Whispering Pines Murder - Episode 9
- Brittany Brinegar
- Jun 18
- 10 min read
Paint Me a Birmingham
Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 1

You could always tell how serious a small-town event was by how far the orange traffic cones stretched. And in Timber Ridge, the cones went practically to the next zip code.
Main Street transformed overnight from sleepy charm to full-on folk-art fantasia. Booths spilled onto the sidewalks like a carnival fused with Pinterest, and judging by the sheer number of twinkle lights—even in broad daylight—the locals were not messing around.
“Remember when we came here to investigate a murder?” I asked, craning my neck in a desperate search to find parking. “Now we’re fighting crowds to view gnome-themed birdhouses and organic soap shaped like mountain goats.”
Mattie smiled from behind the wheel, her sunglasses reflecting a parade of strollers, coffee cups, and someone in a windbreaker wrangling a balloon shaped like a trout. “Darlin’, sometimes you find the best clues in the most unexpected places.”
Goldilocks gave a soft huff from the backseat, where she sat regal as a queen, tail thumping lightly. She already spotted three dogs, a child with peanut butter on his sleeve, and what I could only assume was a bacon-scented breeze. Her day was made.
Mattie parallel parked in the last open space in the county, and I was thankful she insisted on driving. I could try for years and never fit into that spot.
We climbed out of the Bronco and were instantly hit with a sensory tsunami. The mountain air, fresh with pine and morning drizzle, now carried notes of grilled sausage, kettle corn, and artisanal lavender lotion. A lone acoustic guitarist strummed a haunting rendition of Landslide near the entrance, and the music blended perfectly with the laughter of the crowd.
“I feel underdressed,” I said, sidestepping a woman in a crocheted poncho with hand-felted boots. “Should’ve worn something more…finger-paint adjacent.”
Mattie, of course, looked festival-ready in a quilted vest and sensible knee-high boots. Her scarf was twisted just so, and her lipstick had held firm since sunrise. I, on the other hand, had managed to get dog hair on my pants before we even left the Airstream.
We passed booths of hand-stitched quilts and jam jars lined up like little fruit soldiers. There were wire sculptures of ducks, a pyramid of scented soy candles, and tie-dye T-shirts waving like hippie flags in the breeze. One tent sold earrings made from bottle caps; another featured pottery so misshapen it required a polite imagination.
Goldie tugged toward a booth with peanut butter dog biscuits and was immediately rewarded with a sample. Meanwhile, I paused in front of a gnome painted to look like Captain America, complete with a tiny star-spangled shield.
“Well, Mama,” I said, pointing. “If you were worried Timber Ridge didn’t take art seriously, I give you SuperGnome. I think I found my mother-in-law’s Christmas gift.”
Mattie peered over her sunglasses. “You do realize you’re talking about gifting a mutant garden statue to a woman who once crocheted you a toilet paper cozy shaped like a lily pad.”
“This feels like the emotional revenge I didn’t know I needed.”
I spotted a stall proudly displaying a sign that read Yarn Bombing Society of Western Virginia and made a beeline for it. I had no idea what yarn bombing was, but it sounded fantastic.
Mattie snagged my arm, yanking me back with surprising strength. “We’re not here to shop.” She scanned the booths like a hawk with a credit limit.
“Right,” I said, adjusting my sunglasses. “We’re here to interrogate an artist in her natural habitat.”
Navigating through the crowd was less of a stroll and more of a tactical mission. Mattie moved with precision, parting groups with a practiced shoulder angle that came from years of airport espionage and Black Friday shopping. I, meanwhile, kept losing my concentration every time I smelled something buttery.
“Focus, Patsy,” Mattie said as we rounded a display of hand-blown glass ornaments shaped like woodland creatures.
“Sorry. Someone’s got a waffle cart with all the fixin’s.”
We finally spotted Teegan Teagarden’s booth tucked between a vendor selling leather journals and a woman spinning wool in real time.
Even from this distance, I could tell the booth was different than the rest. No gingham, no lace. Just clean white panels that screamed emotionally distant with a trust fund. The sign above read ‘Teegan Teagarden Fine Art’ in sans serif, of course.
I adjusted my ponytail and took a deep breath. “Alright, Mama. Let’s go ask the woman who married the victim’s boyfriend two days before she disappeared what the dealio is.”
“If you’re going to speak like an MTV DJ, I'd better take the lead with the questions.”
“By all means.” I waved her forward. “I’ll just be listening to Duran Duran on my Walkman. Holler if you need me.”
Mattie shook her head. “So, you’re the only one who can make 80s references without sounding old?”
“Pretty much.” I intercepted Goldilocks seconds before she swiped a toddler’s ice cream cone. “It’s cool when I do it. You, not so much, Mama.”
The closer we got to Teegan’s booth, the more my eyebrows tried to retreat into my hairline, as if they wanted no part of what we were about to witness.
Her setup was deceptively chic—sleek white tent walls, black easels, and tastefully neutral drapes that fluttered in the breeze, as if they belonged in a Pottery Barn commercial. It looked like someone had tried to import a boutique gallery into a small-town craft fair.
But the moment I saw the first painting, I realized it was all just very sophisticated window dressing obscuring an artistic cry for help.
The canvas closest to the front looked like someone had dipped a turkey leg in acrylic paint and started flinging color at the canvas. A swirl of furious reds clashed with burnt-orange brushstrokes in a piece boldly titled Visceral Truth. Right beside it, another composition screamed in jagged yellows and bruised blues, labeled Emotion #7, which I could only assume referred to the number of headaches I’d rack up if I stared at it for more than ten seconds.
Mattie, ever the professional, didn’t say a word. But she tilted her head to the right—a subtle gesture I knew well. It was her version of, “Good heavens, this is hideous.”
“I think I saw that one in a commercial for migraine medication,” I murmured under my breath, scratching my cheek as if it might hide the grin creeping up my face. “It was in the ‘before segment’ to demonstrate how the head felt, while a marching band played Eye of the Tiger on a loop.”
We eased deeper into the display, beyond infantile sketches and weird sculptures, and something shifted. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it at first—maybe it was the change in energy, or the fact that my eyes finally landed on a painting that didn’t make me feel like I was being emotionally yelled at through brushstrokes.
It hung at the very back of the booth, half-shadowed under the flap of canvas and positioned like an afterthought. No spotlight. No display sign. Just quietly waiting.
A landscape. Soft, somber, haunting.
My feet stopped moving, and Mattie pulled up beside me with the same frozen stillness. Stretched across the canvas was a crooked wooden bridge spanning a rocky stream. Mist curled along the edges of the water, as if it had secrets to keep. Trees in full autumn bloom framed the scene in shades of chestnut, burnt orange, and fading gold. In the distance stood an old barn, leaning and half-swallowed by the forest.
I didn’t have to say a word.
“That’s the bridge,” Mattie whispered.
“The exact one from Elvira’s painting.” I closed my eyes, trying to recall the one we had seen at her cabin. “Or almost exact. The angle and color palette are slightly different.”
Mattie tilted her head the other way. “The women did have the same teacher. It’s not unusual to share a style.”
We exchanged a glance that didn’t need translation.
“It stands out like a sore thumb among the hemorrhages of color,” I said.
“Right?” A voice behind us broke the trance, cheerful and unaware of the storm brewing in our heads. “It’s my favorite, too. I told Teegan she needed to do more like that.”
I spun to find Bayleigh, the diner waitress, now moonlighting as a festival staffer. She wore her dark hair in a French braid and a neon-orange hoodie that screamed ‘Staff—Ask Me Anything!’
My hands lifted to the air like my oldest son when I caught him sneaking pie before dinner. “I swear, we aren’t casing the joint.”
“You work at Teegan’s gallery?” Mattie asked, doing a much better job of keeping her cool.
She laughed as her gaze bounced between us. “Only a part-time gig. Gotta fund my coffee addiction and tuition somehow. Two birds, one shift.”
Goldilocks trotted over and gave Bayleigh a sniff of approval before leaning against her shin, as if they’d known each other since kindergarten.
Bayleigh turned her attention to the bridge painting and sighed like it was a romance novel come to life. “Teegan used to paint landscapes back in the day, like ten years ago. But they were never this good. Honestly, they were kinda…meh. Then she switched to abstract stuff, sold a few pieces, but nothing special. But a few months ago? Boom. A mountain painting sold for, like, five figures.”
Mattie’s eyebrows arched. “Five figures?”
My stomach did a small, uncomfortable somersault. “So she went from meh to Monet overnight?”
Bayleigh shrugged. “Maybe she took a workshop or watched an inspiring YouTube tutorial. All I know is, whatever she did, it worked. That bridge piece already has two people fighting over it. I told her, ‘Girl, forget your feelings and paint the trees.’”
Mattie leaned forward, voice pleasant but probing. “I imagine that kind of success must’ve made her old art teacher proud.”
Bayleigh’s grin faltered. “Oh, you mean Mrs. Peabody? She passed a few months before Teegan found success. Cancer. Big loss. She taught half this town how to crosshatch and color-match.”
“Has Teegan sold any more landscapes since the big one?” Mattie asked.
Bayleigh shook her head. “Nope. Just that one. But I keep bugging her. I’m like, ‘Do more of those! People like trees. People buy trees!’” She shrugged. “This bridge won’t last long, though. If you want it, better throw your hat in the ring.”
Mattie and I both made noncommittal grunts, the kind you make when deciding whether someone’s art gallery might be a clue in a homicide.
A middle-aged man waved from the front of the tent, stealing Bayleigh’s attention. “Sorry to run, ladies. Duty calls.” She wandered off toward a booth featuring birdhouses shaped like haunted Victorian mansions.
Mattie stared at the painting in silence. I watched as her eyes tracked every line, every brushstroke, as if she were pulling the truth out from behind the canvas. “Let’s go.”
We stepped away from Teegan’s booth like it might explode behind us.
Goldilocks, sensing our tension, gave a little whine and trotted faithfully between us, casting one last look at the bridge painting as if she were afraid it might follow us home—or bite.
I kept walking until the tents gave way to a quieter stretch of booths near the end of the street. Less foot traffic, less noise. I needed space to think. And possibly scream into the void.
“Mama,” I said, breath catching as the theory hit me all at once. “What if that bridge painting and the mountain one Bayleigh mentioned aren’t just flukes in Teegan’s abstract tantrum collection?”
Mattie glanced sideways, the corner of her mouth twitching.
“What if they’re outliers, because they don’t belong to her? What if she didn’t paint them at all?”
Mattie stopped walking.
I turned to face her. “What if she stole them, Mama? From Elvira’s cabin. Took them, passed them off as her own, and waited fifteen years to make a dime.”
Mattie’s eyes narrowed, flicking back toward the direction of the booth. “It would explain the blank spots on the wall. Remember? In Elvira’s studio. There were gaps. We thought maybe they’d just fallen. But the nails were too clean—like something had been taken down intentionally.”
“Exactly.” I threw up a hand. “Like someone removed them. Stole them.”
Goldilocks let out a low huff, plopped onto the sidewalk like she, too, needed a minute.
Mattie crossed her arms and exhaled. “And they weren’t just any paintings. They were some of the best. Raw. Poetic. The kind of work that leaves a mark.”
“She didn’t just steal Elvira’s boyfriend,” I said, heat creeping up the back of my neck. “She stole her work. Her passion. Her art. And her boyfriend.” My voice dropped to a hiss. “That’s not just betrayal; that’s an art heist wrapped in a love triangle—it’s next-level petty.”
Mattie nodded, the gesture slow and thoughtful. “And criminal.”
I paced, unable to contain the churn of thoughts. “But why wait until now to sell them? Why not profit from them years ago? Why sit on stolen art like some shady squirrel with a vendetta?”
Mattie didn’t answer right away. She looked at me, eyes sharp with that signature clarity of hers—cool, composed, and lethal in a court of logic. “Because of Mrs. Peabody.”
I blinked. “Elvira and Teegan’s old teacher?”
“She had the eye,” Mattie said. “The only one in this town who could tell the difference between Teegan’s knockoff brushstrokes and Elvira’s natural talent. As long as Mrs. Peabody was around, Teegan couldn’t risk it. She couldn’t sell the pieces. Couldn’t even show them without exposing herself as a fraud.”
“But now…”
“Now Mrs. Peabody’s gone.”
My stomach twisted. “So she waited for the only person who could bust her to die before she made her move.”
We stood in silence, the distant strum of the acoustic guitar echoing from the festival entrance, now oddly mournful. Goldilocks, picking up on the shift in mood, leaned against my leg and let out a slight, worried whine. I scratched behind her ears.
This wasn’t just about art anymore. It was about theft. Fraud. A lifetime of lies wrapped in pretty brushstrokes and gallery lighting.
And maybe, just maybe, it was about motive.
Because if Teegan was willing to steal Elvira’s work… what else had she been willing to do?
The art show no longer looked quite so charming. Where I once saw twinkling lights and patchwork quilts, I now saw tension. Veins of suspicion stitched through every canvas and canopy. The hum of conversation took on a brittle edge.
Teegan’s booth stood in the distance, pristine and polished. A white lie in tent form.
That painting of the bridge wasn’t just suspicious. It was evidence—quiet, unspoken proof of something deeply wrong.
“Well,” I said, my voice dry, “I guess we didn’t quite find what we came for.”
“We found more than that,” Mattie said. “We found motive.”
“Artistic fraud. Relationship sabotage. And let’s not forget the well-timed elopement.”
“Teegan had the means, the motive, and the access.”
“She also had the gall,” I said. “She didn’t just steal Elvira’s life, she painted over it and called it her own.”
Mattie’s gaze lingered on the booth for another beat. “We need to move fast.”
“Before she sells any more paintings?” I asked. “Or before she disappears like everyone thought Elvira did?”
Mattie started down the row of tents, her stride brisk, like she already had a plan. “We talk to Teegan.”
My throat went dry. “Now?”
“Now.”
I followed, pulse quickening with every step.
Because if Teegan Teagarden stole more than Elvira’s art—if she’d taken her life—then it was time we stopped treating her like a rival…
And started treating her like a killer.
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