Whispering Pines Murder - Episode 7

Party of One at a Table for Two

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 1

Rain drizzled over the RV park like a mood-setting soundtrack, tapping a steady rhythm against the Clue Cruiser’s windows. Goldie dozed on the plaid bench seat under the window, snoring softly with her head buried in my old hoodie. Meanwhile, I paced.

Back and forth. Then once more. The trips were quick in the vintage Airstream and felt more like the teacup ride at an amusement park than a dramatic performance to emphasize my outrage.

Mattie sat at the dinette, gazing into her compact mirror as she applied lipstick and mascara. She dolled herself up as if she weren’t going on a dinner date with the man who may or may not have murdered his niece and built an RV empire on her inheritance.

“This is a terrible idea,” I said for the third time. “You know that, right?”

Mattie didn’t look up. “Yes, dear. You made your position extremely clear somewhere between your second nervous breakdown and planning my imaginary funeral.”

I stopped pacing and threw my arms into the air. “Mother! He’s literally our top suspect. And you just said yes to going to a secluded location with him. ALONE. That’s, like, rule number one of what not to do on every true crime podcast ever.”

“You’re being dramatic.” She waved a hand, spreading her perfume through the trailer. She smelled like vintage Chanel and espionage.

“He might have killed Elvira!”

“That’s exactly why I’m going.” She fluffed her hair into place. “You learn nothing new by staying in the shallow end, Patsy. Sometimes you’ve got to swim with the sharks.”

“More like supper with Jaws where you’re the main entrée.”

Mattie closed the mirror with a snap, her eyes meeting mine with that familiar sparkle—the one she got every time she was about to make a very bad decision for very good reason.

“Think about it,” she said, lacing her fingers. “Ralphie Dale’s story is full of holes. What he told the police back then doesn’t match what he told us. And now he’s inviting me to hush puppies and revelations at the Coal Miner’s Daughter Diner. I don’t believe in coincidences, darling. I believe in pressure.”

“So, you plan to flirt your way to answers?”

She demonstrated her most disarming Southern belle smile. “Worked on your father.”

“That man fell in love with you during a literature debate of To Kill a Mockingbird back when it was still considered a new release,” I said, flopping beside Goldie. “Let’s not pretend your methods are reliable.”

“Can’t argue with success.”

“Mama, when was the last time you were even on a date? Much less a date with a potential killer?”

Mattie stood and gave a little twirl, inspecting her outfit in the reflection of the Airstream’s oven door. Tan trench coat, black slacks, and statement earrings shaped like tiny revolvers, because subtlety was for amateurs.

“I’ll be perfectly safe,” she said. “I was trained in spy craft, you know.”

I snorted. “You stapled reports and blotted out important names with a Sharpie. It’s not like you were James Bond.”

Her eyes twinkled. “James Bond or not, I can handle dinner with an old man.”

“You’re not going alone.”

“I am going alone.”

“That’s what women say right before being featured on a Dateline special.”

Mattie leaned down and kissed the top of my head. “Trust me, sweetheart. He won’t even know he’s the one being interrogated.” She grabbed her purse and glided out the door like she was heading to a gala, not a date with danger in denim and hair gel.

As soon as the door shut behind her, I looked at Goldie, who opened one eye. “Well, I guess that’s settled.” I snagged my coat and a pair of binoculars. “We’re following her.”

When your mama agrees to a date with a maybe-murderer, you have two options: freak out... or spy from the next booth.

The Coal Miner’s Daughter Diner glowed under the soft hues of early evening. Parked across the street in the Bronco, I squinted through a pair of fogged binoculars. Goldilocks rested her chin on the open window, her ears perked, occasionally letting out a soft whine that I interpreted as canine commentary on the lack of snacks. An oldies station crooned softly from the Bronco’s speakers, a soundtrack to our decidedly unglamorous stakeout.

“Great googly moogly.” I adjusted the focus. “All I can make is the top of Mama’s blonde head and Ralphie Dale’s trucker hat. You’d think a southern gentleman would remove his cap. If not indoors, certainly on a date. But murderers don’t have the manners they once did.”

I leaned out the window but couldn’t hear a darn thing over ‘Breaking Up Is Hard to Do.’

Goldilocks thumped her tail against the seat, seemingly enjoying Frankie Valli’s falsetto.

“Easy for you to say,” I grumbled. “You aren’t trying to figure out if the guy across the street on a date with your Mama buried a body fifteen years ago.” A frustrated sigh escaped my lips.

This wasn’t working. Operation Bronco Birdwatch was a bust. My gaze fell on the oversized hat and sunglasses perched on the passenger seat.

“Alright, Goldie. Time for Plan B. You hold down the fort, alright? And try not to get into any philosophical debates with the parking meters. I’ll be back before you can say ‘Jeremiah was a bullfrog.’”

With a final, worried glance at the diner, I slipped out of the Bronco, leaving Goldilocks swaying gently to the music, and donned my elaborate undercover disguise—time to go inside.

The bell over the door jingled as I pushed into the Coal Miner’s Daughter Diner, the sweet smell of fried chicken and waffle fries greeting me like an old friend. I ducked my head, adjusting the brim of my ridiculous floppy sunhat and tugging the oversized sunglasses down my nose.

Subtle, Patsy. Real subtle.

The place wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t empty either—just enough diners scattered around that I could blend in if I didn’t do anything spectacularly foolish. Which, given my track record and my ‘fugitive on vacation’ disguise, was not a guarantee.

I caught a glimpse of Mattie and Ralphie Dale Gentry seated at a vinyl booth near the back. Mama smiled as she sipped sweet tea, and from this distance, it was a toss-up whether she was charming him or calculating the trajectory needed to bean him with a sugar dispenser.

I slid into an empty booth four tables over, the cracked menu held high in front of my face like a shield. I peered over the top, trying not to look obvious, which made me about ten times more obvious.

“Well, if it ain’t Podcast Patsy!”

I nearly choked on the nonexistent food I was pretending to eat.

Bayleigh, her dark ponytail doing its usual energetic sway, materialized beside my booth, a wide, knowing grin on her face. “That hat’s… somethin’ else. Real incognito. Trying out a new look for the show?”

I lowered the menu, my cheeks burning. “Just… you know… blending.”

“Blending like a chameleon in a disco ball.” She flicked a knowing eyebrow, one that said she knew something was up but was too polite to call me on it.

My eyes darted to her notepad. “Just coffee, please. Black.” My voice came out three octaves higher than usual, like a caffeinated chipmunk. “With lots of cream and sugar.”

“Coming right up. So, what’s the scoop? Your mama and Ralphie Dale look like they’re hashing out the secrets of the universe over there.”

“Oh, is Mattie here too? I had no idea this is where he took her on their date.”

“Lying works better without the falsetto.” She winked as she danced off to the kitchen.

I lifted my menu again, hoping to remain hidden behind the sticky laminated shield. Sneaking glances over the top, I tried to gather intel on their date night conversation. It seemed normal enough. Neither party pulled a gun. Not yet anyway.

Ralphie Dale leaned in, saying something that made Mama smile tightly. She tapped her nails against her cup, a habit she had whenever she was thinking three steps ahead and about to best me in a game of Blockus.

I strained to listen, but all I caught was Ralphie Dale chuckling—a low, rumbling sound that could either be harmless or deeply sinister, depending on how much Dateline you watched.

Bayleigh returned with my coffee, plopping it down with another wink. “So, spill. What kinda podcast research involves hiding under a hat big enough to house a family of raccoons?”

“Hey, I’m only here for the onion rings. The sign says they’re world famous.”

“Does this mean Ralphie Dale is a suspect?” Bayleigh asked, propping a hip against the table.

My eyes lifted over the rims of my sunglasses. “Enough rumors are floating around town without me adding fuel to the fire.”

“If I knew more about the situation, I could lend you a hand. Maybe tell you what the lovebirds are talking about.”

“Lovebirds? Does it look like they’re on a date? A real one, I mean.”

“Ralphie Dale certainly thinks so.”

“What are they talking about?”

She shrugged. “Want me to find out?”

“Consider yourself officially deputized, Bayleigh,” I whispered, feeling like we were co-conspirators in a diner-themed spy movie.

The young waitress grabbed a coffee pot and approached Mama’s table to top off their mugs. She lingered briefly and polished the clean table behind them with a dish rag.

Ralphie Dale gestured animatedly, talking about...something. Mama nodded, but the tight line of her mouth said she wasn't buying whatever he sold. I caught the words ‘accident’ and ‘long time ago,’ but the rest was swallowed by the clatter of a dropped fork three tables over.

I fumbled in my purse for a notepad, knocking over the coffee cup. Hot liquid pooled on the table and dripped onto the floor with a most unsatisfactory splat.

“Great. Just great,” I hissed, blotting at the mess with a handful of napkins while trying to keep my sunglasses from sliding off my face.

Goldilocks would’ve done a better job at this stakeout—and she didn’t even have opposable thumbs.

Bayleigh zipped over with a towel. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Patsy, but you’re not great at this undercover thing.”

“I’m aware.” I tugged my hat lower. “What are they talking about?”

“They’re arguing over who has the more iconic mustache: Charlie Chaplin, Burt Reynolds…”

“Obviously, it’s Tom Selleck. No contest.”

“Ralphie Dale pitched Rollie Fingers or Hulk Hogan.”

“If that isn’t the sign of a psycho killer, I don’t know what is.” I chewed the corner of my lip. “Anything about Elvira’s skeleton being discovered?”

“I think ‘did you kill your niece and bury her in the woods behind your RV park?’ is more of a second date question.”

I nodded, my mind racing. “Why is she beating around the bush? The whole reason for this dinner is to confront him about Elvira. Did you realize that he built his RV empire on the back of her inheritance?”

Bayleigh slid into the booth beside me. “News to me.”

“Did it sound like Mama was falling for his charm and losing sight of our mission?”

“Not necessarily.” Bayleigh shrugged. “But Ralphie Dale’s got one of those syrupy accents. Makes everything sound like a lullaby.”

“He’s a snake charmer, that one.”

“But from what I heard, Mattie’s holding her own.” Bayleigh refilled my coffee and hustled back to the kitchen, where the short-order cook hollered ‘Order up!’

I turned my attention to the booth, where Mattie sat perfectly still, like a cat waiting to pounce. Ralphie Dale shifted in his seat, fiddling with the brim of his cap, eyes darting around the diner like he was checking for exits—or witnesses.

My heart fluttered. Either Ralphie Dale Gentry was a man haunted by tragedy... or he was hiding something much, much darker. And Mama was sitting three feet away from him, smiling like the Mona Lisa with a taser tucked up her sleeve.

I held my breath, waiting to see how this night—and this very risky undercover op—would end.

Bayleigh drifted past with a coffeepot, doing her best impression of a casual waitress but leaning just a little too close to Mama and Ralphie Dale’s table. She cleared their plates with a flourish, wiping an imaginary crumb from the table.

“How about dessert?”

Ralphie Dale waved her off with a grunt, but Mama smiled sweetly and said something that sounded like, “No thank you, darlin’. We’re just about finished.”

Bayleigh lingered a half-second longer, then sashayed back toward the counter, flashing me a subtle thumbs-up as she dropped her phone in my lap. “A little low-budget spy tech to help in your mission.”

I craned my neck, barely spotting another phone hidden behind the sugar on the table behind Mama’s. “You just earned yourself a thirty-percent tip, Missy.”

“On a cup of coffee with endless refills? Lamborghini, here I come.”

 I ducked a little lower behind my menu, ears straining. My stomach recoiled at their cutesy flirting, leaving me thankful I didn’t order a platter of onion rings. But finally, my spying paid off.

“So, tell me, Ralphie Dale,” Mama said in her Sunday-best voice. “What did you end up doing with all that inheritance money after poor Elvira’s disappearance?”

His shoulders stiffened, and his hand curled around his coffee like he was thinking about launching it across the diner.

“Rumor has it that Elvira is responsible for your RV park empire. Did building your business on the back of your missing niece feel scummy? Or did you somehow already know she was dead?”

“I built my empire with blood, sweat, and tears,” he said. “Took a bank loan, paid it back. No different from anybody else.”

Mama tilted her head, that sweet Southern-belle-gonna-kill-you smile never wavering. “I’m sure. Only, I heard the RV park wasn’t exactly thriving until after you had her declared dead and her estate was settled. Might be just silly town talk, though.”

Ralphie Dale’s jaw tightened. “Sounds like you've been listening to too many gossipy old hens.”

Bayleigh leaned in under the pretense of filling my saltshaker. “He’s getting riled. Mattie better be careful.”

I adjusted my position to get a better view—and that’s when disaster, in sticky laminated form, struck.

Slick with coffee residue, the menu slipped from my sweaty fingers. It launched itself like a caffeinated Frisbee across the aisle and skidded to a stop against Ralphie Dale’s boot. This is it. I’ve blown it. 

Silence blanketed the diner like a heavy quilt. Every head turned, including Ralphie Dale’s.

He bent down, slowly, and picked up the menu. His eyes lifted to meet mine, his expression cold enough to turn coffee into ice.

“Well, well,” he said, rising from the booth. His voice carried across the diner, sharp and cutting. “Now I see what’s going on here.”

Mattie didn’t move. She took a calm sip of her sweet tea, like she expected this.

I scrambled to stand, my ridiculous sunhat flopping over one eye. I shoved it back up with a shaky hand. “Just... needed some onion rings.”

Bayleigh froze the saltshaker dangling dangerously from her fingertips.

Ralphie Dale tossed the menu onto my table with a smack. “So, this date was just a ruse, huh? You think I killed Elvira? That’s what this is about?” His face turned fourteen shades of red, anger vibrating off him like heat from asphalt as his fingers clenched into fists. “Go ahead, then. Prove it.”

The entire diner went dead silent except for the hum of the neon signs in the window and the tick-tick-tick of Mama’s nails against her glass.

I swallowed hard, wishing I could sink into the floorboards—or at least hide under my monstrous hat.

Mattie set down her tea with a clink and rose to her full, poised height. Her voice was velvet over steel. “Maybe we will.”

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Episode 8