Whispering Pines Murder - Episode 4

Chill of an Early Fall

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 1

If horror movies taught me anything—and they taught me a lot, thank you very much—entering a secluded cabin in the woods usually meant something terrible was about to happen. Like you trip over a skeleton, get locked in a murder basement, or suddenly realize you’ve got no cell service and someone’s breathing behind you.

But I also watched many Hallmark movies, and sometimes cabins were the oasis where people went to rediscover themselves, paint meaningful watercolors, and fall in love with widowed park rangers.

Elvira’s studio, tucked into the far edge of the Timber Ridge RV Park, was somewhere between the two.

The path wound through a thick patch of yellowing maple and copper-colored oak trees, crunchy with leaves and heavy with that crisp, woodsmoke-scented mountain air that made you want to buy a flannel shirt and call yourself ‘outdoorsy.’

I don’t want to say I was underdressed for a morning hike through the Blue Ridge Mountains, but if you’ve ever tried to climb a steep trail in a leopard-print sweater and leggings, you’ll understand my struggle.

A branch I used to support my ascent snapped, sending me stumbling toward a ravine. Luckily, the pile of leaves hiding a big jagged rock broke my fall.

“I told you to wear better shoes,” Mattie muttered behind me, stabbing the muddy trail with a walking stick she didn’t need but insisted on bringing because it was made from driftwood and helped her look the part.

“It’s not the shoes, Mama. I’m so clumsy I’d trip over a cordless phone.”

Mattie, naturally, looked like she starred in an L.L. Bean catalog—fleece-lined vest, water-resistant pants, and a knit beanie in a tasteful shade of cranberry that somehow made her cheekbones look even more intimidating.

“I told you to wear hiking boots,” she said, hopping lightly over a patch of wet leaves like a spry mountain goat.

“I am wearing boots,” I said, trying to dislodge a pinecone that had somehow wedged itself into the arch of my right foot. “These are limited-edition urban trail boots.”

“They’re suede.” She rested both hands on her hiking stick. “And beige. You look like you’re going apple-picking with a blogger named Aspen.”

I huffed and adjusted my beanie. “Well, at least you didn’t laugh at me this time.”

Goldilocks trotted ahead of us on the leaf-strewn path, tail wagging, nose to the ground like she was tracking something important—until she got distracted by a butterfly and took off after it like a toddler at a petting zoo.

“Her focus reminds me of you,” Mattie said.

“We’re kindred spirits.”

From the moment we met, I knew we were meant to be. Goldie was a beautiful goldendoodle with the soul of a mischievous stage actress—eager to please, distractible as a gnat in a wind tunnel, and convinced that rules were just enthusiastic suggestions.

“She was supposed to be a therapy dog?” Mattie asked, watching her chase a squirrel’s shadow up a tree trunk.

“My friend Carla was training her to help with anxiety.” My smile spread. “Goldilocks flunked out halfway through training because she kept stealing snacks from patients’ pockets and licking strangers.”

“She’s an emotional support improviser,” Mattie said. “She supports in her own chaotic way.”

Goldilocks reappeared from the underbrush with a proud look and a stick twice her size in her mouth. She dropped it at my feet like she unearthed buried treasure.

“I rest my case,” Mattie said, stepping around it.

The cabin came into view, tucked between two huge boulders and half-hidden by a curtain of trees. A wooden A-frame with moss creeping up one side and a crooked chimney that looked like it sneezed mid-construction. There was a front porch with a single rocking chair, unmoved in fifteen years, and a brass doorknob dulled to a soft green patina.

It felt…quiet. Too quiet.

We stopped at the porch. Goldilocks sniffed the steps, circled the rocking chair, and sat with a plop—ears perked, head tilted.

I placed a hand on my hip. “What do you think, Lassie? Did Elvira fall into the well?” Goldie sneezed and covered her face with a paw. “I’ll take that as a no.”

Mattie reached for the key Ralphie Dale gave us, slipped it into the lock, and turned the bolt. The door creaked open on hinges that hadn’t seen WD-40 since the first Law & Order was on air.

The cabin was one big open room. Light filtered through gauzy curtains onto a sea of canvases stacked against every wall, some leaning so precariously that I instinctively flinched.

An old wood stove sat in the corner, cold and rusted. A small kitchenette lined one wall, frozen in time—dishes still in the drying rack, a tea towel hanging on the oven handle.

A pair of mud-caked hiking boots, the thick treads still clinging to dark, loamy soil, were abandoned near the back door. Beside them, leaning against the doorframe, was a gardening shovel, its metal head smeared with the same kind of mud. A yellowed raincoat hung on a hook by the door, looking like it had been hastily tossed there.

The air inside smelled of linseed oil, dust, and faintly of lavender—a ghost of a scent clinging to something long forgotten. It was like Elvira stepped out for groceries after a rainy gardening session and never returned.

Mattie moved toward the far wall, where a row of canvases hung neatly. I followed Mama’s steps, trailing a hand along a dusty table scattered with brushes, charcoal sticks, and a sketchbook so brittle I didn’t dare open it.

Mattie stood at the largest canvas, crossing her arms like an art critic. “Elvira could paint.”

The paintings were all landscapes—quiet, moody renderings of the surrounding mountains, done in sweeping strokes of green, burnt sienna, deep navy, and slate gray. They weren’t postcard pretty. They were raw, emotional. Lonely, even.

“She was better than I expected,” I murmured.

“People often are,” Mattie said.

One painting in particular caught my eye. It showed a crooked wooden bridge spanning a wide, rocky stream. Mist curled at its edges, and in the background, the faint outline of a barn half-swallowed by trees.

“I know that bridge,” I said. “Isn’t that the one off Millstone Trail?”

Mattie nodded. “We saw it from a distance when we drove in.”

“I’ve hiked that trail twice with Michael. It’s not easy. If she painted this from memory…”

“She knew it well,” Mattie finished, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow.

I looked at the painting again, a nagging feeling prickling at the back of my neck. Something about it didn’t sit right—not the subject, but the placement on the wall. It was the only painting hung noticeably off-center, the nail slightly higher than the others, leaving a faint ghost of where it had likely hung before. Like someone had taken it down, then put it back up in a rush, perhaps carelessly.

I reached behind it, my fingers brushing against the cool plaster.

“Patsy,” Mattie warned, her voice low with caution.

“Just checking—”

CRASH! BANG! Paint and canvas erupted across the wooden floor like a sudden, violent hailstorm. My heart leaped into my throat.

“GOLDIE!”

The dog looked utterly thrilled, her tail beating against the floorboards, as if she’d just accomplished a remarkable feat. She squeezed a shiny paint tube between her teeth—the cause of the falling house of cards—as if to say ‘found it!’

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “She’s a menace.”

“She’s an artist,” Mattie said, a hint of amusement in her voice. “She’s just expressing her interpretation of modern art.”

As I knelt to pick up the chaotic mess, my fingers brushed against something sharp and brittle wedged beneath one of the fallen frames. It was a fragment of heavy ceramic, a shard about the size of my palm, with a jagged, uneven edge. The ceramic was a deep, earthy red. I hadn’t noticed any pottery among Elvira’s belongings. So, where did this come from?

Dark, dried stains marred its surface, and a few brittle strands of dark hair clung to a broken point.

Mattie knelt beside me, her usual wry expression replaced with a grim intensity as she examined the shard in my hand. “What is it, Patsy?”

I held it carefully, thankful I never removed my Isotoners. “That looks like blood.”

The silence in the cabin felt heavy, charged with a new, sinister energy. Goldilocks' tail drifted back and forth with cautious optimism. She thought she cracked the case wide open with her accidental masterpiece of destruction.

Maybe she had.

Mattie’s gaze flicked to the back door and the muddy boots and shovel. “Mud like that…it’s the kind you find in the deeper parts of the woods, near the creek bed.” Her voice was low, thoughtful. “If this ceramic piece was used to…then the body might not be far.”

The weight of the broken shard in my hand felt significant, terrifying. It all clicked into place with a sickening certainty. “You think…you think she’s buried out there?”

Mattie nodded. “That’s where we need to look.”

There was something inherently creepy about the woods in a drizzle. The leaves glistened with a ghostly sheen. The mist snaked between the trees like it eavesdropped on our conversation. Every stick’s crack sounded like it came from a stalker’s size-twelve boot.

Goldilocks, however, had the time of her fuzzy life.

“We’ve officially entered spooky movie territory,” I said, pulling my rain jacket tighter. “This is the moment, right before the final girl trips over a mysterious root and meets her doom.”

Mattie scanned the woods, unfazed by the drizzle or the eerie mood. “Patsy, we’re not in a horror movie. We’re in the woods on a research mission.”

Goldilocks, tongue out, galloped back toward us with a stick clamped proudly in her mouth. She plopped it at my feet, tail wagging faster than a propeller.

“Again?” I sighed as she offered me her paw and flashed the puppy dog eyes. “I swear she’s part retriever, part negotiator.”

I gave it a good toss, the stick disappearing into the brush with a wet thump. Goldie darted after it, a pup on a mission. Mattie and I kept walking, eyes scanning the underbrush around Elvira’s mossy cabin.

“You think we’ll find anything out here?” I asked.

“A broken ceramic shard with a questionable smear doesn’t prove murder.” She squinted at a patch of brambles like it had insulted her by snagging her jacket. “We need more evidence.”

“Like, say… a body?” I cringed at my cavalier phrasing. “Wow. That sounded way too casual. Like, ha-ha, let’s stumble over a tibia and call it a day.”

Mattie arched an eyebrow. “Would you prefer to head back to the Clue Cruiser while I search the woods?”

“Prefer? Yes. But splitting up never works in the movies.”

Goldilocks bounded back, dropped the stick, and barked.

“Good girl,” I said, patting her head and grabbing the soggy thing. I threw it again, farther this time.

“She’s persistent,” Mattie said, watching Goldie vanish into the woods.

“When it suits her.” I nudged the toe of my boot into a pile of leaves. “What exactly are we looking for, Mama? Any clues will be long gone after a decade and a half.”

Mattie’s gaze was sharp as she surveyed the overgrown area beyond the ridge. “Patsy, check out that patch of nettles over there. Notice how much taller and greener they are compared to the rest?”

I squinted. “They do look… enthusiastic.”

“Enthusiastic is one word for it. Decomposing organic matter releases a significant amount of nitrogen into the soil. Human remains? A veritable nitrogen bomb for plant life. Certain species, like nettles and even some fast-growing grasses, thrive in nitrogen-rich environments. It’s not foolproof, of course, but it’s often a tell.”  

My jaw dropped. My mother, the retired CIA analyst, was also apparently a botanist of the macabre. “Wait. You’re saying you can tell where a body might be buried because the weeds are happier?”

Mattie gave a small, knowing smile. “Let’s just say the earth remembers things. And sometimes, the plants are the ones doing the talking.”

Goldie trotted back carrying a bigger stick than before and barked proudly at her find. I absentmindedly tossed it in the direction of the happy weeds. “Let’s come back tomorrow when it’s less rainy and bring shovels. And maybe I’ll call Michael, just for the fun of it, and ask him if he wants to take a sick day to dig up bodies with us.”

“We’re here now.” Mattie placed a hand on her hip. “And we’ve already stirred up trouble. We need answers before our questions send the perpetrator into hiding.”

My boots sank into thick mud, ruining the suede for all eternity. “Fine. Let’s explore the creepy, rainy woods all alone. I can’t think of anything smarter.”

Mattie led the way through the thicket, swatting branches like Indiana Jones hunting treasure. Goldie trotted back, but this time, she carried something completely different and totally un-stick-like.

“Wait a minute.” I squinted. “That’s… awfully pale for a stick. And smooth…”

The long, curved object dangling from Goldie’s mouth was stained with earth and time. It thunked onto the forest floor like a dropped umbrella handle.

My stomach lurched. “Oh, no no no—is that—?”

Mattie’s grip tightened on her walking stick. “Don’t freak out, Patsy. We expected this.”

“I didn’t expect my dog to fetch a humorous bone. And it isn’t at all funny.”

Mattie knelt, brushing her fingers over the bone with surgical calm. “Femur. Adult-sized. Likely human.”

I staggered back two steps and tried to keep my flapjacks down. “Okay. New podcast name: The Bone Collector: Moms Edition. Or maybe Fetch Me a Crime.”

“This changes everything.” Mattie pulled gloves out of her jacket pocket like she belonged on the set of CSI. “Help me search the area. If Goldilocks found one bone…”

“There’s probably 205 more where that came from.”

We followed the muddy doggy footprints to the area where Goldie retrieved her prize, moving aside ferns and damp leaves while the rain steadily misted.

“You realize we’re looking for a body in the middle of the woods, with a bone-fetching dog and zero backup. Shouldn’t we, I don’t know… call the police?”

“Tell them what?” Mattie asked. “Our dog found a stick that’s suspiciously femur-shaped?”

“Well… yes? That seems like exactly the kind of thing one calls the cops about!”

“Let’s find the rest of her before we make the call.” She navigated to a slightly sunken patch of ground about ten yards away.

I scanned the uneven terrain near a cluster of fallen logs. “Well, that looks like a lovely spot for a picnic…or a shallow grave. You know, depending on your weekend plans.”

Goldilocks sniffed around the edges, tail stiff, ears perked. She scratched at the soil, sending up a small spray of wet dirt. Mattie knelt beside her and brushed aside the top layer of dirt. I helped, though my hands were shaking like a leaf in a thunderstorm.

It didn’t take long to confirm my worst fears.

First came another bone in the arm family. Then the edge of a rotting material. Note to self: Polyester holds up surprisingly well to the elements.

As Mattie smoothed away the dirt, I caught the unmistakable shape of a skull.

I froze, and a gasp caught in my throat. “She really let herself go. Fifteen years is rough on a body. I should know. I haven’t seen the inside of a gym in… never mind.” My throat tightened. “Is this her?”

Mattie didn’t answer right away. Her jaw was tight. Her hands were steady. After a few moments, she nodded.

“This is Elvira, right? Not some other random skeleton buried in a shallow grave in the woods.”

Mattie pulled a class ring from a skeletal finger. “This is her.”

“How was she never found until now?”

“They weren’t looking for a body.” Mattie stood and dusted off the knees of her trousers. “This grave is in a gulley. Every time it rains, the top layer is washed away. At one point, she was buried much deeper.”

The rain picked up, the gentle patter turning into a steady drizzle. The woods were closing in, whispering secrets through the leaves.

Goldilocks sat down beside the skull. She didn’t bark. Didn’t move. Just stared like she understood the gravity of it all.

I wiped the rain from my face and took a shaky breath. “Guess this cold case just turned hot.”

Mattie met my eyes, her voice low and steady. “Time to call the police chief.”

“And maybe a therapist,” I muttered, fumbling for my phone.

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