Whispering Pines Murder - Episode 5

I Fall to Pieces

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 1

They say the woods are quiet after a storm. That was a lie. After we found a human skeleton under a tangle of ferns in the middle of a misty mountain drizzle, the woods got louder. Every rustling leaf sounded like footsteps. Every snapping twig could’ve been a murderer returning to the scene of the crime. Or, you know, just a raccoon. Probably. Hopefully.

With more focus than she ever displayed in puppy school, Goldilocks guarded the uncovered skull like a duty-bound police dog. Her ears twitched as the mist clung to her golden coat. She looked a little too proud of herself for my taste, like she expected a treat for solving the case.

I, on the other hand, tried not to hyperventilate into a Ziploc bag.

Mattie stood beside the shallow grave, arms crossed. Her hair, damp from the rain, still held its volume because, of course, it did. Mine had collapsed into the sad shape of a haunted mop.

“This is sure an interesting pickle.” My voice croaked like a wounded frog. “We’ve officially crossed from fun roadside mystery podcast to true crime: parental advisory edition.”

Mattie didn’t respond, viewing my nonsense rambling as rhetorical comments. She scanned the trees, alert, calculating. “They’ll be here soon.”

“Are the police psychic? We have no cell service from the bottom of a holler in the pouring rain.”

“I radioed the coordinates through the satellite line.”

“You… radioed?” I blinked. “With what device? When did you—what else is in your pockets?”

“Preparation is a mindset, Patsy.”

“And here I thought my granola bar with 108 grams of protein was impressive.”

The rain eased, leaving a fine mist drifting low across the forest floor. It looked like an overzealous film crew had wheeled in fog machines for ambiance.

Minutes passed before we heard the telltale squelch of boots on mud and the low murmur of voices. Flashlights flickered through the underbrush, cutting through the haze. Goldie gave a soft ‘woof’ and wagged her tail, though she didn’t leave her post by the skull.

A stocky officer in a poncho emerged first, his flashlight sweeping over the scene before settling on us. Two others in dark jackets bearing the county seal followed. One of them, tall and wiry with a trimmed beard and steely eyes, surveyed the scene like he was already dreading the paperwork.

“You the ones who called this in?” Beardy asked, stepping closer, his tone carrying a hint of skepticism.

Mattie didn’t miss a beat. “We discovered the remains while investigating a cold case. The victim is likely Elvira Vance, missing for the last fifteen years. Almost to the day.” She spun to the shallow grave. “You’ll note the presence of a skull fracture, likely the cause of death.”

He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. “Are you the coroner?”

“No. Just competent.”

I cleared my throat and stepped forward, my smile shaky. “Hi. Patsy Steffanelli. I host an unsolved mystery podcast with my mother. Now we’re apparently crime scene creators. Sorry about that.”

The officer gave a skeptical nod, then turned to the others. “We’ve got confirmed human remains. Looks like a shallow grave.” He gestured behind him. “Let’s lock it down. Tape, lights, and get the ME in here.”

The clearing that had felt like our little isolated mystery just an hour earlier suddenly transformed. Yellow crime scene tape stretched between trees. Portable lights bathed the grave in harsh white. A canopy tent materialized from someone’s trunk. Voices turned clipped and clinical.

Goldilocks was gently led away and leashed to a nearby pine tree, where she promptly flopped down with an exaggerated huff, casting longing glances back at her discovery.

I took a few steps back, trying to blend into the mist. This wasn’t a hobby anymore. This was real. Serious. And part of me wanted to melt into the mud and let the professionals take it from here.

Mattie, however, seemed to have found her second wind.

The officer turned back to us. “We appreciate your help in finding the site, but this is now a crime scene. I’ll need you to step away and leave the investigation to us.”

“Of course,” I said. “We totally understand.”

Mattie didn’t budge. “With respect, we’ve been tracking this case for weeks. We’re the reason this grave was found at all.” She flicked an eyebrow. “You’re welcome, by the way, Sonny.”

The officer’s mouth tightened. “Ma’am, I don’t doubt your good intentions. But this isn’t a scavenger hunt. It’s now an active homicide investigation. That means civilian interference stops here.”

“Interference?” Mattie tilted her head, her tone still polite but layered with enough steel to reinforce a battleship. “You wouldn’t even have a homicide investigation without us. We’ve interviewed half this town. We know the players. We know the timeline. We know what Elvira wore the day she vanished—down to her fake alligator handbag with the busted zipper.”

“That may be,” he said, his voice firm. “But unless you’re with law enforcement, you’re off the case.”

I tugged gently on Mattie’s sleeve. “Maybe we should just let them—”

“No,” she snapped. Then, quieter: “Not yet.”

Goldie released a low bark, her tail flicking mud at my shins like she was casting her vote with Mattie.

The officer pulled out a small notepad. “Your names again, please?”

Mattie recited them clearly, spelling both surnames, especially mine, like a spelling bee champ. I did my best not to look guilty of anything except being damp and emotionally fragile.

“We’ll have some follow-up questions for you both.” He turned to one of his colleagues, already dismissing us. “And keep that dog clear of the site. We don’t need her playing fetch with a scapula.”

“She prefers femurs.” I cleared my throat. “Anyway…” I grabbed Goldie’s leash and guided her a few steps away. She whimpered, casting a longing glance at the half-buried scene like she hated leaving a job unfinished.

Mattie folded her arms and stared at the grave. “We’re not done. Not even close.”

I sighed. “Could’ve fooled the guy with the badge and the crime tape.”

She gave me a sharp glare. “They may be in charge now, but they didn’t know where to dig. We did. This is our case, Patsy. And nobody, especially the chief, will bury evidence on our watch.”

By the time we returned to the RV park, my boots squished with enough water to flood a small village, my raincoat smelled like wet leaves and regret, and Goldilocks had tracked roughly three pounds of Blue Ridge mud into the Clue Cruiser.

“Leave your shoes at the door,” I said, kicking mine off by the tiny welcome mat that read: We’re watching murder, Hallmark-style.

Mattie ignored me and strode inside, as if she were storming a CIA safehouse in Berlin.

The Clue Cruiser—our beloved, slightly dented, pink-and-white-striped Airstream—had never looked cozier. Goldie flopped onto her tartan dog bed with a groan, and the scent of lavender and cinnamon from our wall-mounted plug-in did its best to overpower Eau de Swamp Dog.

Mattie beelined for her ‘command station,’ which occupied the back third of the RV. It was a glorious Frankenstein's monster of tech: a ham radio the size of a briefcase, a retro laptop with more stickers than surface area, two different microphones, a 1980s-era soundboard that probably belonged to a college DJ named Snakebite, and enough tangled cords to trip an octopus.

I plopped onto the bench by our fold-out table-slash-editing bay and pulled a throw blanket over my legs. I stretched to the sink to wring out my damp socks.

“So, on a scale of one to ‘we’re now part of an actual murder investigation,’ how bonkers is our life right now?”

Mattie flipped a few switches, and the soundboard crackled to life. “We’re not part of the investigation. We’re the reason there is one.”

“Most podcasters just talk about old cases and drink snooty coffee. We literally unearthed a skeleton today.”

She glanced over her shoulder with a smile. “Cheers.”

I shook my head and pulled out the smaller mic we used for field recording. “Time for a recap while the day’s events are still fresh. Ready?”

Mattie skimmed the police file, hoping to find clues in the cold case. “We should stay focused on the investigation, Patsy.”

“The podcast is the reason for the investigation, Mama. It keeps the lights on and ensures the Bronco has a full gas tank. Well, in theory. It will once we start releasing these suckers out into the wild. Step one is to hit record.”

She scribbled a few talking points onto a steno pad.

“Don’t overthink it, Mama. We can wing it. Makes it sound conversational.”

“Or rambling.”

I waved her off and donned my comfortable headphones. “Let’s keep it respectful when we record this. I don’t want to sound like we’re gleeful about finding poor Elvira buried under a fern.”

Mattie sat down beside me, already adjusting knobs. “I am not the one we should worry about. You crack jokes at a funeral.”

“Respectful tone. Dramatic pacing. Maybe a little ominous piano music in the background.”

“Patsy.”

“Kidding. Mostly.” I sighed and hit record.

[BEGIN PODCAST RECORDING]

PATSY (narrating):

Welcome back to Murder, Mystery, and Mom, coming to you slightly damp and emotionally rattled from the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Today’s episode is wildly different from what we planned. But life rarely goes as expected, especially when solving mysteries.

Earlier this afternoon, while following a lead on a fifteen-year-old cold case, we discovered human remains buried in a shallow grave near Elvira Vance’s cabin. Authorities have taken over the investigation, and as of now, we’re awaiting official identification. But…we believe we found Elvira.

We want to take a moment here to acknowledge the gravity of that. Elvira wasn’t just a name in an old case file; she was a woman who disappeared without a trace—someone’s friend, someone’s daughter, maybe even someone’s secret.

MATTIE (interjecting):

And someone who deserves the truth.

PATSY:

That too.

This changes things. It’s no longer just a missing person’s mystery—it’s a murder case now. Which means we’ve officially hit the part of the story where people tell us to butt out.

MATTIE:

Spoiler alert: we won’t.

PATSY:

We get it. We’re not detectives or licensed investigators. But we’ve spent weeks learning the ins and outs of this case, speaking with those who knew Elvira best, and following clues that no one else bothered to investigate. We’re not giving up because there’s yellow tape and a grumpy officer with a clipboard.

MATTIE:

Especially when one of our suspects is the local police chief, and another is his wife.

PATSY:

We’ll keep recording. We’ll keep investigating. And most importantly, we’ll keep asking questions.

Because someone buried Elvira in those woods.

And we’re going to find out who.

[END PODCAST RECORDING]

I let the silence settle after the beep. Even hyper Goldie stayed quiet, like she knew this moment needed breathing room. Or she was worn out from fetching sticks and bones all afternoon.

Mattie leaned back and crossed her arms behind her head, looking infuriatingly satisfied. “We nailed it.”

I arched an eyebrow. “We respectfully and dramatically nailed it. There’s a difference.”

But my chest did feel a little lighter. Recording and talking it through always helped, as did saying Elvira’s name out loud.

I closed the laptop with a soft click. “I tried calling Chief Caine again, by the way. He’s either screening my number or he joined a monastery.”

Mattie rolled her eyes. “Of course, he’s avoiding us. The man is a guilt complex wrapped in khakis. He probably knows we’re getting close.”

“Or he thinks we’re meddling weirdos who own a trippy trailer and a dog named after a fairy tale.”

She pointed at me. “Meddling buttinskis who found a corpse.”

“Okay, yes. That part does give us a little street cred.”

I stood to stretch, knocking over a mug of cold tea in the process. It splashed onto one of Mattie’s laminated timeline charts. She glared at me like I had committed high treason.

“Sorry!” I blotted it with the hem of my sweatshirt. “Add ‘clumsy disaster’ to my amateur sleuth resumé.”

Mattie shook her head and grabbed a towel. “We need more access. The police locked us out, now we must find our way back in.”

“I think that’s called obstruction.”

“It’s called persistence.”

Goldilocks snored from her corner, as if casting the deciding vote in the debate.

I sighed and gazed out the dark window, where the evening mist curled around the pine trees like the mountain wasn’t done whispering secrets yet.

“They can try to shut us out, but Elvira still wants to be heard.”

Mattie patted the soundboard as if it were a trusted old friend. “Then let’s make sure we’ve got the mic on.”

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Episode 6