Let’s clear something up right now: no one in Whiskey Pines says “Steeplepuss” with a straight face. And if you do, you’re either from out of town, or you’ve never had the pleasure of running into one of them in real life. That last name carries a certain weight around here, not the dignified kind, mind you, but the kind that sinks your stomach when you realize they just walked into the room.
The Steeplepush gang, as I call them (and yes, I know that’s not spelled correctly, but I’ll be darned if I ever call them anything else), has been weaving themselves into the uncomfortable corners of Whiskey Pines history for nearly a century. They are equal parts legend, nuisance, and bad penny. The current generation—Dut Steeplepuss III, in particular—is proof that sometimes the apple not only doesn’t fall far from the tree, it rolls downhill and hits every rock on the way.
Let’s start with the original: Dut Steeplepuss I. He showed up during Prohibition with a gold tooth, a fake name, and an uncanny ability to find opportunity in every shady deal between here and Chicago. He fancied himself a gentleman smuggler, complete with pinstripe suits and a half-interest in one of the more disreputable lakeside speakeasies. The man had the nerve to try to buy Roxanne’s already-built secret tunnels beneath Whiskey Pines and act like it was an act of public service. Spoiler: it wasn’t. Roxanne ate him alive.
Dut I passed along more than just his name. He left behind a blueprint for manipulation, double-dealing, and a family culture where gaslighting was treated like a competitive sport. His son, Dut II, wasn’t much better—more subtle, perhaps, but somehow more dangerous for it. He was the kind of man who smiled while he set the trap, and expected you to thank him afterward.
Then there’s Dut III. My ex-husband. He got the looks, the entitlement, and the oversized ego, but none of the cunning that made his ancestors successful at being terrible people. Dut is like a cartoon villain who never got the memo that everyone else grew up. He talks loud, drinks too much, and pouts when he doesn’t get his way. Most recently, he came charging back to Whiskey Pines when he found out his father left me, of all people, the better portion of the family fortune. You should’ve seen his face. I wish I’d framed it.
I could say more, but I try to keep this blog PG. Let’s just say Dut and I didn’t part ways with matching friendship bracelets. He’s back in town now, skulking around like a raccoon in a tuxedo, pretending to be interested in the “community.” I see right through him. So does most of the town. But Dut comes from a long line of Steeplepushes who think charm and money can buy forgiveness—or silence.
The problem is, people around here remember. They remember the bad deals, the strong-arming, the debts that were never repaid. And some of us remember the stories that go back farther than most are willing to say aloud. Stories about how tunnels under Amber Mansion weren’t the only ones, and how the Steeplepush legacy may be a lot darker than anyone’s letting on.
It’s not all bad news. For every Steeplepush, there are ten good folks in town keeping things honest. People like May Belle at the antique shop, who never hesitates to say what everyone else is thinking. Or Becky, my friend at the bakery, who gives a free cookie to anyone having a hard day. And there’s Ethan, who’s not just handsome but patient enough to listen when I need to rant about Dut’s latest parade of absurdities.
Why am I sharing all this? Because stories matter. Because names matter. Because history, even the uncomfortable, messy kind, deserves daylight. And because, let’s be honest, nothing says “small-town journalism” quite like a good expose, even if it’s mostly therapy with punctuation.
If you’re new to Whiskey Pines, consider this your warning. If you’re local, you already know. And if you’re a Steeplepush, feel free to send a rebuttal. I’ll be over here, not reading it.
Stay skeptical, Roxie Maxx
Your Whiskey Pines Journal (unofficial) watchdog
