though my stomach had a few notes on that subject.


We were there for Teegan Teagarden.


And she wasn’t making it easy.


The rear of the showgrounds, just behind her minimalist white booth, had been unofficially claimed as a makeshift parking lot. The grass was mashed flat beneath a few rows of dusty trucks and SUVs, one of which had its tailgate down and was half-unloaded. A few sculptures shaped like startled owls and a box of vaguely unnerving glass marbles were arranged on the grass like they’d tried to escape.


Teegan stood beside the truck, her sleeves rolled up, and her perfectly painted lips in a tight line as she pulled another odd-looking sculpture from a plastic bin.


She looked up as we approached, expression shifting from fake-cordial to irritated faster than you could say ‘motive and opportunity.’


“Well,” she sighed, setting the sculpture down with a thud. “If it isn’t Timber Ridge’s two most persistent podcasters.”


Goldilocks barked, as if insulted she wasn’t included. “And their little dog too,” I added.


“Now isn’t the time, ladies,” Teegan went on, dusting her hands on the back of her pants. “This is a joyous occasion. I don’t want to discuss the morbid details of your podcast at an event meant to celebrate creativity.”


I stepped forward. “I take it you heard our latest episode?”


She scowled at me like I was a bug in her coffee. “Making a buck off someone’s memory is the lowest of the low.”


“You’re one to talk,” I mumbled.


Mattie gave me a warning look, the kind that said don’t poke the wasp nest until we’re done gathering intel.


“We actually are here to discuss art with you, Teegan,” Mattie said, her voice smoother than honey and about twice as dangerous. “My daughter and I don’t have an artistic eye between us, and it would help the investigation if we understood more about what we’re seeing. Purely for context.”


Teegan narrowed her eyes. “I thought my husband made it clear—you’re not allowed to investigate.”


I folded my arms. “Not allowed? When did Virginia become 1949 Communist Russia? Should we start whispering behind soup cans?”


Mattie didn’t glare at me so much as turn her head one fraction of an inch and silently scream stop talking.


“We don’t intend to interfere with Chief Caine’s official investigation,” she said. “Any leads we uncover will be shared with him immediately. We’re just trying to see the whole picture.”


“Fine. But I have a lot of work to do, and I don’t have time for gossip.”  She grabbed a box from her truck and started toward her booth. “Let’s walk and talk.”


Mattie and I exchanged a look, then each reached for a box—mine was full of ceramic frogs painted in wildly varying states of distress—and we followed, Goldilocks trailing behind like a furry little chaperone.

As we stepped back into the swirling festival of color and cheer, I couldn’t help but think that if we played our cards right, we might actually get a confession. Teegan was frazzled and ready to pop. I could feel it.


I dropped the heavy box with a huff, not waiting for Teegan to tell me where it went. We weren’t there to be her pack mules. We were there to accuse her of murder.


One step at a time, Patsy. If you rush into this, you’ll spook her.


Mattie gave me the same advice during my first riding lesson. It didn’t work then either. I got overeager and my pony threw me like a rodeo clown playing a Bronc rider.


Teegan snapped open a plastic bin, her hands moving briskly as she unpacked hand-painted ceramic coasters with twists on inspirational sayings, glazed in cursive: ‘Forget Live Laugh Love…I want Wine, Whine, Unwind.’


The cheerful buzz of the art show felt like it belonged in another universe. A world where everything was bright and simple, and no one suspected the woman arranging coasters of being a fraud with a murderous streak.


“Lovely display,” Mattie said, surveying the aggressively motivational coasters. “We hope you can walk us through your work. You mentioned that you experiment with different mediums.”


Teegan blinked, caught off guard. “You want… an art tour?”


Mattie smiled. “Think of it as a crash course for a couple of amateurs. Might help us spot clues later.”


Teegan hesitated, then gave a quick, tight nod. “Fine. But make it quick. I’ll have customers coming by any minute now.”


She gestured us toward a row of canvases, each bolder than the last. One piece looked like a weather map during a tornado warning—angry reds spiraling around splashes of neon green. Another, an abstract sculpture, resembled a giant metal paperclip melting into a pile of despair.


“This one’s called Emotional Static,” Teegan said, tapping the metal blob. “It’s about the chaos of constant connectivity.”


My head cocked to the side. “Every time my HOA group chat starts talking violations, I feel the exact same way.”


Teegan didn’t laugh; in fact, she looked almost irritated by my interpretation. She darted to the next canvas, her heels snapping against the temporary flooring of the tent. “I work in layers. Texture. Meaning. This one’s about fractured identity.” She pointed at a canvas that looked like someone punched it with a rainbow.


“Your range is impressive,” Mattie said.


Teegan’s posture straightened. “Exactly. I’m not boxed in by nostalgia and pine trees.”

And there it was—sharp and bitter. Like she couldn’t talk about her own work without throwing a jab at Elvira’s.


We moved farther into the booth, toward the slightly darker corner hiding the bridge.


Nestled between a ceramic question mark sculpture and an acrylic swirl labeled Renewal, the painting glowed like it had its own internal backlight. It was quiet, poignant, and real.

And unmistakably not hers.


“Now this is beautiful,” Mattie said, her voice neutral.


Teegan brushed past us to straighten the painting, avoiding eye contact. “Just a landscape. Trying something new.”


Mattie and I shared a glance. Time to change the tone.


“Nothing against the rest of the gallery but this is more my style,” I said.


“You have a simpler eye,” Teegan said. “Nothing wrong with that. We can’t all be deep thinkers.”


“Thank goodness for that.” I cupped a hand on my chin. “How much does this one go for?”

“I have a few interested buyers fighting over it.”


Mattie flipped her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Is that why it's tucked away in a dark corner?”


“You never know what pieces are going to inspire someone.” She shrugged. “If you make me a competitive offer, it’s yours.”


“We’re not here to buy it,” I said, my voice low and steady. “We’re here to discuss where it came from.”


Teegan froze. Her eyes narrowed, the tension behind them flaring like static before a storm. “Excuse me?”


“The bridge,” I said. “That painting doesn’t match your other work. It doesn’t even look like it came from the same decade, let alone the same artist.”


Mattie tilted her head. “It’s dramatically different from your usual style. Technically stronger. More emotionally grounded. You’re a talented artist, Teegan, but that piece is in another league.”


“Five minutes under my tutelage and you’re an expert?” Teegan scoffed. “The style is different because I’m not afraid to evolve. I don’t like to be boxed in. I’m not one type of artist. I work in acrylic, charcoal, sculpture, mixed media—whatever medium speaks to me. I don’t do cookie-cutter. I grow.”


“And yet, your growth just so happens to look nearly identical to a painting hanging in Elvira’s cabin studio.”


Teegan’s spine stiffened. Her face flushed but she didn’t falter.


“That’s mine. Every brushstroke,” she said, her voice clipped. “Elvira’s style was different. Too soft. Too precious. She painted like she auditioned for a greeting card. This?” She pointed at the bridge. “This has weight. Purpose.”


“And where did you find that purpose?” I asked. “In her studio?”


Teegan didn’t answer.


Mattie stepped forward. “Teegan, if you found old paintings and felt inspired by something she left behind, that’s not a crime.”


Teegan’s mouth twisted. “Inspired?” She gave a dry, hollow laugh. “Elvira didn’t inspire anything. She was a nature painter, not an artist. She stuck to the same pine trees and mountain scenes like her creativity had a GPS.”


“Nature scenes like this one? This is déjà vu in oil paint.” I waved at the wall. “Claiming a dead woman’s work as your own and profiting from it—”


“I didn’t steal anything,” Teegan snapped. “I earned this. All of it. Do you know what it’s like to watch someone coast through life on talent they didn’t even appreciate? To see someone be worshipped for staying in their lane while you were constantly told to get back in yours?”


Mattie soaked in every lie, filing it away to be used against her later. “You sound bitter.”


“I sound honest.” Teegan laughed, but it wasn’t amusement—it was exhaustion. Frayed and dangerous. “Mrs. Peabody wouldn’t even look at my work half the time. ‘Teegan, you’re too abstract. Teegan, maybe tone it down.’ But Elvira? Paint another tree and get a gold star.”


Mattie watched her closely now, her expression unreadable. “That sounds like it was painful.”


“She wasn’t even a real artist,” Teegan whispered. “She was a nature painter. She didn’t push boundaries, she hugged them.”


Goldilocks huffed from her patch of grass, unimpressed with the drama.


“You took her paintings,” I said, my voice flat with the realization. “And now that Mrs. Peabody’s gone, the one person who could spot the fraud is no longer around to stop you.”


“We just have one question for you, Teegan,” Mattie said. “How did you know Elvira wasn’t going to show back up one day looking for her paintings? Is it because you killed her?”


Teegan didn’t respond. She didn’t have to.


The silence said everything. But it didn’t prove anything. And that was the problem.


Because, no matter how guilty she looked, or how tangled the lies became, we had no hard evidence—just gut feelings and accusations.


We stood there for another moment, the bridge painting glowing like an accusation.


“You took her paintings from her cabin studio,” I said. “They were just sitting there—masterpieces collect dust while your gallery hemorrhaged money.”


Teegan didn’t turn back. “You’ve got no proof. Just bad taste and big imaginations.”


The words slammed into me harder than I expected.


Because she was right.


No matter how smug she sounded or how much that bridge painting looked like it belonged in Elvira’s collection, we had nothing. No fingerprints. No camera footage. No receipts. Just gut feelings and gallery gossip.


“I want you to leave. Now!” Teegan waved a ceramic frog toward the exit.


Mattie didn’t argue. She just nodded and turned to leave, and I followed her numbly, each step away from that booth feeling heavier than the last.


The art show glittered in the sunlight—streamers flapping, guitars strumming, children giggling as they chased bubbles past displays of handcrafted wind chimes. It was beautiful. It was bright. It was wrong.


We passed a booth selling pastel flower crowns, and a teenage girl tried to hand me one. I shook my head, unable to fake a smile.


We’d found a dead girl.


We’d found her stolen art.


And it meant nothing.


Teegan was a thief, a liar, a terrible artist.


But a murderer? We had no proof.


No way to prove she’d ever even been inside that cabin. No way to place her near the grave in the woods. No confession. No slip-up. Not even a cracked nail or a muddy bootprint to chase.


This wasn’t a mystery. It was a wall.


My first real case, and we were officially dead in the water.


I’d let a killer smile in my mother’s face. I’d stared at a painting that might as well have been signed in blood and still walked away empty-handed. Elvira deserved justice, and I was failing her. We were failing her.


Beside me, Mattie said nothing. She never pushed when I got quiet. But I could feel her watching me.


And I hated it.


Hated that I wanted her to say we were doing great. That she believed in me. That we weren’t losing this case.


Instead, she said nothing.


Because maybe she didn’t believe that anymore.


And the worst part?


Neither did I.

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