Whispering Pines Murder - Episode 8
- Brittany Brinegar
- 13 minutes ago
- 13 min read
White Liar
Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 1
I wandered the Clue Cruiser, dodging laundry baskets and a precarious tower of library books, while Mattie perched at the dinette table, methodically sharpening pencils. Not that we needed that many pencils, but she said the repetitive motion helped her think. I began to suspect it was more about intimidating me with weaponized stationery.
“We’re spinning our wheels, Mama,” I said, flinging myself into the booth across from her. “We know Ralphie Dale’s slimier than a bucket of baitfish, but what can we actually do about it?”
Mattie twirled a perfectly pointed number two pencil with a little too much pizzazz. “We don’t have access to the autopsy report. No crime scene analysis. No lab tests. The police are treating us like nosy tourists instead of valuable consultants.”
“Probably because we are nosy tourists,” I muttered into my coffee mug. “I mean, technically.”
All we had was hearsay, half-truths, gossip columns, and a dusty case file filled with fifteen-year-old leads colder than a popsicle in January. Nothing we could take to the bank—or the cops, for that matter.
“We need proof Ralphie Dale benefited financially when Elvira disappeared,” I said. “Did he start spending her inheritance right away? Did he buy that prime real estate with a dead woman’s money?”
Mattie tapped a pencil against the table. “If he did, that’s only circumstantial evidence, but it’s a start. It would prove he knew she wasn’t coming back before anyone else did.”
I groaned, and my head thunked onto the table. Goldilocks barked, convinced a visitor had knocked on our door. “There are too many unknowns. We’re just two women in a trailer with laptops, microphones, and a suspiciously large number of Twinkies. This investigation needs legwork. Resources.” I peeked at Mama, expecting her to agree we were out of our depth.
Instead, she smiled that sly, slow smile that usually preceded a stroke of genius. “We do have resources, Patsy.”
I blinked. “Other than an endless supply of coffee?”
“We have an entire audience at our disposal.”
I sat up straighter. “You mean...weaponize the podcast?”
“Exactly. We get ahead of schedule, release the first episode early, and get people talking. Stir up memories. Spark gossip. We can even set up a tipline for anonymous calls. Somebody out there knows more than they’re saying.”
I chewed on the idea, feeling the first real flicker of hope since the diner debacle.
It made perfect sense. We might not have badges or lab reports, but we had something just as powerful: a town full of nosy neighbors who loved to talk when given the slightest excuse.
“Alright,” I said, already pulling my laptop toward me. “Let’s light a fire under this thing.”
Mama raised her sharpened pencil like a sword. “Onward, Patsy. To justice we seek.”
And just like that, Operation Dig Up Dirt on Ralphie officially kicked into high gear.
(Podcast intro music fades out – a warm, slightly quirky tune.)
PATSY:
Hello, Clue Cruisers! It’s Patsy Steffanelli, broadcasting live from our slightly cramped but stylishly striped Airstream trailer.
MATTIE:
And I’m Mattie McDonald. You know the drill: where the coffee’s strong, the mysteries are stronger, and the snacks are disappearing faster than you can say “investigative journalism.”
PATSY:
Guilty. But today, folks, we’re doing something a little different. We’re coming to you ahead of schedule—because frankly, we need your help.
MATTIE:
We’ve been digging into the case of Elvira Vance, the beloved Timber Ridge resident who disappeared fifteen years ago—and whose tragic death was just confirmed.
PATSY:
The news shocked the community, especially knowing that the culprit has evaded justice for so long.
MATTIE:
Our goal has always been to shine a light on cold cases like Elvira’s, providing victims and their families with the justice they deserve.
PATSY:
But we’ve hit a wall.
MATTIE:
There are specific details—the autopsy and crime scene analysis—that we’re not privy to.
PATSY:
Apparently, “nosy podcast ladies” is not a badge you can flash to gain access to evidence rooms.
MATTIE:
Yet.
PATSY:
But here’s the thing, Clue Cruisers: we’re not giving up. Not even close.
MATTIE:
We believe the answers we need might be out there, with you. Someone listening right now might hold the key to unlocking this mystery.
PATSY:
So here’s what we’re looking for…
—If you remember anything about Elvira’s behavior in the weeks before she disappeared.
—If you heard any rumors or noticed anything off about those closest to her: Ralphie Dale Gentry, Porter Caine, or Teegan Teagarden.
—Or if you heard whispers about the inheritance, and how it might have changed hands…
MATTIE:
Even the smallest memory could matter. A throwaway comment. A strange purchase. A conversation you overheard at the hardware store.
PATSY:
Memories fade, and details get lost. That’s why it’s so important we reach out to y’all. Fifteen years ago, the police didn’t just miss something. They missed everything. We want to ensure that history doesn’t repeat itself now that the missing person’s case has evolved into a murder investigation.
MATTIE:
If you have any information, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, please reach out. You can email us or call our tipline. We’ll put the details on how to do so in the show notes.
PATSY:
All tips will be handled with complete discretion. We respect your privacy—and more importantly, we respect Elvira’s memory.
MATTIE:
This isn’t just about a podcast; it’s about righting a wrong that has lingered far too long.
PATSY:
We believe that, together with all of you, we can finally bring the truth to light.
MATTIE:
And maybe, just maybe, give Timber Ridge the justice it deserves.
PATSY:
Thanks for riding along with us, Clue Cruisers. We’ll be back soon, with your help, to bring this story the ending it deserves.
(Podcast outro fades out.)
Coffee: bitter. Leggings: going on day three. Investigation: dead on arrival…DOA.
The Clue Cruiser felt as stagnant as the lukewarm brew in my mug. Mattie, however, was a caffeinated typing machine after her breakfast demolition derby. But even Goldilocks’ peaceful snores couldn’t mask the investigative dead end we reached.
Our podcast was released into the wild to fly with the crickets. No matter how often I refreshed the inbox, our tipline counter remained at zero. Another great idea turned into a spectacular failure.
A jolt of light sparked through the Airstream, the vibration skittering my phone across the counter. An unknown number buzzed, perhaps offering a lifeline.
Rosebud, North Carolina.
I blinked. “Rosebud?!” A curl of curiosity snaked up my spine.
Mattie tilted her chin. “What’s wrong with Rosebud?”
I waved the phone like it was evidence in a murder trial. “It’s Citizen Kane! You know, the movie where the entire mystery hinges on what ‘Rosebud’ means? It’s the whole point—the last word he says before he kicks the bucket.”
Mattie raised an eyebrow. “Spoiler alert, Patsy.”
“It’s been out since 1941,” I said. “The statute of limitations on spoilers has expired.”
Goldilocks snorted in her sleep, either agreeing with the verdict or dreaming about squirrels.
A town named Rosebud calling us right after we sent out a public plea for information? If that wasn’t fate knocking, I didn’t know what was.
I swiped to answer. “Murder, Mystery, and Mom podcast. Who’s calling, please?”
A warm, slightly breathless voice floated through the line. “Oh, hello, sweethearts! Is this Patsy and… oh, what was the other lovely lady I heard on your program? Mattie, is it?”
I sat up straighter. Mama mouthed, ‘Put it on speaker!’ and I obliged. “You’ve got us both.”
“Wonderful. This is Mrs. Marion Dudley. You don’t know me yet, but I’m your biggest fan from way over in North Carolina. You asked for clues about the murder of poor, dear Elvira. I believe I have something you simply must see with your own eyes.”
Mattie and I exchanged a look. This woman would either save our case or invite us into a gingerbread house and cook us alive.
I fumbled for a pen, prepared for either possibility. “Can you tell us a little more about what you found?”
Mrs. Dudley offered a breezy laugh. “Oh, heavens, no, dear. The telephone lines have ears, you know. Besides, some things are best unveiled in person, like a good magic trick… or a particularly scandalous wedding photo.”
“Wedding photo? Of whom?” Mattie asked.
“You’ll just have to flutter on over here and see for yourselves.”
I covered the receiver. “To North Carolina? That’s four hours round-trip—time we won’t get back if this lady is a wackadoodle.”
Mattie removed my hand from the speaker. “We’re happy to drive down. Where would you like to meet us?”
“Why, my little gumshoes, where else would we have a proper tête-à-tête but at my house? I’m at the corner of Third Avenue and Buttercup Boulevard. Can’t miss it. Just look for the most cheerful purple mailbox you’ve ever seen, with Reginald the Rooster perched proudly on top. He thinks he runs the place, the silly bird.”
“Of course,” Mattie said as if that was the most natural landmark in the world.
I scribbled the unique directions, heart thumping with the giddy mix of hope and fear that always came right before a big break—or a big disaster.
“Thank you, Mrs. Dudley,” I said. “We’ll see you soon.”
“Now, you two drive safe, you hear? And try to save room for dessert. My peach cobbler just came out of the oven, and I’m not too modest to admit it’s divine. Looking forward to seeing your pretty faces.”
When the call ended, Mattie and I stared at each other for a full beat before bursting into identical, slightly unhinged grins.
“Rosebud,” I said, already grabbing my purse.
“Purple mailbox.” Mattie snatched the car keys.
Goldilocks cracked one eye open and, with the heavy sigh of a dog who knew adventure was afoot, stretched.
“We’re going bye-bye, Goldie,” I said, patting her head. “Somewhere between Timber Ridge and Xanadu, there’s a clue with our name on it.”
And if Citizen Kane taught me anything, it was that sometimes answers were hiding in the places you’d least expect.
If Norman Rockwell ever painted a picture of Southern eccentricity, I was pretty sure it lived on the corner of Third Avenue and Buttercup Boulevard.
The pink Ford Bronco rattled to a stop in front of a lilac-colored Craftsman bungalow, its trellises crawling with ivy, and wind chimes made of old silver spoons sang in the breeze. A purple mailbox stood proudly at the curb, as if auditioning for a Crayola commercial, topped with a cast-iron rooster mid-crow. I presumed this was Reginald, and he looked every bit as pompous as advertised.
“Something tells me that Mrs. Dudley doesn’t have an HOA.”
Mattie eyed the yard. “Is that a birdbath or a Roman coliseum for pigeons?”
It was, in fact, a birdbath—if birdbaths came with tiered fountains, a sunshade, and a welcome mat that read No Crows Allowed.
Goldilocks perked up in the backseat, nose twitching. She was out the door before I could clip on her leash, her tail wagging as if she had just sniffed out a bacon buffet.
We followed her toward the house, where the front door creaked open and a vision in lemon-yellow polyester and orthopedic sandals waved from the porch. She had snow-white curls teased into a perfect cotton ball, cat-eye glasses on a beaded chain, and an apron that read Shhh... I’m Plotting Something.
“Yoo-hoo! Over here, darlings!” Her voice was as bright as a xylophone. “You must be my sleuthing superstars.” She was every bit the southern-fried fairy godmother I hadn’t known I needed.
“Mrs. Dudley?” I paced closer, trying not to trip over a rogue garden gnome in a feather boa.
“The very same. And this must be Goldilocks. I’ve been listening to your show religiously since the first episode dropped, announcing your mother-daughter scheme to solve crime. Though I admit, sometimes I fast forward to the dog updates.”
Ever the fame sponge, Goldie licked Mrs. Dudley’s hand and then made a beeline for the pigeon palace in the backyard, tail high and dreams of forbidden feathers dancing in her eyes.
I cringed at the high-pitched bark. “Don’t scare the birds off, Goldilocks.”
Mrs. Dudley didn’t bat an eyelash. “Don’t worry. My birds are well-trained carrier pigeons. They can outfly an Amazon drone and deliver a message blindfolded. Though I don’t recommend that—it throws off their landing.”
As Mrs. Dudley motioned us to the house, Mattie tiptoed to whisper in my ear. “Are we sure we didn’t just walk into an Agatha Christie reboot starring the Golden Girls?”
“It’s like you read my mind, Mama.”
Inside, the Dudley home smelled like cinnamon and lemon polish. Books lined the walls like wallpaper, spines lovingly cracked and sorted by genre. I spotted everything from Birds of the Carolinas to Cold Cases That Still Keep Me Up at Night.
“I’m a retired librarian,” Mrs. Dudley said, catching me staring. “Which is code for I only go in twice a week to check out a stack of books.”
She led us to a sitting room that looked like it belonged in a Victorian tea shop if that tea shop also doubled as a bird sanctuary and murder board. Doilies fought for space with mug cozies, framed crossword puzzles, and—yes—a wall-mounted corkboard of cold cases connected by red yarn.
A rustle from the hallway preceded the entrance of a man who looked like a cross between a courtroom bailiff and a Keebler elf. He wore suspenders, carried a pocket watch, and had the unmistakable voice of someone who probably called every dog and kid he met ‘champ.’
“Girls, this is my husband, Alf. Retired justice of the peace, crossword enthusiast, and the only man who’s ever seen me in hot rollers and lived to tell the tale.”
“Alf?” I blurted, a grin spreading across my face. “Seriously? Like the wisecracking alien life form who crash-landed in the Tanners’ garage? Oh my gosh, does he try to eat your cat? Please tell me you don’t have a cat named Lucky!”
He blinked at me through bifocals. “Haven’t heard that one since the 80s.”
“I bet that was a tough decade to be a serious judge on planet Melmac.”
Alf gave a little bow, then shuffled toward a recliner, muttering about Sudoku over his decaf Earl Grey.
Mrs. Dudley clapped, jingling the row of bracelets on her wrist. “Now, to the matter at hand. You came about poor Elvira.” She abandoned dessert plates and did a 360 spin to the bookshelf. “I want to show you something from my archives. When Alf was still marrying folks on the courthouse lawn, I made it my duty to keep a scrapbook. Every couple, every kiss, every bouquet toss—it’s all here. I was the witness, the photographer, and the keeper of matrimonial memories.”
Mrs. Dudley reached beneath a nearby end table and pulled out a scrapbook bigger than the Yellow Pages. The cover read Here Comes the Brid in glitter-puffy stickers, the missing ‘e’ giving it an accidental air of rebellion.
“Made it myself.” She brushed a bit of dust off the cover. “Back in the days when scrapbooking was the hottest craze since macramé.”
She opened it to a bookmarked page decorated with pressed flowers, lace trim, and a Polaroid of a couple that looked vaguely familiar and profoundly stylish in that artsy, mysterious way.
My gaze darted to my watch. As fascinating as Mrs. Dudley might be, we didn’t have time for a trip down memory lane, spanning eighty-plus years.
“Recognize anyone?” she asked, tapping the photo with a ring-laden finger.
Mattie leaned in, her brow furrowing. “That’s Chief Porter Caine.”
“And Teegan Teagarden,” I finished.
“Ding, ding!” Mrs. Dudley sang. “Got married right here in Rosebud. Alf officiated, and I was witness, veil fluffer, and all-around crisis manager. Even had to splash water on the groom when he fainted—poor thing folded like a lawn chair.”
She cackled at the memory while I flipped the page, uncovering more notes—dates, locations, and odd little doodles along the margins. She even drew a cartoon dove in a bow tie next to their names.
A flurry of cooing erupted from the yard as Goldilocks tried to befriend a very unimpressed pigeon.
I twirled in my seat. “Time to rescue her before she provokes an international bird incident.”
Mrs. Dudley peered out the window and chuckled, the sound as bright and mischievous as a wind chime in a storm. “She’s got good taste. Veronica took second place at the state fair last summer. Stiff competition too—lost out to a real showboat from Amarillo.”
A small seed of doubt took root in my chest. The connection was fascinating, but we already knew Caine and Teegan were married. Our devoted fan’s hot tip was old news.
I tried not to deflate right there on Mrs. Dudley’s floral couch. After all the goose chases and dead ends, I hoped this pit stop would yield something solid—something more substantial than another adorable anecdote in a wedding-themed scrapbook.
But Mrs. Dudley wasn’t finished.
“Oh, you sweet things think they tied the knot recently, don’t you?” She patted my hand like I was a kid lost in her library. “Honey, they eloped years ago. Two days before that, poor girl Elvira went missing.”
Mattie straightened, eyes sharp. “Wait. Two days before?”
Mrs. Dudley nodded. “Yep. Small ceremony, hush-hush. They said they wanted to keep it private, but Porter claimed it was for ‘artistic mystique,’ whatever that means.” She made air quotes with great enthusiasm. “Didn’t even tell their families. Just showed up at our back porch with a bottle of cheap champagne and a diamond the size of a pigeon’s eye.”
A thrum of electricity buzzed along my spine.
According to the police reports, Porter Caine never mentioned any big life changes around the time of Elvira’s disappearance. In fact, he claimed he was still dating Elvira—or at least didn’t admit to a breakup. Yet here he was, marrying her biggest rival behind closed doors two days before the disappearance and murder.
I exchanged a glance with Mattie, both of us silently ticking through the possibilities.
Motive. Opportunity. Lies.
We sent out the podcast in hopes of discovering secrets about Ralphie Dale. But we might have been chasing the wrong rabbit entirely.
I closed the scrapbook, my heart hammering against my ribs. This wasn’t just a quirky detour. It was a crack in the case—a real, honest-to-goodness fault line splitting the ground under our feet.
If Chief Caine and Teegan had been secretly married all this time and lied to the police...
Maybe we weren’t chasing Ralphie Dale after all. Perhaps the real wolves were already inside the henhouse.
“Mrs. Dudley?” Mattie’s gaze fixed on the wedding date in the scrapbook, “Did Porter or Teegan ever mention why they eloped so suddenly or so quietly?”
Mrs. Dudley tapped her chin. “Now that you mention it, Teegan was quite insistent it had to be kept secret. Said something about... avoiding complications.”
Complications? Like the woman her new husband was supposedly still dating? A sudden, chilling thought slammed into me. If they were secretly married before Elvira vanished, were they secretly married because they planned for her to disappear?