Whispering Pines Murder - Episode 2

Timber, I'm Falling in Love

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 1

The Timber Ridge RV Park exhaled tranquility, a fragrant blend of pine needles and the ghost of a thousand campfires. It was the sort of place where squirrels probably held town meetings, and the biggest drama was whether or not someone’s awning violated the unspoken RV etiquette.

With its gleaming silver skin and unapologetically retro vibe, our Airstream nestled amongst the more earth-toned behemoths like a sequined showgirl at a lumberjack convention. Blending in wasn’t exactly in our investigative playbook.

We maneuvered the Clue Cruiser into a prime spot near the edge of the campground, where the sunlight filtered through the towering pines in lazy, golden stripes. The second the Bronco’s engine sputtered to a contented sigh, Goldilocks exploded from the back like a furry, blonde cork from a champagne bottle, her nose twitching with the boundless possibilities of a thousand new scents. She attacked each tree with the focused intensity of a truffle pig, clearly convinced that the secrets of the universe were hidden within their bark.

I leaned against the Bronco, inhaling the crisp, pine-scented air. Despite all the pre-trip jitters that convinced me my stomach was permanently tied in a complicated knot, a surprising sense of calm settled over me. Maybe it was the quiet, the vibrant colors of the turning leaves, or the sheer novelty of not being stuck in a beige office cubicle. Whatever it was, this felt right.

Mama and I were on a mission and determined to make the podcast a success. And the only way that happened was if we solved the unsolvable.

“Where do you think Ralphie Dale is hiding?” I tucked my notebook under my arm. “I have a gazillion questions for him. We should get started right away.”

Mattie unfolded a lightweight aluminum chair with the practiced snap of someone who spent years covering outdoor festivals in the Texas heat. “I suspect he’ll come to us.”

“Oh, really?” I shielded my eyes from the late afternoon sun. “And we’re supposed to just wait?”

“Yup.” She produced a thermos the size of a small football and a collection of mismatched enamel mugs from a woven tote bag that held more secrets than my therapist. “Would you like coffee?”

“I’m already jittery, nervous, and a little sick to my stomach. Let’s mix in a little caffeine and see what happens.”

She filled the enamel mugs to the brim, leaving no room for cream, sugar, or mayonnaise—yup, you heard that last one right. There are a lot of sickos out there.

I blew on the cup. “It smells a tad strong.” My nose puckered. “Are you sure this isn’t the backup fuel for the Bronco?”

She produced Splenda packets from her magic tote. “Nobody’s forcing you to drink it.”

“No one except the Sandman and Ice Queen.” My hands trembled as I carefully stirred the almost overflowing cup. “So, what’s our plan for interviewing the uncle? What makes you think he’ll come to us?”

Mattie gestured to the name of our podcast painted on the Airstream’s window. “That turns quite a few heads. Even more once the gossip spreads across Timber Ridge.”

“You think he knows we’re investigating his niece’s disappearance?”

“I’m counting on it.”

I gulped the hot brew and nearly choked. “This coffee tastes like sadness.”

“Well, at least it's caffeinated sadness.”

My lip curled in self-defense as I went for a second sip. “Nope.” I dropped it on the end table with a thud. “What are we supposed to do while we wait for the uncle to come to us?”

Mattie spread her arms. “Enjoy the wonderful outdoors.”

“I did that already. Now what?”

“Patience.”

I sighed. “Can we run through the case and exchange theories? Fifteen years without a peep from Elvira…do we assume the worst?”

Mattie’s expressive blue eyes narrowed. “How about some cookies to go with our coffee?”

“My luck, I’d probably chip a tooth.”

While she rooted around the Airstream for snacks, I ran theories with my microphone. “The original investigation hit wall after wall. There was no evidence that Elvira was abducted or killed, so the local police force assumed she ran away. But I have my doubts. What kind of young girl bolts without at least grabbing her favorite comfy sweater? It just doesn’t add up.”

I sighed. “Now, listeners, I’m not pointing fingers at anybody, so don’t come charging to Timber Ridge with your pitchforks just yet. But my gut tells me that Ralphie Dale Gentry is hiding something. Why? Well, Elvira moved in with her uncle after her parents died in a car crash. Their estate went into a trust which Ralphie Dale served as trustee of until her twenty-fifth birthday. Folks, Elvira disappeared less than a month before her big day. I want to know what happened to that money after she up and vanished. We could be looking at motive, people.”

The airstream door squeaked open, and Mattie bounced down the steps. “When I was in the heyday of running the Gazette, I used to tell people that you can sniff around and ask questions, but sometimes you just gotta let the pieces fall into place. You can't force a lead to materialize by tapping your foot and demanding answers. You lay the groundwork, keep your ears open, and wait for someone to talk. And trust me, someone always talks, especially in a small town with secrets thicker than molasses in January.”

I lifted the recorder to my lips. “That’s Mama cutting in with her pearls of wisdom again in case anyone was wondering.”

She flicked a dismissive hand. “How was I supposed to know you were recording again? I thought we wrapped.” 

“I was recording my brilliant ‘Patsy’s Wild Speculation’ segment, seeing as you, the supposed master strategist, refuse to engage in pre-investigation theorizing.”

“I don’t guess.”

“I know, Mama.”

She poured a second steaming cup of coffee into a mug that matched her Bronco. “You can edit this part out, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Because nobody wants to listen to us rambling about nothing.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure, Mama. Maybe this playful banter can be our schtick.”

She gathered her hair over her shoulder, hitting me with a steely blue gaze. “Listeners tune in for answers, not to hear us squabbling like a couple of caffeinated squirrels.”

“You might be Editor in Chief of your paper, but not here, Mama. I have the final say over how I cut together the podcast. That was the deal.” 

“One I already regret.”

I held the microphone closer, a mischievous glint in my eye. “Now seems like as good a time as any for our first sponsor: the Lake Falls Gazette. That’s right, folks, an honest-to-goodness, ink-staining-fingers newspaper valiantly run by my mother. She is a true testament to journalistic integrity and stubbornness. She refuses to let it die, even if she has to live-stream town meetings via carrier pigeon. Or tweet using a rotary phone.”

Mattie’s mouth quirked into a smile. “It builds character.”

“And arthritis.”

Here's the kicker: when it came to the techy bits, Mama operated on a whole other level. Podcast idea? Mine. Making it actually work? All her. The Clue Cruiser wasn’t just a vintage trailer; it was a rolling testament to her surprisingly advanced—and occasionally terrifying—understanding of all things digital, often achieved through methods that would make a Silicon Valley engineer weep with nostalgic confusion.

Mattie took a long sip of her coffee, her gaze sweeping over the peaceful RV park. “You know, Patsy, this place feels like it’s holding its breath. Like those pines witnessed more than just changing seasons. And I believe Elvira’s story is woven into the very fabric of this quiet little spot.”

Having thoroughly investigated a particularly interesting-smelling bush, Goldilocks trotted back to us, a fallen pinecone held proudly in her mouth like a hard-won clue. She dropped it at my feet.

I picked it up, turning it over in my hand. “If only we had a way to listen to these mysterious whispers. A way to communicate with the locals in a common language so they could explain what happened to Elvira, and then we could narrow in on a theory…”

Mattie rolled her eyes. “You’re getting impatient again, honey.”

“I never stopped, Mother.” I tossed my head back. “I’m tired of waiting for the fish to bite. I say we toss in a stick of dynamite and see what happens.”

“Think about it from their perspective, Patsy. Someone with something to hide isn't going to rush up and confess just because we showed up in our snazzy Airstream. They're going to be watching, waiting to see what we do. Let them stew in their own uncertainty. The longer they wait, the more likely they are to crack, to make a mistake. It's a waiting game, and sometimes, the one who waits smartest wins.”

A long, low whistle broke the moment. I turned to see a man walking toward us, boots crunching on the gravel like he meant every step. He wore a faded denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his jeans had the kind of wear that only came from actual work, not a department store. A shock of silver hair curled from beneath his ball cap, and his face, lined and weathered like a well-loved saddle, broke into a grin so wide I felt suspicious on instinct. His charm probably won him a lot of RV park regulars, but something about how his eyes didn't quite crinkle at the corners made me wonder if it was more of a practiced performance.

“You saw him coming.”

Mattie grinned. “Keep thinking that if it helps you sleep at night.”

“Ladies.” He tipped his cap with the type of gallantry you didn’t see outside John Wayne movies and regional Cracker Barrels. “Y’all must be the ones camped out in the Peppermint Patty Airstream. I’m Ralphie Dale Gentry. This here’s my place.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but didn’t get the chance.

“Well, aren’t you a sight,” Mattie smiled like she’d just remembered how to flirt.

Ralphie Dale lit up like a Christmas tree plugged into an overloaded socket. “And aren’t you the spittin’ image of trouble in high heels?”

Mama’s smile widened, all Southern charm, but I caught the briefest flicker in her eyes, the kind that said she was cataloging every detail about this man while batting her eyelashes.

“Oh, I don’t wear heels anymore,” Mattie said, even though I knew good and well she had a pair tucked under her bed for emergencies. “But thank you. I’m Mattie, and this is my daughter Patsy.”

“Daughter? I’d’ve thought you were sisters.”

I cleared my throat. Loudly. “We hoped to ask you a few questions, Mr. Gentry.”

“Ralphie Dale,” he corrected gently, eyes still fixed on Mattie like she was a poem he wanted to memorize.

“Ralphie Dale.” I gritted my teeth like the words were made of aluminum foil. “We have questions about Elvira Vance.”

That got his attention—just not the way I hoped. His jaw tightened, his smile faded a notch, and for a split second, I saw something shift behind his eyes. Not guilt exactly. More like someone flipping a page in a book he hadn’t meant to lend out.

“She was my niece,” he said. “Still is, far as I’m concerned. If you want to talk about her, we can talk.”

Mattie looked at me like patience is a virtue, and I gave her one right back that said so, is arresting someone before they bolt.

I opened my notepad to a clean page and clicked my pen. “Elvira disappeared…”

“Not here.” He waved, expecting us to follow. “Come on down to my place, ladies. I just put some hot dogs on the grill. Friday nights, the whole park is invited for a BBQ.”

We settled on a pair of folding chairs Ralphie Dale produced from nowhere like a magician pulling doves from a denim hat. He dusted one off for Mattie with a flourish that made me want to gag and handed me mine upside down.

Goldilocks plopped between us, pinecone still in her mouth like she might barter it for a frankfurter.

“So,” I began, not even pretending to ease into the investigation. “Elvira. What happened?”

Ralphie Dale leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. “I wish I knew. That girl had fire, you know? She was a little wild, sure. Ran with the wrong crowd now and then. But she was sharp. Too sharp to vanish without a trace.”

Mattie nodded as if we were discussing something dull like the weather or soccer. “She left behind quite the gallery, didn’t she?”

“The best artist I ever saw outside a museum. That kind of talent doesn’t come along every day.”

“Did she seem worried about anything?” I asked. “Scared? Nervous? Paranoid?”

“Paranoid’s a stretch. But she wasn’t sleeping too good about a week before she disappeared.” His tone was casual, almost dismissive, but a fleeting shadow crossed his face, a hint of something more than just a concerned uncle. “At first, I dismissed it. You know how those creative types can be. Up ‘til three and sleep passed noon. But it was something else.”

My pen hovered above the pad. “None of this was in the police file.”

He snapped his suspenders. “They never took what I said seriously. Investigating would cut into their doughnut-eating contest.”

“What caused the insomnia?” Mattie asked.

“When I finally prodded it out of her, she said someone had been following her.” He massaged his jaw with a rough, working-man’s hand. “Then, the next day, she stopped talking about it. Shut down completely.”

“Classic sign of someone in trouble,” Mattie said.

Ralphie Dale glanced around like someone might be listening. “She told me to drop it. And I didn’t push. That’s on me.” He looked away then, toward a cluster of pine trees swaying like gossiping old women. The tight line of regret cut across his weatherworn face.

I tugged my sweater. “But you think someone around here knows what happened. What really happened.”

“I don’t think,” he said, turning back. “I know. But no one’s gonna talk about it, ‘cause the person keepin’ that secret is wearin’ a badge that says Chief.”

Mattie arched an eyebrow. “Porter Caine? The old boyfriend.”

Ralphie Dale nodded. “You wanna talk about bad apples, honey, that man is the whole spoiled orchard. Soon as he pinned on that badge, he started buryin’ anything that didn’t suit him. Cold cases, hot gossip, inconvenient truths. And Elvira? She was inconvenient.”

I frowned. “You’re saying he deliberately let the investigation go cold?”

“He didn’t let it. He iced it himself.” Ralphie Dale’s voice dropped low. “You know who he married right after Elvira disappeared, don’t you?”

My stomach flip-flopped. “Who?”

“Teegan Teagarden?” Mama guessed, something she claimed she never did.

“Yes, ma’am. The one and only. Though she’s Teegan Caine now.” He crossed his arms. “She and Elvira couldn’t stand each other. Oil and water with lighter fluid thrown in for fun.”

“They were both local artists and trained under the same teacher,” I said.

“Teegan was jealous. And she always had a thing for Caine, going back to high school. Then poof—Elvira’s gone, and Teegan’s wearing white and playing stepmom to a tabby cat named Otis.”

My mouth fell open. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“I wish I were. But that town over yonder?” He jerked his thumb vaguely east, toward the road. “It’s rotten with secrets. And folks here have been swallowing ‘em so long, they don’t even notice the taste anymore.”

Mattie leaned back, tapping her chin. “That’s a lot of motive, and even more reason for the Chief to keep the case shut tight.”

I vibrated in my seat like a kettle ready to whistle. “So let me get this straight: Elvira vanishes, the investigation goes nowhere, and the boyfriend, a man with a badge, marries her arch-nemesis like it’s just another Tuesday?”

Ralphie Dale bobbed his head. “That’s about the shape of it.”

“Well.” I slapped my knees and stood. “Looks like we’re fresh out of patience, and swimming in motive.”

Goldilocks barked in agreement.

Mattie rose more gracefully. “Thank you, Ralphie Dale. That was illuminating.”

He smiled at her again, all sunshine and unspoken promises. “Any time, Miss Mattie. While you’re in town, I’d love to show you the sites, maybe take you to my favorite dinner spot, if you’d give me the honor.”

His eyes were solely on Mama, all earnest and slightly puppy-dog, but I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something just a little too smooth about his delivery.

“Aren’t you cute?” Mattie delivered the comment with a sugary sweetness that could rot your teeth, but her gaze flicked to me, a tiny, almost imperceptible quirk of her eyebrow that said, ‘Play along, Patsy. I'm working him.’

“If this gets any cuter, I’ll need to shove a shish kabob in my ear,” I mumbled under my breath and stumbled off toward the Clue Cruiser, my mother trailing behind me like a spy with perfect posture and way too many admirers.

As I fumbled with the Airstream door, Mattie’s voice cut through the twilight, suddenly devoid of its flirtatious lilt. “Ralphie Dale believes the Chief iced the case, Patsy. But I wonder what Chief Caine believes.”

---

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