Whispering Pines Murder - Episode 3
- Brittany Brinegar
- May 7
- 11 min read
Updated: 5 days ago
Coal Miner's Daughter
Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 1
The scent of strong coffee and sizzling bacon did little to soothe the simmering resentment bubbling in my chest. Here we were, in the heart of a missing person investigation, and where did we end up having breakfast? The Coal Miner’s Daughter Diner. A veritable shrine to legendary singer Loretta Lynn and my sister by extension.
In a fit of country music fandom, my parents named their daughters after their idols. Loretta, my younger sister, had somehow inherited the ‘legend’ gene in full. Golden child didn’t begin to cover it. While I was navigating the chaotic world of local news and questionable fashion choices, Loretta profiled serial killers for the FBI, her uncanny ability to read people making her the agency’s wunderkind. Mama never missed an opportunity to bring up Loretta’s latest triumph, her voice practically glowing with pride. ‘Oh, Patsy, Loretta just cracked another case! She knew the suspect was left-handed just by how he chewed his gum!’
Meanwhile, I was named after Patsy Cline. Brilliant, iconic, and tragically gone too soon. Sound familiar? The irony wasn’t lost on me.
And here we were, in this cozy little diner, surrounded by Loretta’s smiling face, a reminder that I always played second fiddle.
The Coal Miner’s Daughter Diner sat squarely on the corner of Timber Ridge’s sole intersection, wedged between a bait shop and a gift store overflowing with knick-knacks that screamed ‘tourist trap.’ The faded lettering of the bait shop’s sign boasted ‘We’ve Got Worms You Can Trust!’ which struck me as an odd selling point. Trustworthy worms? What were the untrustworthy ones doing, warning the fish?
Inside, the log cabin walls were plastered with framed photos of Loretta Lynn through the decades, interspersed with antique coal mining tools that looked vaguely threatening. A banjo, signed by a ‘Cooter Dwayne’ whose level of fame remained a delightful mystery, hung precariously near the door. The place smelled of maple syrup, the primal lure of sizzling bacon grease, and that faint aroma of small-town hope.
A hand-painted banner above the window proclaimed: Timber Ridge Annual Art Showcase – 3 Days Away! Where Art Blooms.
I tilted my head to the side, wondering if they repainted it daily with a new number. That seemed rather wasteful and time-consuming.
“According to my highly reliable intelligence network…” I peered over the top of my menu like a seasoned spy. “The Chief makes a pilgrimage to this Loretta-loving establishment every morning. Like clockwork. Probably fueling up for a day of… chiefing.”
Mattie glanced up from her own Loretta-emblazoned menu, a knowing glint in her eye. “Intelligence network? You mean Agnes and Mildred from the RV park? The old biddies with blue hair whose conversations consist primarily of bingo scores and Bonanza reruns?”
“Don’t mock the Golden Girls, Mama. They’re practically our demographic. Besides, their prune juice intel is surprisingly accurate.”
A middle-aged waitress with bright red hair and even brighter lipstick peered at Mattie. “You two sisters?” she asked, her voice raspy as she cleaned the neighboring booth.
My stomach revolted as I skimmed my menu. “Ah, I didn’t know your flapjacks were served with a side of backhanded compliments. Give me a double order.”
Mattie smiled like the woman had made her day. “That’s my daughter, Patsy.”
The woman chuckled. “Well, you both got good genes.”
“Mine must be recessive,” I said through a locked jaw. It was nice having a youthful mother, except in times like these. My luck, she probably thought I was the older sister.
The diner was cozy but lively, with a background hum that made you want to linger. Locals shuffled in, called out greetings to the cook, and dropped coins in a jukebox that hadn’t seen silence since Nixon left office.
A few teenagers in Timber Ridge High hoodies passed around syrup bottles like contraband, and a man in a Carhartt jacket demolished a stack of pancakes the size of a top hat.
Everybody and their brother turned out for breakfast. The only person who wasn’t there was Chief Porter Caine.
Mattie tapped her spoon on the rim of her coffee cup. “No sign of our man in uniform.”
“Maybe he’s running late.”
“Or maybe he doesn’t like eating at the crack of dawn.”
“Give it time. It’s only a few minutes past seven.” I returned my attention to the laminated menu, which felt vaguely sticky. A prominent sidebar directed me to the chalkboard for the daily specials. The Coal Dust Combo consisted of biscuits swimming in gravy, yellow eggs, and something that looked suspiciously like a chicken-fried hockey puck, according to the chalk rendition.
“Well, I know what I want.” Mattie slammed her menu on the Formica table. “You Ain’t Woman Enough to Take My Pancakes. How about you, Patsy?”
“Still looking.”
Our waitress swung around the counter like she’d been born with a tray in her hand. She was no more than twenty, wearing chunky black glasses, black Converse, and a bright yellow apron that said BAYLEIGH in puffy-paint letters. Her hair was nearly black, tied in a high, frizzy ponytail, and she looked like someone who’d taken a midterm on two hours of sleep and still aced it out of spite.
“Morning, ladies!” she chirped. “Coffee? Tea? Existential dread in a to-go cup?”
Mattie flashed her dimples, another great gene that I failed to inherit. “Just coffee for now.”
“Make that two,” I said. “And a short stack of gossip with a side of local knowledge.”
Bayleigh flicked an eyebrow as she stretched for a pot and filled our cups. “Ah, so you’re the ones.”
“The ones?”
“With the pink Airstream and the podcast.” She tossed her shoulder. “Small town, big news travels fast.”
“And this appears to be mission control.” I dabbed at the table with a napkin. “Stickier than I imagined.”
“I’m on break in ten. I’ll bring the syrup and the drama.”
She disappeared into the kitchen like a caffeinated shadow.
I leaned across the table. “She’s perfect.”
Mattie sipped her coffee. “For what? Adoption?”
“For information,” I whispered. “You see how quick she was? That’s not just waitressing. That’s reconnaissance.”
“You’re impossible before breakfast.”
“You should see me after.”
A few minutes later, Bayleigh returned, slid into the booth beside us, and poured herself a splash of coffee into a chipped mug labeled #1 Plant Mom.
“I wasn’t eavesdropping, but I heard y’all asking about the Chief,” she said, tapping her spoon against the edge of the sugar caddy. “You’re not the first.”
“Oh?” I folded my hands, trying not to appear too eager.
“He used to come in every morning. Same order, same table, same attitude. Then, about two weeks ago, poof.”
I held my breath. “He stopped showing up?”
She shook her head. “Nope. Worse. The wife started coming with him. And painting on an entire face of makeup isn’t easy, so he’s never on time anymore.”
Mattie placed her cup on the saucer with a clink. “Two weeks? Is that around the time the art banners went up?”
Bayleigh nodded. “Chief doesn’t like the Showcase. Says it’s a distraction. Personally, I think he doesn’t like being reminded.”
“Reminded of what?” I asked, eyes narrowing.
“Like y’all aren’t here to look into the disappearance of Elvira Vance? Fine, I’ll play along.” She drummed her class ring on the lip of the mug. “She disappeared during the showcase. Fifteen years ago. It still haunts us. So, when the banners go up every year, we all hold our breath. Like maybe this time, the mystery will finally end. Half the town thinks she’ll come waltzing back home someday, and the other half figures she’s buried in a deep hallow.”
“You knew her?” Mattie asked.
“I was four when it all went down,” Bayleigh said. “But I studied under Mrs. Peabody—same art teacher Elvira had. Mrs. Peabody used to say Elvira had a gift. She said her brushstrokes could whisper.”
My arm broke out in goosebumps. “Used to?”
“Mrs. Peabody passed a while back.” Bayleigh held up a finger. “And before y’all get too excited, she was ninety-two and went in her sleep.”
“So, not foul play.”
Mattie tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Our presence and the anniversary of Elvira’s disappearance might stir up some things Timber Ridge thought were long ago buried. If you could keep us informed, we’d appreciate it.”
Bayleigh’s gaze danced between us. “People think I don’t know stuff because I’m young and refill coffee for a living. But I know what people don’t say. And around here, that’s usually more important than what they do.”
She slid out of the booth like a spy vanishing into the fog.
“We missed the Chief, but I think we just found a gold mine.”
Mattie nodded. “And I think we’d better stick around for lunch.”
By 8:42 a.m., I consumed two pancakes, three cups of coffee, and approximately eight theories about Elvira’s disappearance, including but not limited to: alien abduction, amnesia in a California art commune, and a spontaneous vow of silence in a nunnery.
But at 8:45 on the dot, the diner door swung open—and suddenly, breakfast got a whole lot more interesting.
Chief Porter Caine stepped inside, all crisp khaki uniform and measured steps, his badge gleaming and his expression doing that tight-lipped, don’t-mess-with-me thing small-town cops must learn at the academy. He looked like the kind of man who’d fill out a government form in all caps and underline things for emphasis.
Right beside him, sweeping in like she owned every square inch of the laminated tile floor, was Teegan Teagarden, possibly Caine now if she dropped the maiden name. A vision in a teal wrap dress and a hairstyle engineered by sheer defiance, she radiated the confidence reserved for former prom queens and women who never once apologized for interrupting or butting in.
“Targets acquired,” I muttered, sitting up straighter.
Mattie took one last, thoughtful sip of her coffee. “Don’t spook them.”
“Spook them? I haven’t even said anything yet.”
“That’s exactly what worries me.”
The couple slid into a corner booth, Teegan crossing her legs like she was posing for a lifestyle magazine called Smug Living. The waitress, Bayleigh, appeared at their table like she expected them and delivered two mugs of coffee before they even asked.
I gave Mattie a side glance. “Are we ready?”
“Be polite. This isn’t an interrogation.”
“It’s an enthusiastic inquiry,” I whispered.
We approached casually, as casually as two strangers traveling in a pink Clue Cruiser could approach.
“Chief Caine,” Mattie said, extending a hand. “Mind if we join you for a moment?”
He looked up, his gaze narrowing as he tried to place us. “Well now. You’re the podcast ladies, aren’t you?”
“That’s right,” I said, sliding into the booth beside him before he could say no. “Patsy Steffanelli. This is my mother, Mattie McDonald.”
Teegan smiled at us so tight I could’ve used it to restring a tennis racket. “Charmed.”
Mattie smiled back, unbothered by the single-syllable hostility. “We were hoping to speak with you. Both of you, actually. About Elvira.”
At the mention of her name, Chief Caine’s jaw tightened. “I understand you’ve been nosing around.”
We barely even started, Buckaroo.
“Gathering information,” Mattie said. “The case file is quite thin, and the leads are even thinner.”
“Well,” he said, leaning back. “Contrary to what you may’ve heard, I have continued to look into Elvira’s case. Quite the opposite of ignoring it. But it’s difficult when there is nothing new.”
“We never claimed otherwise.” I cocked my head. “Interesting you’d volunteer that tidbit so fast. The fella doth protest too much, methinks.”
“You ladies are staying at the RV park, right?” He interlocked his fingers. “There’s your answer on why I’m playing defense.”
“Her uncle, Ralphie Dale, seems to think the case got brushed under the rug right about the time you got promoted,” I said.
Caine raised an eyebrow. “Ralphie Dale’s got a lot of feelings and not a lot of facts. The truth is, I inherited a cold trail. No physical evidence. No witnesses. Just a whole town full of speculation and hearsay.”
Mattie leaned in, calm and measured. “Still, the art show’s coming up again. Must stir up old memories.”
“Fifteen years this week.” He nodded. “It was supposed to be her first showcase as a featured artist. She worked her entire life for that moment. Then she vanished. No sign of a struggle, no goodbye note. Just… gone.”
“It was her choice.” Teegan reached for a sugar packet like she was plucking truth from the air. “Elvira didn’t disappear. She walked away. She hated this town. Always thought she was too good for it.”
“Why would she run without telling anyone? Why not contact anyone in the fifteen years she’s been gone?” Mattie asked.
“She resented everything and everyone.” Teegan snapped. “Especially me.”
“Why you?” I asked, head tilting.
A cool little laugh squeezed through Teegan’s lined lips and shook a beauty mark that looked drawn on. “Because I was the one she couldn’t outshine. I was the other featured artist that year. The more accomplished one. I think she couldn’t handle the idea of sharing the spotlight, let alone losing it. Wouldn’t surprise me if she’s living in Paris right now, wearing black turtlenecks and pretending she invented paint.”
Mattie’s eyes narrowed in on the chief. “Your husband suspects she vanished under more suspicious circumstances. Foul play.”
Caine cleared his throat. “We don’t agree on everything.”
“You both saw her the day she disappeared,” I said. “Only one other person can make that claim.”
The chief sipped his coffee. “Ralphie Dale.”
“What do you remember about your last conversation with Elvira?” Mattie asked.
“You have the police file.” The chief’s jaw twitched. “You requested access to that case a few weeks ago, and my office obliged. Because I have nothing to hide.” He placed his coffee cup down too forcefully, the ceramic clinking against the saucer.
“Then why not answer our questions?” My forehead wrinkled. “Tell us about that day.”
“Come on, guys. That was a lifetime ago. I won’t remember anything I didn’t think of back then. Honestly, the whole memory is foggy.”
“Foggy? Foggy? Your girlfriend vanished the day of her biggest art show. That's not the kind of thing that fades, Chief. A person you claimed to care about vanished.” My stomach twisted into tight knots, and I pushed down my emotions. Now wasn’t the time or the place to open that can of untrustworthy worms. “Those memories never fade. You remember every detail. The moment you got the call and heard the news. You remember your last conversation, whether you fought…”
Mattie placed her hand on mine. “Is there somewhere we might view Elvira’s work? Anything she left behind?”
“Why would you want to?” Teegan snorted. “Her landscapes were always so… derivative. Like she couldn’t find her own voice.”
He nodded. “Her cabin. Art studio, really. Belongs to Ralphie Dale, but no one’s touched it since Elvira disappeared. It’s at the far end of the RV park, near the lake. Kind of tucked away. I can give you directions.”
“That would be helpful,” Mattie said, pen already in hand.
“And Chief?” I added, my tone light enough to be disarming, “If there was foul play, do you believe it started with the art show?”
He looked out the window for a moment, as if weighing something heavy. “If someone wanted her gone… that night would’ve been the perfect time to make it happen.”
Teegan rolled her eyes. “Or she just wanted out. Not everything’s a mystery. Some people get tired of being underestimated and leave.”
The tension thickened, like biscuit dough before you fold in the butter. Bayleigh appeared with a plate of hash browns, and the moment passed.
“Enjoy your breakfast,” Mattie said as we stood. “We’ll be in touch.”
As we left the diner, I gave Mama a sideways glance. “Well, that was about seven layers of awkward served with a side of denial.”
She didn’t answer and instead gazed into the wilderness outside of town.
“What's on your mind?” I asked.
She pulled on her sunglasses. “I think we just met two people with two very different motives… and one very shared secret.”
Comments