Whispering Pines Murder - Episode 6
- Brittany Brinegar
- 1 hour ago
- 12 min read
I'll Think of a Reason Later
Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 1
You know what they don’t show you on true crime shows? The part where you sit in your car for twenty minutes outside the sheriff’s office, rehearsing different versions of ‘Hi, we have no legal authority, but we’d love to ask a few incriminating questions, please and thank you.’
Outside the fogged windshield of our pink Bronco, the sleepy town of Timber Ridge stirred beneath a gauzy autumn haze. The rain from the night before left the sidewalks slick with yellow leaves and puddles winking like secrets under dim streetlights. It was barely eight in the morning, and I had already sprayed coffee through my nose. But it wasn’t every day that a squirrel had slipped on the station’s slick front steps like something out of a cartoon. Poor thing. I could relate.
A deputy in a parka marched by carrying two coffees and cast a suspicious side-eye in our direction.
I sank lower in my seat. “I don’t know if this is bravery or insanity.”
Mattie didn’t even look up from her compact mirror. She reapplied lipstick like we were about to storm the red carpet instead of the local precinct. “The Chief is in a tough spot. If he shuts down our investigation, it all but confirms his guilt. But if he lets us back into the inner circle, he risks us uncovering the truth.”
I cocked my head, unsure I followed Mama’s complicated reverse-reverse psychology. “And what if he’s innocent?”
“No one is innocent, Patsy. Not when it comes to a murder investigation.”
“So, you’re leaning towards the Chief?”
“I’m not leaning anywhere.” Mattie sighed. “To be a good detective, you must keep an open mind. All three suspects are still on the table. Which means we must treat the chief as hostile.”
Goldilocks let out a sharp woof from the backseat, as if seconding the motion.
“I’m surprised you agreed to bring Goldie along.” I nodded to the Goldendoodle, who wore a yellow raincoat with a pocket that said EMOTIONAL SUPPORT DOG.
Mattie shrugged. “She adds levity.”
“She’s going to add fur to the interrogation room.”
“It’s not an interrogation. It’s an interview,” Mattie corrected, though the distinction remained stubbornly lost on me. “One that we requested.”
“That he ignored for twelve hours, leading us to pop by unannounced.” I sucked in a breath. “The man does not want to talk to us.”
Mattie snapped the mirror shut with military precision. “Which is exactly why we have to make him.”
Sometimes I wondered what would happen if you dropped my mother into a warzone. But why wonder when my childhood was one long, sustained battle? With a bully for a little brother and a perfectly innocent baby sister, I was always in the hot seat, dodging metaphorical grenades and striving for an approval rating that consistently hovered around ‘needs improvement.’
And now, thanks to Mama’s…let’s call it ‘forceful persuasion’ in our pursuit of answers, we were likely facing a restraining order, or at the very least, a stern talking-to from someone with the powers-that-be in Timber Ridge. Both scenarios made me queasy.
I’d blame Mama for my crippling need to appease authority, but my therapist, Dr. Feelgood from the University of Tropical Beaches (go Fighting Coconuts!), strongly advised against it. And why wouldn’t I trust a guy with 200 grand in student debt and an office decorated with inflatable palm trees?
I took a deep breath, fluffed my curls, and yanked my umbrella from the dashboard. “Okay. Let’s go get not-arrested.”
We approached the police station like two women on a mission, which we were, unless you asked literally anyone in law enforcement. The precinct was a squat, beige brick building tucked between the library and a greasy spoon called Butter & Bean. A carved wooden sign out front announced the station’s presence in curly lettering, which was an overly friendly font for a building that likely contained both handcuffs and a holding cell or two.
The lobby was warm and smelled faintly of coffee, printer toner, and wet dog. That last one might’ve been us. The front desk was unmanned and practically empty aside from a small brass bell and a sticky peppermint jar.
Goldie sniffed a trash can with great professional interest.
Mattie rapped her knuckles on the counter. “Hello?”
I rang the bell with a decisive DING. “Podcasters with questions here.”
A door behind the desk opened, and a young deputy emerged carrying a box of powdered donuts. He paused mid-step, looking at us like we were a raccoon in a tutu—unexpected, but possibly dangerous.
“Uh… can I help you?”
Mattie flashed her best diplomat smile. “We’re here to speak with Chief Caine. We have an appointment.”
I blinked. “We do?”
“We do now,” she said under her breath.
The deputy gave us a look that landed somewhere between concern and amusement. “I think the chief’s…busy this morning.”
“We can wait,” Mattie said. “We’re very patient.”
Goldilocks stretched her neck and contorted her head as she attempted to lick powdered sugar off the deputy’s pants.
I gave him my most apologetic smile. “We’re with the podcast, Murder, Mystery, and Mom. Maybe you’ve heard of it? We’ve been viral lots of times.” Could you actually get arrested for fibbing in a police station? Probably best not to test that theory.
His brows knit together. “I think my wife listens to that.”
“Well, please tell her we appreciate her support,” I said. “She would know better than anyone that our listener base is…passionate. They have been known to, shall we say, enthusiastically express their opinions when they feel justice is being obstructed. We wouldn't want a sudden influx of strongly worded emails and perhaps even a yarn bombing of the precinct to occur, would we?”
That got a chuckle—barely—but before he could reply, a familiar voice echoed from deeper in the building.
“Let them in.” Chief Porter Caine’s gravelly voice boomed across the hall, dry as toast left out in the rain. And about as excited to see us as someone finding a mouse in their soup.
The deputy stepped aside, and Mattie sailed past him like royalty.
I hesitated, then whispered to Goldie, “If I go missing in the next ten minutes, chew your way through the door, okay?”
She sneezed again. I chose to take that as an aye-aye.
The hallway smelled like old linoleum, industrial-grade coffee, and faint resentment. We followed him inside his office, and as the door clicked behind us, I got the distinct feeling we stepped into a lion’s den in matching raincoats.
Porter Caine perched behind his desk, framed by a window streaked with condensation. His office was a mix of rustic cop clichés: wood paneling, taxidermy trout, a faded American flag, and one of those ‘Don’t Make Me Use My Dad Voice’ coffee mugs. The only thing more rigid than his posture was the look he gave Mattie as she settled herself primly into the chair opposite him.
I slid in next to her, adjusting my notes and trying not to crinkle under his gaze.
“I assume you’re here about the remains we found,” he said.
Mattie raised an eyebrow. “You mean the remains we found.”
His jaw tightened. “This isn’t a game, Ms. McDonald. You’re not detectives. You shouldn’t have been out there poking around.”
Mattie smiled sweetly. “Good thing we were there. Since your department didn’t find her in fifteen years.”
I winced. “Maybe we rewind and start the conversation with something softer, like a compliment on his trout?”
Chief Caine gave me a look that could’ve curdled coffee. “You’ve got ten minutes. Then I want you out of my office and off this case.”
Ten minutes.
Okay.
That would be more than enough time to ruffle feathers, toe legal lines, and possibly provoke a lawsuit.
Perfect.
I could practically hear the seconds ticking away on Chief Caine’s imaginary countdown clock.
Mattie leaned in like we were old friends catching up over brunch. “Let’s start with your rookie days. You were on the force when Elvira went missing.”
He rubbed his temple like it pained him to revisit that part of his life—or maybe talking to us was what pained him. “I was twenty-three and fresh out of the academy. Didn’t even have a real desk yet. I’d been back in Timber Ridge maybe six months when the Elvira disappeared.”
“How long had you been dating?” I asked, pulling out my podcast notebook, which had a surprisingly cute doodle of Goldilocks dressed like Sherlock Holmes on the cover.
“On and off since I came back.” He removed his Timber Ridge PD cap and tossed it on the desk. “We were high school sweethearts, but broke up when we went to different colleges. It was either hot or cold with Elvira. There was no in between with her.”
“And what about Teegan?” Mattie asked. “You married her very shortly after Elvira vanished. Your girlfriend’s mortal enemy.”
A vein popped in the chief’s forehead. “I’m not interested in discussing my personal life. If you have any more questions like that, your remaining time will run out.” If he had a trapdoor under our chairs, I was ninety percent sure he would’ve pulled it.
“Did you think she ran away?” I asked him something similar at the Coal Miner’s Daughter Diner, but I wanted to ask him again now that things had changed.
He looked me straight in the eye. “No.”
That one word landed like a gavel.
Mattie tilted her head. “But the official report suggests otherwise. It concludes that Elvira left of her own volition.”
He let out a slow breath, then leaned back in his creaky chair. “Old Chief Dunlap was a piece of work. Did things his way or not at all. I brought him what I had—witness statements, timelines, inconsistencies, personal knowledge—but he barely looked at it. Said she got tired of small-town life and lit out. Case closed.”
“But you didn’t believe that,” I said.
He shook his head. “Not for a second. Elvira wasn’t the kind to vanish. Sure, she didn’t have a lot of family outside of Ralphie Dale but she had friends and a life. People like that don’t just disappear without a reason.”
Mattie crossed her arms. “So, what did you do?”
“I kept it open,” he said. “Unofficially. Couldn’t do much without the chief’s blessing, but I held onto the file. Kept copies at home. Every once in a while, I’d run a check on a Jane Doe that matched her description from another state. Interview someone who might’ve known her. But I never found anything solid.”
“And now?” I asked. “Now that her remains have been found?”
His jaw tightened. “Now it’s a murder. Which means you two need to stay out of it.”
“Respectfully, you’ve had fifteen years and a badge,” Mattie said with a sharp smile, “We had a week, a pink-striped trailer, and a microphone, and we already found her.”
A silence fell over the room. Curled up in the corner like a very effective paperweight, Goldie let out a tiny, self-satisfied snorfle.
Chief Caine reached for a drawer and pulled out a worn folder with a cracked corner and a faint coffee ring.
“I’ll tell you something I never put in the report,” he said, opening the file. “Because I didn’t have proof. And because Dunlap wouldn’t let me breathe in his office without permission.”
He slid a photo across the desk—Ralphie Dale, looking ten years younger, in a Hawaiian shirt and standing in front of a ribbon-cutting sign that read “WELCOME TO COASTLINE COMFORT RV PARK.”
Mattie narrowed her eyes. “Ralphie Dale?”
Chief Caine nodded. “Elvira came into a sizable inheritance when her parents died in that car wreck. But since she was underage, the estate went into a trust. Guess who was named executor?”
I blinked. “Let me guess. Uncle Thinks He’s Tom Selleck in a Hawaiian Shirt.”
Mattie edged forward. “So, what happened to it?”
“A few years after she disappeared, Ralphie Dale had her declared dead,” the chief said. “No body. No clear evidence. Just gone long enough to get a judge to sign off. Then boom. The trust unlocked and Ralphie Dale had full access. And not long after that, he starts building RV parks like he’s the king of glamping.”
I tried not to let my eyes bug out of my head. “Are we talking big money?”
“We’re talking millions,” Chief Caine said. “Elvira’s parents weren’t flashy, but they invested well. Her estate was worth close to four million when she died. Ralphie used it to bankroll his empire—Timber Ridge, Shoreline Shores, Sunset Retreat, all of ’em.”
I scribbled like mad. “And you think he had something to do with her disappearance?”
“I know he had motive,” Caine said. “But I couldn’t prove it. And by the time I took over as chief, the case had gone ice cold, the file was dust, and Ralphie Dale was a local hero who brought jobs and tourism.”
Mattie’s voice was soft, but deadly precise. “You think he got away with murder.”
Caine met her gaze. “I think he did once. But now that we have a body, I don’t think he will again. There’s no statute of limitations on homicide.”
The room was quiet. Outside, the autumn rain had started again, tapping softly against the windows like a slow, insistent metronome counting down the time remaining to close the case.
Goldie let out a low growl. Either she dreamed of chasing particularly nefarious squirrels, or her canine instincts picked up on something we hadn’t.
Mattie stood, her spine ramrod straight. “Thank you for your time, Chief. We’ll be in touch.”
“Don’t bother,” he said, rising with a dismissive wave. “Stay out of it, ladies. Seriously. I want to nail Ralphie Dale, and the last thing I need is a pair of amateur podcasters tripping over evidence and muddying the waters.”
I gave him a smile that was about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Chief. We’ll just be enthusiastically observing from the sidelines.” I whistled for Goldilocks to follow and hurried into the hall. “Think he’ll slap the cuffs on us before or after our first episode drops?”
Mattie adjusted her coat, her eyes narrowed with a fierce resolve as she strode for the door like a general heading into battle. “Oh, he’ll try to tell us what to do. They always do. But we didn’t dig up a body and listen to fifteen years of lies to back down now. Ralphie Dale, Chief Caine, Teegan Teagarden…whoever thinks they can bury the truth in these woods has another thing coming.”
By the time we trudged back through the RV park, the cold rain turned our jackets into damp regrets. My boots squelched with each step. Goldie gave up entirely and trotted straight to the Clue Cruiser’s little retractable awning, flopping down like she, too, was over this investigation and all its very muddy mysteries.
Mattie, as always, looked unbothered. Somehow her hair stayed intact in a drizzle that had turned me into a walking cautionary tale.
We ducked into the Airstream, the familiar warmth wrapping around us like a cozy conspiracy. I peeled off my raincoat, dropped it with a wet slap near the door, and reached for the kettle.
“Coffee?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
Mattie grabbed a towel to dry off the soggy doggy and spritzed her with a coat detangler. “There’s some leftover lemon cake in the cupboard.”
I carved two hunks while I waited for the brew. A fresh swirl of motives and missed opportunities danced through my mind. I licked thick buttercream frosting off my thumb as I replayed the conversation with Chief Caine.
A growl interrupted my daydream. Goldie’s ears perked up. The rumble was low and suspicious—the kind of growl she usually reserved for vacuums and politicians.
“Someone’s outside,” I said, freezing halfway to the cabinet.
Mattie glanced at the window, calm as a cucumber in a trench coat, and opened the door without hesitation.
Ralphie Dale stood on the other side, smiling like a man who never heard the phrase personal space.
Rain glistened on the shoulders of his denim jacket, and his too-white teeth practically glowed in the dim gray light. He was the kind of southern man who said ma’am like it was both a compliment and a threat.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “Thought I might catch you ladies here.”
My throat went dry. Goldie growled again. I didn’t stop her.
Mattie leaned casually against the doorframe. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Oh, just thought I’d extend a little hospitality,” he said, flashing that shiny politician smile again. “Seems y’all have taken an interest in our little town’s old ghosts.”
I stepped closer to Mattie, just in case she required backup. Though I couldn’t take Ralphie Dale in a fist fight, I could lend moral support or pepper spray if necessary.
Ralphie Dale’s gaze landed squarely on Mattie. “I thought maybe we could discuss your investigation over dinner.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry, what now?”
He ignored me, all focus on Mattie. “The Coal Miner’s Daughter isn’t fancy, but it has two things going for it: the best hushpuppies this side of the Mississippi, and it’s the only place in town to eat. Say, seven o’clock?”
Mattie cocked an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “You asking me out, Mr. Gentry?”
“Call it a friendly conversation over fried food.”
I leaned into the picture. “We’d love to.”
“Not that I’m in a position to be picky, but I’d prefer to go alone with your mama.” He tipped an invisible hat and strolled off into the drizzle like a man who didn’t just drop a bombshell in our living room.
The door clicked shut behind him. I stared at Mattie. Mattie stared at the door. Goldie sneezed her displeasure.
“Absolutely not.” I waved my arms like an overly enthusiastic umpire. “You are not going on a date with the number one suspect in a cold case murder.”
Mattie pinched my cheek. “Oh, honey, that wasn’t a date invite.”
I gawked. “It wasn’t?”
She grabbed her makeup bag and a fold-up vanity mirror. “That is a confession waiting to happen.” She glanced over her shoulder like a glamorous actress from old Hollywood and arched a brow. “My mama—your grandma—always said, ‘A true detective never shies from a conversation, especially with a prime suspect.’ Looks like the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
And clearly, that particular apple skipped a generation and landed with Goldie.