(Miss Chapter 11? Find it Here) Or start with the first chapter!

Chapter 12

The detention center felt colder than usual, or maybe that was just Margaret’s dread seeping into her bones. She sat across from Sade in the same cheerless interview room, but everything had changed since her last visit.

Sade looked worse. The gray pallor had deepened, and her eyes held a haunted quality that made Margaret’s chest ache.

“They’re saying I’m a terrorist. That I sold pesticides to people who wanted to kill thousands.” Sade’s voice was barely above a whisper. “My babies are going to grow up thinking their mother is a monster.”

“You’re not a terrorist. And we’re going to prove it.” Margaret pulled out her legal pad. “But I need you to help me understand something. The IT firm says your badge wasn’t cloned. That it couldn’t be cloned without leaving traces.”

“I told you my badge was never stolen. I keep it in my purse. Always.”

“Not even for a few hours?”

Sade leaned forward, her hands pressed flat on the table. “Ms. Mitchell, I swear. My badge was with me. In my purse. The whole time.”

Margaret studied her client’s face. She saw only truth and growing panic. “Then how did it access that storage room when you were in Wilmington?”

“I don’t know! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell everyone. I wasn’t there. I was looking for that distributor.”

“And Nick Liu gave you the address?”

“Yes! He sent me an email about an urgent delivery of hydroponic seedlings that got delayed. He needed them by Friday morning.” Sade spread her hands helplessly. “When I got there, nothing. The address didn’t exist. I drove around for hours.”

Margaret’s pen stilled. “He sent you an email?”

Sade blinked. “Yes. I thought I told you that.”

Margaret stared at her notes, the pieces refusing to fit together. “Do you still have the email?”

Sade shrugged. “I suppose it’s still on my computer.”

Margaret made rapid notes. “This email—was that normal? Did he often ask you to pick up supplies?”

“Never. That was the first time. I thought it was strange, but he’s the R&D director. He set me up,” Sade whispered. “Nick Liu sent me away, used my badge somehow, and let me take the fall.”

“That’s what I’m going to prove.” Margaret gathered her papers. “The email is evidence. We can show you had no reason to be in Wilmington except that he sent you there.”

“But how did he use my badge if I had it with me?”

Margaret stood, gripping her briefcase. “I don’t know yet. But Nick Liu designed that entire security system. He’d know its weaknesses better than anyone.”

She knocked on the door for the guard. “Hold on, hon. We have something we didn’t have before. Proof that Nick Liu deliberately sent you away from the facility the night of the theft. That’s not a coincidence. It’s premeditation.”

As the guard led Sade away, Margaret pulled out her phone. Katherine answered on the first ring.

“I need everything on an email from Nick Liu to Sade Jalloh on January 8th. He sent her to Wilmington. He deliberately got her out of town the night of the theft.” Margaret walked toward the exit. “Kat, he designed that security system. If the IT firm says badges can’t be cloned, but Sade’s badge accessed that room while she was in Wilmington...”

“Then he found another way in,” Katherine finished. “A backdoor. A vulnerability only he would know about.”

“Exactly. We need to prove it before the feds take over this case.” Margaret pushed through the doors into the cold January air. “Because if we don’t, Sade Jalloh is going to spend the rest of her life in prison for something Nick Liu did.”

Stay tuned for Chapter 13, next week!

Can’t wait? Paid Subscribers receive full access to “The Case of the Poison Powder” right now. If you’d like to get full novella now, you can upgrade your subscription here.

Margaret Mitchell, her white terrier Spotty, and her gang at the local nursing home tackle Baltimore mysteries with pluck, perception, and palaver.

In anticipation of the full release of this novella, I’m releasing one chapter a week to all free subscribers.

I’ve been sitting with that for a few days now, trying to decide if it feels real yet. It doesn’t, quite. But it will on June 20th!

Here’s what’s happening that day:

Beyond Tarnish will be available everywhere. I’ll have purchase links in my next update and across my social platforms. If you’re local to Shelbyville, KY, I’ll be at Sixth and Main Coffeehouse from noon to 5 for a come-and-go release reception. Signed copies, launch day pricing, and I genuinely love talking to readers. Come find me!

If you’ve been thinking about going annual, now is the time! Annual subscriptions are 20% off through August 1. Paid members get an additional monthly update plus the chance to participate in my writing process directly: polls, early access content, and open comments. If you want more than the newsletter, that’s where it lives. The discount is active now at checkout.

Subscribe now

And something I haven’t shared anywhere else yet: starting with the Beyond Tarnish launch, I’m introducing Carson Crime Files Book Club Bundles. I’ll save the full details for June 20th — but I’ll tell you this much: it’s not just books in the box, and one thing in there is something I’ve never offered before.

Ten days. I’ll see you on the other side of it.

Amethyst

(Miss Chapter 10? Find it Here) Or start with the first chapter!

Chapter 11

Back at her own desk, Margaret cringed at the memory of her performance in Katherine’s office. She’d gone to share the police’s updates with the team, and to thank Jake—and Katherine—for their help. Spotty dozed on his cushion beside the file cabinet, making little snuffling sounds in his sleep.

Waggling my fingers? Really? Margaret dropped her head onto her desk with an audible thunk.

Spotty lifted his head from his cushion, giving her the terrier equivalent of “You okay there?“

She’d gone to Katherine’s office to share the police updates professionally. Instead, she’d performed like a dinner theater actress overplaying Scarlett O’Hara.

The coy head dip. The giggle that sounded like she’d swallowed a chipmunk. And the finger waggle. She’d actually waggled her fingers at Jake Mercer like some deranged beauty pageant contestant.

Margaret lifted her head and found Spotty now sitting at attention, his little head tilted in judgment.

“Don’t you dare,” she told him. “I saw you try to fight your own reflection last week. You have no moral high ground here.”

Spotty sneezed his most eloquent opinion.

The worst part wasn’t even the performance itself. It was that she’d genuinely wanted to thank Jake for finding the witness, and instead she’d turned it into a humiliating spectacle.

Jake had been perfectly pleasant, as always, but she’d seen Katherine and Lee exchange that look. They knew.

Or at least suspected.

And worse, her behavior was so transparent that it undermined the very real professional respect she had for Jake’s work. He deserved better than her immature theatrics.

Margaret dropped her head into her hands. She genuinely liked Jake—admired his integrity, his loyalty to Katherine. But whatever feelings she had, she needed to handle them with more dignity. Next time, she’d walk in, deliver her information professionally, and leave without the performance.

If Jake was ever going to see her as more than Katherine’s silly friend, she’d have to start acting like the competent woman she actually was.

A knock at her door made her look up.

“Come in!”

The door opened, and Margaret’s embarrassment turned to dread. Heath Griffith stood in her doorway. His expression was grimly neutral.

“Ms. Mitchell.” His voice was cool, professional. “Do you have a moment?”

Margaret’s stomach dropped. ASAs didn’t make house calls unless the news was bad. “Of course. Please, sit down.”

Heath settled into the client chair. “I wanted to speak with you before filing the amended charges.”

“Amended charges?” Margaret’s voice came out sharper than intended. “Heath, the pesticides were recovered. My client has an alibi. Those terrorists had no connection to Sade whatsoever. What possible justification—”

“We have new evidence.” Heath pulled a folder from his briefcase. “And I’m afraid the situation has become considerably more complicated for your client.”

Margaret felt cold. “What evidence?”

“Nick Liu has an airtight alibi for the night of January 8th.” Heath set the folder on Margaret’s desk. “He was at a conference in Philadelphia. Hotel records, restaurant receipts, witness statements from multiple colleagues. He checked in at 4:00 PM, attended a dinner meeting from 6:00 to 9:30, and didn’t check out until the following morning.”

Margaret’s mind raced. “That doesn’t mean—”

“It means he couldn’t have stolen the pesticides himself. And before you suggest he had an accomplice at AgroSynthetics...” Heath opened the folder, revealing technical documents Margaret couldn’t immediately parse. “The facility’s IT security firm conducted an independent audit of the badge system. Their conclusion is unequivocal: Sade Jalloh’s badge was not cloned.”

“That’s impossible.” Margaret grabbed the documents, scanning them desperately. Technical jargon swam before her eyes. Encryption protocols, RFID signatures, and authentication logs. “Badges can be cloned—”

“These badges can’t. Not without leaving a digital fingerprint that would show up in the system logs.” Heath’s voice was patient but firm. “AgroSynthetics uses military-grade encryption specifically to prevent cloning. The IT firm confirmed that only one badge with Ms. Jalloh’s unique identifier accessed the facility that night. Not a copy. The original.”

Margaret set down the papers, her hands trembling slightly. “My client insists her badge was never out of her possession.”

“I know. I’ve read her statements.” Heath leaned forward slightly. “Margaret, I understand you believe in your client. But the evidence is overwhelming. Her actual, original badge was used to access that storage room. The digital logs don’t lie. And now those stolen pesticides have been recovered in the possession of eco-terrorists planning a mass casualty event.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

Margaret forced herself to breathe. “Sade had nothing to do with those terrorists. You said yourself there’s no connection.”

“No connection we’ve found yet,” Heath corrected. “But the federal government takes a different view. The U.S. Attorney’s office is preparing to take over this case. And when they do, your client won’t be facing simple grand theft anymore.”

“What are you talking about?”

Heath’s expression was almost sympathetic. “Once those pesticides ended up in the hands of terrorists planning to use them as chemical weapons, this became a federal matter. The AUSA is preparing charges for terrorism-related offenses, chemical weapon violations under the Biological Weapons Anti-Terrorism Act, cyber crimes for the security breach—” He ticked them off on his fingers like items on a grocery list. “Ms. Jalloh is looking at twenty-five years minimum. Possibly life, depending on whether the government can prove she knew the ultimate intended use.”

Margaret felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. “This is insane. Sade didn’t sell those pesticides to terrorists. She didn’t steal them at all!”

“Then how did her badge access that storage room?” Heath’s voice remained infuriatingly calm. “I came here as a courtesy, attorney to attorney, to give you advance notice. The amended charges will be filed tomorrow morning. After that, it’s out of my hands. The feds will take over, and they’re not known for their flexibility on terrorism cases.”

Margaret followed Health to the door, her mind spinning through possibilities, grasping at straws. “What about the IT firm? Could they have been wrong about the cloning?”

“They’re the best in the region. And they have no reason to lie.” Heath paused at the doorway, turning back. “Margaret, you’re a good attorney. But sometimes the best thing we can do for our clients is help them face reality.” His voice gentled. “The AUSA is going to bury her under federal charges. It will take years for investigators to trace back the full chain of how those pesticides reached the terrorists. Your client could be in her fifties before she sees her children again. Unless...”

“Unless she takes a plea.” Margaret’s voice was hollow.

“If she cooperates now—tells us everything about how she stole the pesticides, who she sold them to, any contacts she had with the terrorist cell—the AUSA might be willing to work with her. Reduced charges. Maybe fifteen years instead of life. She’d still see her children grow up. Eventually.”

Margaret felt sick. “You want her to confess to something she didn’t do.”

“I want her to face reality before it destroys what’s left of her life.” Heath’s expression was impossible to read. “Think about it. Talk to your client. Make sure she understands what she’s facing.”

Heath walked out, leaving Margaret standing in her doorway staring at empty space.

Spotty whined from his cushion, sensing her distress. Margaret closed the door slowly and leaned against it, her mind reeling.

Nick Liu had an alibi. The badge couldn’t be cloned. Sade insisted it was never out of her possession. And now federal terrorism charges that would destroy whatever remained of Sade’s life.

Margaret walked back to her desk on unsteady legs and sank into her chair. The construction worker’s statement lay before her. Still valuable, still proving Sade was in Wilmington that night. But suddenly it felt like a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound.

She picked up her phone and called Katherine. Her hand was shaking.

“Kat.” Her voice cracked. “I need you. Now. Everything just fell apart.”

Stay tuned for Chapter 12, next week!

Can’t wait? Paid Subscribers receive full access to “The Case of the Poison Powder” right now. If you’d like to get full novella now, you can upgrade your subscription here.

Margaret Mitchell, her white terrier Spotty, and her gang at the local nursing home tackle Baltimore mysteries with pluck, perception, and palaver.

In anticipation of the full release of this novella, I’m releasing one chapter a week to all free subscribers.

(Miss Chapter 9? Find it Here) Or start with the first chapter!

Chapter 10

Margaret walked into the Baltimore Police Department with a lightness in her step she hadn’t felt in days. The construction worker’s statement sat in her briefcase alongside news about the warehouse raid. Sade Jalloh would be going home to her babies. Finally.

Detective Camilla Alvarez met her in the lobby, looking considerably more exhausted than Margaret felt energized. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her coffee cup had clearly been refilled multiple times.

“Ms. Mitchell.” She gestured toward an interview room. “Thanks for coming in.”

They settled into chairs across a scarred metal table. Alvarez opened a folder thick with reports and photographs—the warehouse, stacked boxes, and there in one photo, the distinctive blue plastic bucket.

“The chlorpyrifos from AgroSynthetics,” Alvarez confirmed. “Twenty-five kilograms, exactly what was reported stolen. We’ve got four suspects in custody. The ringleader is Marcus Warren, history of environmental activism, some protest arrests, but nothing violent until now. The others are college-age kids, true believers.”

“Environmental activism,” Margaret repeated. “So this was ideologically motivated.”

“Looks that way. They had maps of Baltimore, D.C., Annapolis. Equipment consistent with planning a mass poisoning event.” Alvarez’s expression was grim. “If we hadn’t stumbled onto them, this could have been catastrophic.”

“But they’re in custody now. And my client had nothing to do with this.”

“That’s where things get complicated.” Alvarez pulled out another file. “We’ve been looking into how these terrorists acquired the pesticide. They had to have inside help, someone who could bypass security.”

“Yes, exactly!” Margaret leaned forward. “Someone framed Sade.”

“It’s possible. We’ve identified a person of interest.” Alvarez opened the new file. “Nick Liu, the R&D director at AgroSynthetics.”

Margaret’s breath caught. “What did you find?”

“Liu designed their security system. He has access to the restricted storage area. And he has a history of environmental activism—arrested twice in his twenties for protest-related incidents. Both about ten years ago. Misdemeanors, no jail time.”

Margaret’s mind raced. “So he has the means, the access, and the ideological motivation.”

“Had the motivation,” Alvarez corrected carefully. “Those arrests were over a decade ago. He’s been a model employee since.”

“People don’t just stop believing in causes, Detective. They just get smarter about pursuing them.” Margaret made rapid notes. “Have you questioned him?”

“Not yet. We only made the connection this morning.” Alvarez closed the file. “But in anycase, this is good news for your client.”

Margaret walked out into the cold January afternoon, excited to update Katherine and her team about this as soon as she could get to their office. With luck, she’d be just in time to get a cup of Jake’s famous coffee.

Margaret’s car made a sound like a dying animal when she turned the key. A grinding whir, a click, then nothing.

“No. No, no, no.” She tried again. The same pathetic whir-click-nothing.

Spotty, who’d been dozing in the passenger seat, opened one eye with the expression of someone deeply inconvenienced by mechanical failure.

“Don’t look at me like that. I had it serviced three months ago.” Margaret tried the key again. Nothing. Not even the clicking now. Just dead silence.

She popped the hood and climbed out, staring at the engine with the confidence of someone who knew exactly three things about cars: where to put gas, where to add windshield wiper fluid, and that engines should not smoke. This one wasn’t smoking, which seemed positive. Beyond that, she was lost.

Spotty had somehow escaped the car and was now investigating an interesting smell near the rear tire.

“Spotty, get back here.”

He ignored her, as was his custom when something smelled more interesting than obedience.

“Well, well, well. Car trouble, Ms. Mitchell?”

Margaret’s soul left her body. That voice. That greasy, self-satisfied voice that made her want to shower.

She turned slowly. Marty Slye stood three parking spaces away, leaning against his own car with his arms crossed and that insufferable smirk.

“Just a dead battery,” Margaret said with more confidence than she felt. “Nothing serious.”

“Shame. And here I thought you’d be celebrating.” He pushed off from his car and waddled closer. “Big break in the Jalloh case, from what I hear. Eco-terrorists, warehouse raids, bioweapon charges.” He whistled. “This case just keeps getting bigger. Better. More newsworthy.”

Margaret felt her jaw tighten. “I can’t discuss an ongoing case with you, Marty.”

“Oh, I’m not asking for discussion. I’m just appreciating the publicity. Already got three interview requests today. They want ‘the PI who helped crack the case.’” He said it with such pride Margaret wanted to gag.

“You provided evidence of an affair. That’s hardly cracking anything.”

“But it established motive! The foundation of the prosecution’s case!” He was grinning now, that wide, self-serving grin. “And now with the terrorism angle, this is going national. National, Ms. Mitchell. My face could be on CNN.”

“God help CNN,” Margaret muttered.

Spotty had finished his investigation and was now sniffing Marty’s shoes with the intensity of a bomb detection dog. His little nose wrinkled.

“Want me to give you a jump?”

Margaret would rather walk to Katherine’s office. In heels. Through snow. “I’ll call AAA, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.”

Spotty chose that moment to lift his leg on Marty’s front tire.

Margaret didn’t stop him.

“Hey!” Marty jumped back. “Your dog just—”

“I didn’t see anything,” Margaret said, scooping up Spotty. “Must be a service issue with your eyes. Maybe get that checked.”

She pulled out her phone and called AAA, turning her back on Marty. Behind her, she heard him muttering about “uncontrolled animals” and “unprofessional conduct,” but eventually his car door slammed and he pulled away.

“Good boy,” Margaret whispered to Spotty. “That tire had it coming.”

Twenty minutes later, a AAA technician confirmed her battery was dead and gave her a jump. Margaret thanked him, tipped him, and finally pulled out of the police station parking lot.

Her victorious mood had been thoroughly punctured by Marty Slye’s existence, but Spotty’s small act of vengeance had restored some balance to the universe.

She’d take it.

Stay tuned for Chapter 11, next week!

Can’t wait? Paid Subscribers receive full access to “The Case of the Poison Powder” right now. If you’d like to get full novella now, you can upgrade your subscription here.

Margaret Mitchell, her white terrier Spotty, and her gang at the local nursing home tackle Baltimore mysteries with pluck, perception, and palaver.

In anticipation of the full release of this novella, I’m releasing one chapter a week to all free subscribers.

(Miss Chapter 8? Find it Here) Or start with the first chapter!

Chapter 9

The AgroSynthetics Research and Development wing hummed with a different energy than the main facility. Where the storage areas were all concrete and industrial efficiency, R&D felt almost academic. More laboratory than warehouse.

A security officer escorted Margaret through a greenhouse corridor where experimental plants thrived under grow lights, their leaves impossibly green.

“Mr. Liu’s office is at the end,” the officer said, gesturing toward a glass-walled space visible through the foliage.

Nick Liu’s office was a study in contradictions. Everything was precisely organized. Pens lined up at right angles, files color-coded, not a paper out of place. But the walls were a different story. Between the expected professional certifications and a diploma from MIT, Margaret noticed an old concert poster for a benefit show: “Earth First! Rally - 1999.” Next to it hung a faded photograph of protesters chaining themselves to logging equipment, and unless she was mistaken, that was a much younger, longer-haired version of Nick Liu in the foreground, grinning fiercely at the camera. An EPA Environmental Excellence Award from 2007 hung beside these relics. The plants visible through his window were labeled with careful scientific notation, but someone had also stuck a small handwritten sign among them: “Talk to your plants! They’re listening!”

Nick looked up from his computer as Margaret entered, his expression shifting from distracted to guarded in half a second. He was younger than she’d expected—early forties, maybe—with tired eyes and the pallor of someone who spent too much time under fluorescent lights.

“Ms. Mitchell.” He stood, extending a hand across the desk. His grip was firm, professional, but his eyes kept darting toward the door like he was calculating escape routes. “Chris Webb mentioned you were looking for me.”

Margaret shook his hand, noting the nervous energy. Up close, she could see a small tattoo peeking out from under his shirtsleeve, some kind of leaf or branch. The kind of thing you got at twenty and covered up at forty.

“I appreciate your willingness to meet with me, Mr. Liu.” Margaret settled into the chair across from his desk.

Nick adjusted a pen on his desk, aligning it precisely with the edge of a notepad. “I’ve been trying to reach you for several days. You’ve been difficult to find.”

“I keep irregular hours. It’s the nature of research work.” His voice remained smooth, but something flickered behind his eyes—annoyance, maybe, or wariness. “Late nights in the lab, early mornings reviewing data. My schedule doesn’t conform to traditional office hours.”

Margaret made a note. “Mr. Liu, I’m representing Sade Jalloh. I understand you’re one of only three people with access to the storage room where the theft occurred.”

“That’s correct.” He leaned back in his chair. “Myself, Chris Webb, and Ms. Jalloh. Standard protocol for restricted storage areas.”

“Can you tell me about the security system? You designed it, I understand.”

“Three years ago, yes. State-of-the-art RFID badge technology, integrated camera systems, digital logging.” Pride crept into his voice despite his careful neutrality. “It’s one of the most secure facilities of its kind in the region.”

“And yet someone managed to bypass the cameras on January 8th while leaving the badge logs intact.” Margaret kept her eyes on his face. “That suggests someone with intimate knowledge of the system.”

Nick’s expression didn’t change. “Security systems are only as strong as their weakest point. Usually that’s human error.”

“Is that what you think happened? Human error?”

“I think the police have made an arrest based on digital evidence.” He reached for a worn stress ball on his desk and squeezed it once. “The badge logs don’t lie, Ms. Mitchell.”

“Badges can be cloned.”

“Theoretically.” The stress ball squeezed again. “But it requires proximity to the original badge, specialized equipment, and technical knowledge. Not exactly something the average person can accomplish.”

Margaret leaned forward slightly. “But someone with your expertise could do it.”

The room went very quiet. Through the glass walls, Margaret could see researchers moving among the experimental plants, oblivious to the tension in the director’s office. The hum of lab equipment seemed suddenly louder.

“Are you accusing me of something, Ms. Mitchell?” Nick’s voice had cooled considerably.

“I’m trying to understand who had the means and opportunity to commit this theft.” Margaret kept her tone even, reasonable. “You designed the security system. You had access to the storage room. You work odd hours, so your presence in the building late at night wouldn’t raise questions.”

“I also have no motive.” Nick set down the stress ball with deliberate precision. “I’m the director of Research and Development. I make a comfortable salary. I have no financial troubles, no criminal record, no reason whatsoever to steal pesticides.”

“Where were you on the night of January 8th?”

His jaw tightened. “I don’t have to answer that.”

“You don’t,” Margaret agreed. “But your refusal is noted. And it will look interesting to a jury if this case goes to trial.”

“Then I suppose we’ll see each other in court.” Nick stood. “Is there anything else, Ms. Mitchell?”

Margaret didn’t stand. “Actually, yes. I’d like to understand something. AgroSynthetics conducted a thorough inventory after the theft. Only chlorpyrifos was taken—twenty-five kilograms worth approximately eighteen hundred dollars.” She paused, watching his reaction. “But you store much more valuable materials in that facility, don’t you?”

Something shifted in his expression—a flicker of surprise, quickly masked. “We store various compounds.”

“Such as?”

He was quiet for a moment, clearly weighing how much to reveal. “Experimental formulas. Proprietary compounds we’re developing for commercial release. Some of them represent years of research and development.”

“And their value?”

“Anywhere from thousands to hundreds of thousands of dollars per kilogram, depending on the compound.” He sat back down slowly, curiosity apparently overcoming his desire to end the meeting. “Why do you ask?”

“Because it doesn’t make sense.” Margaret leaned back in her chair, meeting his eyes directly. “If someone with intimate knowledge of this facility, someone who knew what was stored where and what it was worth, was going to steal something, why would they take the least valuable option?”

Nick was quiet, his fingers finding the stress ball again. Squeeze, release. Squeeze, release.

“Unless,” Margaret continued, “the thief didn’t have that knowledge. Unless they were specifically targeting chlorpyrifos for a reason that had nothing to do with monetary value.”

“Or,” Nick said slowly, “unless the thief was exactly who the evidence suggests. Someone who panicked, who acted emotionally rather than rationally, who grabbed what was accessible without thinking through the consequences.”

“You’re suggesting Sade Jalloh, a woman with an MBA who’s worked here for fifteen years, suddenly became stupid?”

“I’m suggesting that people under stress make poor decisions.” He set down the stress ball and folded his hands on his desk. “Ms. Mitchell, I understand you’re doing your job. But the evidence is what it is. Ms. Jalloh’s badge was used. The logs are clear. And while I sympathize with her situation, I can’t help you build a defense based on speculation.”

Margaret studied him. He was calm, professional, carefully neutral. But there was something underneath. The way his eyes kept darting to the door. Chris Webb had been right. Nick Liu was jumpy.

“What’s in those experimental compounds, Mr. Liu? The valuable ones?”

His eyebrows rose. “That’s proprietary information.”

“Humor me. Generally speaking.”

He sighed, as if dealing with a particularly persistent child. “Advanced pesticide formulas. Compounds that are more effective, more targeted, less environmentally harmful than current options. Some are designed for specific crops or pests. Others are broad-spectrum applications.” He gestured toward the greenhouse visible through his office window. “We test them on various plant species, document their efficacy, refine the formulas. It’s years of work before anything reaches market.”

“And if someone stole those formulas—”

“They’d have something worth selling to competitors. Yes.” Nick’s mouth twisted. “Which is why we have such stringent security protocols. Why only three people have access to restricted storage. Why we monitor everything so carefully.”

“And yet,” Margaret said softly, “someone still got in.”

Nick’s fingers tightened on his desk. “Yes. Someone with Ms. Jalloh’s badge.”

Margaret stood, gathering her briefcase. She’d pushed as far as she could for now. “One more question, Mr. Liu. If you were going to steal from this facility, hypothetically, what would you take?”

He looked at her for a long moment. “The experimental compounds. Without question. Specifically, our new neonicotinoid alternative. We’ve invested five years and two million dollars in development. A competitor would pay handsomely for that formula.”

“And how much of that compound do you currently have in storage?”

“Approximately two kilograms.” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because,” Margaret said, moving toward the door, “that’s what a smart thief would take. Not bulk chlorpyrifos any farmer can buy with the right license. Which suggests to me that whoever committed this theft either wasn’t smart, or wasn’t interested in money.”

She paused at the door, hand on the handle. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Liu. I’m sure we’ll be speaking again soon.”

“Ms. Mitchell.” His voice stopped her. She turned back. “For what it’s worth, I hope your client is innocent. I’ve known Sade for years. She’s always been reliable, professional. It would be ... disappointing if she threw all that away.”

“She didn’t throw anything away,” Margaret said firmly. “Someone took it from her. And I’m going to prove it.”

She walked out of his office, through the greenhouse with its thriving experimental plants, back through the bustling research lab. The security officer appeared to escort her out, and she followed him through the keycard-locked doors, down the hallway, back to the bright atrium.

Only when she reached her car did she pull out her phone. Still nothing from Katherine. She tried calling again.

This time, Katherine answered on the first ring. “Mags—”

“I just talked to Nick Liu,” Margaret said, sliding into her car. “Kat, something’s not right. He refused to provide an alibi for January 8th. And he confirmed what I suspected—there are compounds in that facility worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. But the thief took—”

“Margaret!” Katherine’s voice cut through, sharp and urgent. “We found the pesticides.”

Margaret’s hand froze on her keys. “What?”

“We just found all twenty-five kilograms of chlorpyrifos. About an hour ago.”

“Where?” Margaret’s heart was pounding now, her mind racing ahead to what this meant.

“In a warehouse on the east side. We were working the Ames case—it’s complicated, I’ll explain later. But Margaret, this wasn’t just theft for profit. This was...” Katherine paused. “The police think it was a bioterrorism plot. Maps of Baltimore, D.C., and Annapolis. Equipment for mass poisoning.”

Margaret sat in stunned silence, her grip tightening on the phone. “Then Sade—”

“I don’t know yet.” Katherine’s voice was careful, professional. “We need to find out if there’s any connection between the people they arrested and your client. But this just got a lot bigger than a simple theft case.”

“Bioterrorism,” Margaret whispered. “Dear God.”

“FBI and Homeland Security are already involved. I’ll get you more information as soon as I have it.” Katherine paused. “Margaret, you need to understand something. Once federal agencies get involved in a bioterrorism case, they don’t let go. Even if Sade had nothing to do with the end use, the U.S. Attorney’s office will want someone to prosecute for the supply chain. And right now, all the digital evidence points to her badge accessing that storage room.”

Margaret’s stomach clenched. “You’re saying even if we prove she was in Wilmington—”

“I’m saying the feds play a different game. Prove innocence or negotiate a deal. There’s no middle ground.”

Stay tuned for Chapter 10, next week!

Can’t wait? Paid Subscribers receive full access to “The Case of the Poison Powder” right now. If you’d like to get full novella now, you can upgrade your subscription here.

Margaret Mitchell, her white terrier Spotty, and her gang at the local nursing home tackle Baltimore mysteries with pluck, perception, and palaver.

In anticipation of the full release of this novella, I’m releasing one chapter a week to all free subscribers.

(Miss Chapter 7? Find it Here) Or start with the first chapter!

Chapter 8

Margaret dialed Olu Jalloh’s number from her office, Spotty dozing in his cushion beside the file cabinet. While the phone rang, she did the thing she always did during difficult calls: reorganized the pens on her desk by color. Blue, black, red, green. Then by size. Then back to color.

Katherine called it her “nervous tic.”

Margaret called it “staying focused.”

The phone rang three times before a tired male voice answered.

“Mr. Jalloh, this is Margaret Mitchell, your wife’s attorney. I need to ask you a few questions.”

She’d arranged the pens by manufacturer now. This was a bad sign.

A heavy sigh. “Yeah, okay. The kids are with my mother-in-law, so I’ve got time.”

“Where were you on the night of January 8th?”

“Home. Bedtime routine with the kids—bath, books, prayers. Then I watched the Ravens playoff game. They lost to the Steelers.” His voice held bitter exhaustion. “Seemed fitting.”

“Can anyone corroborate that?”

“The kids were here, but they’re three and five. I called my sister in Philadelphia around 9:30 PM, talked for about twenty minutes. You can check the phone records.”

Margaret made notes. No adult alibi. “Have you ever met or spoken with Nick Liu? He’s the R&D director at AgroSynthetics.”

“Never heard of him. Sade didn’t talk much about work beyond her immediate coworkers.”

“Has anyone contacted you about purchasing pesticides? Large quantities of chlorpyrifos?”

“What? No. Why would they?” He sounded genuinely confused. “Ms. Mitchell, I teach high school history. I don’t know anything about chemicals.”

“I had to ask.” Margaret tapped her pen against her pad. “For what it’s worth, Mr. Jalloh, I believe your wife is innocent.”

A long pause. “I hope you’re right. For the kids’ sake.” His voice dropped. “Look, I’m a lot of things. A cheater, a bad husband. But I need Sade’s income. This house, daycare—I can’t afford any of it without her salary. If she goes to prison, we lose everything.”

“I understand. Thank you for your time.”

Margaret ended the call and stared at her notes. Olu had motive for divorce, but no apparent means to pull off the theft. And more importantly, he had no apparent connection to Nick Liu.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she’d skipped lunch again. She checked her watch. Three-thirty. Too late for lunch, too early for dinner. The filing deadline for the Rodriguez case wasn’t until five, and she was already prepared.

“Come on, Spotty. Coffee break.”

The terrier’s ears perked up. Field trip meant car ride, and car ride meant potential for dropped food items. This was Spotty’s favorite equation.

Ten minutes later, Margaret pushed open the door to Sweet Thing Bakery, the bell jingling cheerfully. The place smelled like cinnamon and butter. Spotty’s nose went into overdrive.

“Margaret!” Donna Harris looked up from behind the counter, flour dusting her dark hands and forearms. She’d been running this bakery for twenty years, and Margaret had been a customer for at least fifteen of them. “And Spotty! Come here, handsome.”

Spotty pulled Margaret across the black-and-white checkered floor, his little paws clicking with urgency. Donna came around the counter to crouch down, letting him lick her fingers enthusiastically.

“He remembers me,” Donna said with satisfaction.

“He remembers everyone who’s ever given him food,” Margaret laughed. “It’s his superpower.”

“Smart dog.” Donna straightened, wiping her hands on her apron—pink gingham today, with embroidered cupcakes marching across the front. “What can I get you? And don’t say black coffee. You need actual sustenance.”

Margaret surveyed the pastry case. Apple turnovers, still warm. Chocolate croissants. Lemon bars that made her teeth hurt just looking at them. And there, on the second shelf, her weakness: blueberry scones with that perfect crispy-crumbly texture.

“Blueberry scone,” she admitted. “And yes, black coffee.”

“Two scones,” Donna corrected, already reaching into the case. “You’re too thin.”

Margaret didn’t argue. She settled at the wobbly table by the window, and Spotty arranged himself at her feet in perfect crumb-catching position. The first bite of scone was buttery perfection.

Her phone rang. Chris Webb from AgroSynthetics.

“Mr. Webb?”

“Ms. Mitchell.” His voice came through slightly breathless. “I know you were looking for Nick Liu. He’s here. In the office. Right now.”

Margaret was already standing, scone abandoned. “I’m on my way.”

She left money on the table, grabbed Spotty, and hurried to her car. Finally—a chance to question Nick Liu face-to-face.

She was about to dial Katherine’s number when “Chris Webb” flashed on the screen. The security manager from AgroSynthetics.

“Mr. Webb, hello.”

“Ms. Mitchell.” His voice came through slightly breathless, like he’d been hurrying. She heard the crunch of sunflower seeds in the background. “I know you were looking for Nick Liu. He’s here. In the office. Right now.”

Margaret’s pulse quickened. “He is?”

“Just showed up about fifteen minutes ago. Walked in like nothing was wrong, went straight to his office in R&D.” Another crunch. “Thought you’d want to know.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Webb.” Margaret was already walking to her car. “I’m about twenty minutes away. Can you—”

“I’ll keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t leave before you get here. He seems... off. Jumpy. Like he’s looking over his shoulder.”

“Just keep your distance, please. Don’t approach him or let him know I’m coming.” Margaret cranked the engine and pulled away from the curb. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

She ended the call and immediately hit Katherine’s number. It rang once, twice, three times before going to voicemail.

“Kat, it’s me. Nick Liu just showed up at AgroSynthetics. I’m heading there now. Chris Webb is keeping an eye on him. Call me back as soon as you get this.”

Margaret tossed her phone onto the passenger seat and pressed the accelerator. Her mind raced faster than the car. Nick Liu. Finally. The elusive R&D director who’d been conspicuously absent, who had the technical expertise to bypass security cameras, who had access to that storage room.

Why would he come back? If he’d stolen the pesticides and framed Sade, why risk returning to the facility?

Unless he needed something. Unless there was unfinished business.

Or unless he had nothing to hide.

Stay tuned for Chapter 9, next week!

Can’t wait? Paid Subscribers receive full access to “The Case of the Poison Powder” right now. If you’d like to get full novella now, you can upgrade your subscription here.

Margaret Mitchell, her white terrier Spotty, and her gang at the local nursing home tackle Baltimore mysteries with pluck, perception, and palaver.

In anticipation of the full release of this novella, I’m releasing one chapter a week to all free subscribers.

I’m a little late with this week’s chapter because…drumroll, please! I got my third novel Beyond Tarnish submitted to my editor this week. Keep watch for updates coming soon. In the meantime, enjoy The Case of the Poison Powder, Chapter 7!

The Case of the Poison Powder

(Miss Chapter 6? Find it Here) Or start with the first chapter!

Chapter 7

The morning shift at Shady Glenn had a different energy. The whole place felt more alive at this hour, residents awake and alert rather than drowsy from dinner. Breakfast trays clattered in distant rooms. Someone’s television played the local news too loudly.

“Margaret!” Cheryl’s motorized chair whirred around the corner at her usual breakneck speed. The woman had probably been a terror on the roads before age took her license.

Spotty skittered across the linoleum. Cheryl scooped him into her lap with surprising agility for someone in her eighties.

“You’re here early.” Cheryl’s gray eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Must be important.”

“I need to talk to Dad about a case.” Margaret leaned against the wall, grateful for the support after a night of restless sleep. Jake Mercer’s quiet “Maggie” had haunted her dreams. “Where is everyone?”

“Common room. Linda’s holding court.” Cheryl rolled her eyes with affection. “She’s convinced the kitchen staff is trying to poison us with undercooked bacon.”

Margaret smiled. Some things never changed. She followed Cheryl down the hallway, Spotty now riding in the motorized chair like a furry king surveying his domain.

The common room was bathed in morning light. Her father sat by the window in his wheelchair, hands folded in his lap.

“Morning, Dad.” Margaret pulled a chair close to him. “I need your legal brain.”

“The Jalloh case.”

“The pesticide woman! We’ve been following the story on the news.” Linda wheeled herself closer. “Have you proven her innocence yet?”

“Working on it, Miss Linda.” Margaret settled into the chair. “Though it’s more complicated than I expected.”

Tony shuffled over in his backward propulsion style, beaming. “Marget! Did you find the construction worker?”

She blinked. Sometimes Tony’s memory was sharper than anyone expected. “I did, actually. Jake Mercer tracked him down in Wilmington.”

“Katherine’s investigator,” George said. “Good man. Army Ranger background?”

“Retired, yes.” Margaret tried not to think about how Jake’s shoulders filled out his jacket, or the way his voice deepened when he said her nickname. Professional, Margaret. “He got a signed statement. The construction supervisor remembers Sade, even tried to get her phone number.”

Linda snorted. “That’ll teach the prosecution to ignore a woman’s word.”

Margaret crossed her arms. “ASA Griffith isn’t backing down. He believes he has a solid case.”

“Heath Griffith.” George nodded slowly. “Sharp prosecutor. Doesn’t pursue cases he can’t win. What’s bothering you?”

“My client’s badge was used twice that night. Once at the main entrance at 11:35 PM, once at the storage room at 11:47 PM. Twelve minutes apart. Which tracks with walking from the entrance to the storage area,” Margaret said. “But the security cameras were bypassed. No footage from 11:30 PM to 1:00 AM.”

“Convenient timing.” George steepled his fingers. “The cameras go down right before the badge is used. That’s not coincidence. That’s coordination.”

Margaret gathered her thoughts, feeling the familiar rhythm of working through a case with her father. They’d been doing this since she was old enough to understand what he did for a living. “Here’s something else that doesn’t make sense. AgroSynthetics did a thorough inventory after the theft. Nothing of real value is missing. No experimental compounds, no proprietary formulas, and there were no files in the room to photograph. The only thing taken was bulk chlorpyrifos worth about eighteen hundred dollars.”

Linda snorted. “Well, that’s just stupid. If you’re going to steal from a chemical company, at least steal something valuable.”

“Exactly!” Margaret felt a spark of frustration. “Sade has worked there for fifteen years. She knows exactly what’s stored in that facility and what it’s worth. If she was going to commit grand larceny, she’d steal something worth the prison time.”

Cheryl had wheeled closer, listening intently. Even Tony had stopped his usual fidgeting, caught up in the puzzle.

“So either,” George said slowly, “someone didn’t know what they were stealing—”

“Or someone specifically wanted chlorpyrifos,” Margaret finished. “But why? It’s not hard to get if you have proper licensing.”

“Unless you don’t have licensing,” Tony observed. His gap-toothed grin widened. “Then you gotta steal it.”

The room fell silent. Margaret sat back, the morning sun warm on her shoulders.

“Tony, you brilliant man.” She pulled out her phone, then remembered where she was and put it away. “Who would need twenty-five kilograms of restricted pesticide but couldn’t purchase it legally?”

“Someone without certification,” George said. “Agricultural applicators need licensing. Farmers need permits for large quantities.”

“Or someone who needed to hide the purchase,” Linda added darkly. “If you’re doing something illegal with pesticides, you can’t exactly walk into a farm supply store and buy them with a credit card.”

Margaret’s mind raced. “Sade said only three people had access to that storage room. Herself, Chris Webb the security manager, and Nick Liu from Research and Development.”

“Have you talked to all three?” George asked.

“Chris Webb has an alibi—home by 5:30 PM, ordered Chinese food. Police verified it. Nick Liu wasn’t at work when I visited, but that’s apparently normal for him.”

“And your client?” Cheryl leaned forward.

“Says she was in Wilmington, and now we have a witness who corroborates that.” Margaret paused.

“What about the husband?” Linda pressed. “You can’t just dismiss him because he teaches history.”

“I’m not dismissing him. But I need to establish means, motive, and opportunity.” Margaret counted off on her fingers. “Motive—yes, he benefits from Sade’s conviction because he can get everything in the divorce. Opportunity—possibly, if he could get Sade’s badge. But means? I haven’t found anything connecting him to the technical knowledge required to access the security cameras.”

“Unless Nick Liu is his connection,” George said quietly.

“You think they’re working together?” Margaret felt pieces shifting in her mind, trying to find where they fit. “Olu provides information about Sade’s schedule, access to her badge. Nick provides technical expertise, facility access.”

“It’s a theory.” George spread his hands. “Olu gets his wife out of the way, Nick gets... what? Money? A cut of whatever they’re selling the chlorpyrifos for?”

“Or Nick has his own reasons for needing restricted pesticides,” Cheryl added. “And Olu just provides the convenient scapegoat.”

Margaret made notes, her mind racing through possibilities. “Right now, my job is to defend Sade. And to do that, I need to figure out who actually took those pesticides.”

Spotty chose that moment to launch himself from Cheryl’s lap into Margaret’s, demanding attention with insistent paws. She laughed, scratching behind his ears. The terrier had impeccable timing.

“You’ll figure it out,” Tony said suddenly, his gap-toothed grin wide and certain. “You always do, Marget. Just like your dad used to.”

Margaret stood, settling Spotty in her arms. “Thank you. For helping me think through this.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” Cheryl declared. “Well, that and complaining about the food.”

“And racing wheelchairs,” Tony added.

“And solving crimes,” Linda said with satisfaction. “Don’t forget solving crimes.”

“Speaking of which,” Cheryl announced, “we’ve decided to form a detective agency. The Shady Glenn Sleuths.”

Margaret laughed. “Have you now?”

“Tony’s in charge of surveillance because he’s always awake at 3 AM anyway,” Cheryl continued. “Linda handles interrogations—she’s terrifying. And I’m the muscle.” She flexed a surprisingly toned arm. “Seventy years of arm wrestling my brothers.”

“What about Dad?” Margaret asked.

George smiled. “Legal counsel, obviously. Every good detective agency needs one.”

“And what cases are the Shady Glenn Sleuths working on?”

“Well,” Linda said, adjusting her pearls significantly, “someone’s been stealing pudding cups from the kitchen. We have three suspects and a whiteboard.”

“A whiteboard?”

“Tony stole it from the activities room. We’re very professional.”

Margaret felt warmth spread through her chest. “I have no doubt. Keep me updated on the pudding cup caper?”

“Oh, we’ll crack it,” Cheryl said with absolute confidence. “And then we’re moving on to the mystery of why the physical therapy room always smells like burnt popcorn.”

Margaret made her rounds saying goodbye—a pat on Linda’s shoulder, a gentle squeeze of Cheryl’s hand, a promise to Tony that she’d tell him all about it when the case was over.

She didn’t visit her mother. Candace would be resting after breakfast, and Margaret had work to do. Some mornings, she just couldn’t pretend to be Scarlett O’Hara.

Outside, the January air bit cold and clean. Margaret settled Spotty in the backseat of her car and pulled out her phone to call Katherine.

“Tell me you have good news,” Katherine answered.

“I have theories.” Margaret started the engine, letting it warm up. “And a request. I need everything you can find on Nick Liu. Financial records, employment history, any criminal record. And I need phone logs for both Nick Liu and Olu Jalloh—see if there’s any communication between them.”

“Looking for a connection.”

“Exactly. If they’re working together, there has to be evidence.” Margaret pulled out of the parking lot, Shady Glenn growing smaller in her rearview mirror.

“I’ll put Jake on finding Nick Liu. He should be our priority,” Katherine said.

There it was again. Jake’s name, and Margaret’s treacherous heart doing that skip-and-flutter thing. She cleared her throat. “That would be good. Thank you.” She ended the call, her cheeks still burning, and drove through Baltimore’s morning traffic toward her office.

Stay tuned for Chapter 8, next week!

And watch for more info about Book 3 Launch Party Coming SOON

Can’t wait? Paid Subscribers receive full access to “The Case of the Poison Powder” right now. If you’d like to get full novella now, you can upgrade your subscription here.

Margaret Mitchell, her white terrier Spotty, and her gang at the local nursing home tackle Baltimore mysteries with pluck, perception, and palaver.

In anticipation of the full release of this novella, I’m releasing one chapter a week to all free subscribers.

(Miss Chapter 5? Find it Here) Or start with the first chapter!

Chapter 6

Back at her office, Margaret settled in behind her desk. She believed Sade’s story. But she had to concede ASA Griffith’s point. Her alibi was thin. A light rap on the door drew her attention. “Come in.”

The door swung open, and Margaret’s heart skipped a beat. A tall, ruggedly handsome man smiled at her. Margaret swallowed hard. “Hi, Jake.”

The private detective stepped into the office as Spotty launched himself from his cushion beside the file cabinet, tail wagging furiously. Jake crouched down, scratching behind the terrier’s ears.

“Hey there, buddy.” Jake straightened, producing a folder from inside his jacket. “Got something for you, Maggie.”

The nickname. Jake was the only soul on earth who called her that. Not even Katherine dared. But coming from him, in his quiet, steady voice, it felt like being wrapped in a favorite sweater. She’d correct anyone else without hesitation, but from Jake? She never wanted him to stop.

Margaret gestured to the chair across from her desk, willing her pulse to settle back to its normal rhythm. Professional, Margaret. Focus on the case. Her hand knocked against her coffee mug, thankfully empty, sending it rolling toward the edge of the desk. She caught it with a graceless lunge that probably looked like a seal flopping after a fish.

“Smooth,” she muttered to herself.

Jake’s lips twitched. “You okay there?”

“Fine! Totally fine. Just—” She set the mug down carefully, as if it were a live grenade. “Coffee. Would you like coffee? I just made a fresh pot. Well, not ‘just’ just, maybe twenty minutes ago, but it’s still hot. Probably. Unless the heating plate failed, which it does sometimes, but I can check—”

She was standing now, though she didn’t remember standing. Her body had apparently decided to take independent action.

“—or water! I have water. Sparkling and non-sparkling. Also juice boxes, but those are technically for Spotty’s vet visits, so they’re apple-flavored and probably weird for adults, not that you’re weird, obviously you’re not weird, you’re very—”

She physically covered her mouth with one hand.

Stop talking, Margaret Louise Mitchell. Your mouth has declared war on your dignity and dignity is losing.

“I’m good, thanks.” Jake’s expression held something that might have been affection. Or pity. Margaret couldn’t tell which was worse.

He settled into a chair and slid the folder across her desk. “Your witness.”

Margaret flipped it open, her eyes scanning the typed statement. “Ben Williams. Construction supervisor.” She looked up. “Jake, you found him?”

“Twelve possibles on the crew that night. Narrowed it down. He remembers your client. Even got her phone number.”

“He what?” Margaret couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. “Oh, that’s perfect. ASA Griffith can’t argue with that kind of corroboration.” She read through the statement again, more slowly this time, her attorney brain cataloging each detail. The date matched. The time frame aligned. Williams’ description of Sade was spot-on, right down to the company logo on her jacket.

“This is solid work, h—” Margaret choked mid-word, her face flushing hot. She grabbed for her water glass and took a hasty sip, coughing delicately. Dear Lord, you almost called him ‘hon.’ She cleared her throat. “Really solid. How on earth did you track him down so fast?”

Jake’s eyebrow lifted slightly, but he didn’t comment. “Called around. Found the construction company. Their safety manager was ... helpful.” The slight pause before ‘helpful’ suggested there was a story there.

“Do I want to know?” Margaret’s voice had recovered its professional steadiness, though her cheeks still felt warm.

“He ate a TV dinner during our entire conversation.” Jake’s deadpan delivery made Margaret snort despite herself. “Never stopped talking through it, either.”

“Well, bless his heart,” Margaret said, grateful for the familiar phrase that felt safe on her tongue.

Katherine’s words from last week echoed in her mind: “Maybe the two of you can get together for dinner to discuss his results.” That sly smile on her friend’s face had been unmistakable.

Margaret’s mouth went dry. She could do it. She could ask him right now. Something casual, professional. Maybe we could grab dinner to go over the details? You know, in case I need clarification for the motion.

But even as she formed the words, her throat closed up. What if he said no? What if he thought she was being inappropriate? Worse, what if that quiet, steady friendship they’d built over years crumbled under the weight of her attraction? She’d rather have Jake in her life as a colleague than risk losing him entirely.

Jake shifted in his chair, and Margaret realized she’d been staring.

“I, um...” She picked up her pen, then set it down again. “This changes everything for Sade. She’s been so worried. Two little ones at home, and the thought of going to trial...” She trailed off, shaking her head. “You’ve given her hope.”

“Just doing my job.” But Margaret knew it was more than that. Jake Mercer didn’t just work cases. He protected people. It was woven into every fiber of his being.

Spotty had claimed his spot at Jake’s feet, little doggy sighs of contentment punctuating the silence that stretched between them. The silence felt weighted somehow, full of things neither of them seemed willing to say.

Margaret glanced at the folder again, then back at Jake. “Katherine will send me the invoice?”

“She will.” Jake stood, and Margaret felt something twist in her chest. Disappointment, maybe, or relief that the moment was passing without her having to risk anything. He crossed to the door in a few smooth, efficient steps.

Now, Margaret. Ask him now. Just dinner. Just professional coordination.

But the words tangled in her throat, and what came out instead was: “Wait.”

Jake stopped, hand on the doorknob. He turned back, and for a heartbeat their eyes met. Margaret saw something flicker across his features—hope? uncertainty?—before the professional mask settled back into place.

“Jake, I just...” She came around the desk. “This witness could be the difference between my client going home to her babies or spending years in prison for something she didn’t do. That matters. What you did matters.”

Jake’s hand tightened on the doorknob. Then, so quietly she almost missed it: , “I’m glad I could help.”

He opened the door.

“Jake—” The word escaped before she could stop it.

He turned back, and this time the hope in his eyes was unmistakable. “Yeah?”

Margaret’s heart hammered. She had his full attention. He was waiting. All she had to do was—

“I’ll ... let Katherine know the witness came through.” The words were ash in her mouth even as she said them.

Something shuttered behind Jake’s eyes. He nodded once. “Good night, Maggie.”

The door closed with a soft click.

Margaret closed the door and leaned against it, the witness statement still clutched in her hand.

Coward, she told herself. Absolute coward.

Katherine’s suggestion had been so simple, so reasonable. Dinner to discuss his results. Professional coordination. Except there was nothing remotely professional about the way her pulse quickened when Jake Mercer walked into a room, or the way that low voice saying “Maggie” made her feel like the only person in the world.

Tomorrow, she’d be better. Tomorrow, she’d ask him properly.

She’d been saying that for seven years.

She looked down at Spotty, who tilted his head as if asking what all the fuss was about.

“Don’t you dare judge me,” she told the terrier. But her voice was gentler than the words.

She returned to her desk and sank into her chair. Tomorrow she’d file her motion. Tomorrow she’d fight like hell for Sade’s freedom. Tomorrow she’d be the confident, principled advocate everyone expected her to be.

Today, she’d just have to sit with the strange ache of a question left unasked, and the look in Jake Mercer’s eyes that suggested maybe—just maybe—these feelings weren’t one- sided.

Stay tuned for Chapter 7, next week!

Can’t wait? Paid Subscribers receive full access to “The Case of the Poison Powder” right now. If you’d like to get full novella now, you can upgrade your subscription here.

Margaret Mitchell, her white terrier Spotty, and her gang at the local nursing home tackle Baltimore mysteries with pluck, perception, and palaver.

In anticipation of the full release of this novella, I’m releasing one chapter a week to all free subscribers.

(Miss Chapter 4? Find it Here) Or start with the first chapter!

Chapter 5

Margaret had visited the Baltimore City Detention Center countless times, but it never got easier. Each visit was a reminder that the justice system ground people down before they ever got their day in court. She surrendered her phone and keys, and followed a corrections officer down a hallway that echoed with distant voices and the rhythmic clang of metal doors.

The officer led her to a small interview room with cinder block walls painted institutional beige, a metal table bolted to the floor, and two chairs that had seen better decades. Within minutes, Sade Jalloh entered, flanked by the officer.

Margaret’s heart clenched. In just a few days, Sade’s beautiful brown skin had been stripped of its natural radiance, taking on the lifeless cast of someone starved of sunlight and sleep. The yellow jumpsuit hung on her frame like she’d already started shrinking into herself. But even here, even now, Sade sat with a perfect posture that came from fifteen years of standing in a warehouse, clipboard in hand, running inventory with military precision. Her hands were folded on the table in a way that reminded Margaret of her father: the careful, deliberate positioning of someone who’d learned that controlling small things helped when big things spun out of control.

“Sade, hon.” Margaret stood, offering a warm smile. “Please, sit down.”

The officer positioned himself outside the door, giving them privacy through the reinforced window.

“I need to stand for a minute, if that’s okay.” Sade smiled apologetically. “I’ve been sitting all day and my back—” She paused, pressing her hand to her lower spine. “I used to walk ten miles a day at the facility. Inventory, safety checks, meeting with drivers. Now I barely move.” She finally sat, but kept shifting slightly, clearly uncomfortable with stillness.

“I brought the character reference letters from my coworkers,” Sade said immediately, sliding a thin manila envelope across the table with the efficiency of someone used to managing logistics. “Tanya, Ramon, and Dennis. I told them exactly what to include: specific incidents, dates, our working relationship. They said they’d be happy to testify if you need them.”

Margaret took the envelope, impressed. Most clients in Sade’s position were too shell-shocked to organize anything. “These are excellent. We’ll definitely use them.”

“They don’t believe I did this.” Sade’s voice caught. “Not for a second. They know me.”

“Of course they do.” Margaret set the letters aside and clicked her pen. “Now, I met with Marty Slye this afternoon. He confirmed the timeline we discussed, but he also said you paid him in cash on December 28th. The prosecution will make something of that. I need to understand why.”

“Olu has access to our joint checking account. I didn’t want him to see a check to a private investigator.” Sade met Margaret’s eyes directly. “The cash came from my personal savings account. The one he doesn’t know about.”

“You have a separate account?”

“After the second affair, yes.” Sade rubbed her bloodshot eyes. “I learned my lesson. I keep some of my own money separate. For emergencies.”

Margaret made a note. Someday she would have a client who didn’t hide something from her. “How much money are we talking about?”

“About $15,000.”

“The prosecution is going to argue Olu’s affair gave you motive. How you were angry about the divorce, wanted to hurt him, or needed money.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Sade’s voice rose. “I make eighty-five thousand a year, plus bonuses. Olu’s a high school history teacher. He makes maybe thirty-eight thousand. If anything, he needs my money.” She pressed her palms flat on the table. “Why would I steal eighteen hundred dollars worth of pesticides when I have fifteen thousand in savings?”

“Exactly.” Margaret leaned forward. “But here’s what concerns me, and what we need to address head-on. The prosecution isn’t just charging you with simple theft. Chlorpyrifos is a restricted-use pesticide. You need to be a certified applicator to even purchase it legally.”

“I know. That’s why we have such strict protocols at the facility. We have to report our inventory to the EPA regularly.”

“Right. It falls under federal reporting requirements as a dangerous chemical.” Margaret tapped her pen against her legal pad. “So the theft charge itself puts you in the range of up to five years in prison and a ten thousand dollar fine. But the ASA could argue for additional charges based on possession of a regulated dangerous substance with intent. They’ll want to know what the thief intended to do with twenty-five kilograms of restricted pesticide.”

“I didn’t take it!” Sade’s hands trembled. “I don’t even know what someone would do with that much chlorpyrifos.”

“That’s actually in our favor.” Margaret softened her tone. “You’re the storage manager. You work with this material every single day. The fact someone stole a relatively low-value, highly regulated substance that triggers federal reporting requirements? It doesn’t fit with someone who has your level of experience.”

Sade nodded slowly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.

“Now, I talked to Chris Webb this morning and got copies of the security logs for January 8th.” Margaret flipped to a new page. “Your badge was scanned at 5:15 PM when you clocked out. Then nothing until 11:35 PM at the main entrance, and 11:47 PM at the storage room door.”

“But I was in Wilmington by then.”

“Right. Why were you there so late?”

“Nick Liu sent me. There was an urgent delivery of hydroponic seedlings that got delayed. He needed them by Friday morning.”

Margaret’s pen stilled. “Nick Liu. The R&D director. One of only three people with access to that storage room.”

“Yes, but—” Sade frowned. “You don’t think...”

“I don’t know what to think yet. But it’s an interesting coincidence.” Margaret made a note, circling it twice. “Okay. What about your badge? Who would have access to that?”

“No one, I always keep my badge on me. The police found it in my purse when they...“ Sade bit her lip.

“Okay.” Margaret studied her client. “What can you tell me about Nick Liu?”

“Brilliant. Intense. He works odd hours.” Sade paused. “He designs security systems, works on proprietary formulas, and oversees the experimental compounds. He’s the one who installed our current badge system three years ago. If anyone could bypass the cameras but leave the badge logs intact, it would be him.”

“And the experimental compounds you mentioned, those are more valuable than chlorpyrifos?”

“Much more. Some of them are worth thousands per kilogram. Proprietary pesticide formulas that haven’t been released to market yet.” Sade spread her hands. “That’s what doesn’t make sense about this whole thing. Why steal bulk chlorpyrifos when there are far more valuable targets in the same room?”

“Is there anyone at AgroSynthetics who might want to hurt you? Anyone you’ve had conflicts with?”

Sade thought for a long moment, her brow furrowed. “No. I get along with everyone. I don’t handle purchasing, so I’m not making decisions that affect budgets.” She paused, then shook her head. “I mean, I did mention to Chris Webb a few weeks ago that the cameras in the storage area seemed to be going offline more than usual. But it wasn’t a complaint—just letting him know in case there was a technical issue. He didn’t seem bothered by it.”

Margaret made a note. “When was this?”

“Mid-December, maybe? I noticed the cameras had been glitchy a couple of times when I was doing inventory checks.” Sade shrugged. “He thanked me for the heads-up. That’s it.”

“And there were no other tensions? With Chris or anyone else?”

“None. The only person I can think of who might want me gone is Olu. If I’m in prison, he gets everything in the divorce.”

“We’ll look into your husband very carefully, I promise.” Margaret continued making notes. “I need you to do something for me. Make me a detailed list of everyone who works in shipping and storage. Everyone in R&D who might have reason to access that storage room. Anyone who’s ever asked you questions about security procedures or badge access. Can you do that?”

“Yes. I’ll write everything down tonight and give it to you next visit.” Sade straightened in her chair, looking more focused now that she had a task.

“Good.” Margaret started packing up her briefcase, tucking the character reference letters carefully inside. “Katherine’s investigator is heading to Wilmington tomorrow. If he can find that construction worker and get a statement, we’ll have corroboration for of your timeline.”

“I hope he remembers me.” Sade looked worried. “I didn’t even get his name.”

“Don’t worry about it. Jake Mercer is very good at what he does.”

“Thank you,” Sade whispered. “For making me feel like this isn’t the end of everything.”

“It’s not the end. It’s just a hard chapter.” Margaret squeezed her shoulder. “But we’re going to write a better one. Together.”

She knocked on the door and the officer appeared to escort Sade back to her cell. Margaret watched her client walk away, shoulders a little straighter than when she’d arrived, and felt that familiar determination settle in her chest.

Someone had set up Sade Jalloh. Someone had stolen her badge, framed her for theft, and tried to take away everything she’d spent fifteen years building. Her career, her reputation, her sense of belonging in a place where she’d shown up faithfully every single day.

But Margaret wasn’t going to let that stand.

She signed out at the front desk, reclaimed her phone and keys, and stepped into the cold January afternoon. The detention center loomed behind her, gray and imposing, but she didn’t look back.

She had work to do.

Stay tuned for Chapter 6, next week!

Can’t wait? Paid Subscribers receive full access to “The Case of the Poison Powder” right now. If you’d like to get full novella now, you can upgrade your subscription here.

Margaret Mitchell, her white terrier Spotty, and her gang at the local nursing home tackle Baltimore mysteries with pluck, perception, and palaver.

In anticipation of the full release of this novella, I’m releasing one chapter a week to all free subscribers.

(Miss Chapter 3? Find it Here) Or start with the first chapter!

Chapter 4

By three o’clock, Margaret had survived two client consultations, a phone call with an ASA who thought plea bargains were suggestions rather than negotiations, and a turkey sandwich that had been optimistic about its freshness. Now she faced her least favorite appointment of the day.

Everything about Marty Slye was too much: too loud, too sweaty, too eager for attention. His wrinkled suit strained across his considerable middle.

“Ms. Mitchell!” He thrust out a damp hand.

Margaret shook it briefly, already planning her post-meeting date with industrial-strength hand sanitizer. Possibly a blowtorch. He dropped into her client chair with enough force to make it squeak. A sound of suffering she felt in her soul, as if the chair itself was filing a complaint.

“Always a pleasure. Though I gotta say, defending the pesticide lady?” He whistled. “Bold strategy.”

“I prefer ‘ethical obligation,’ but you do you, Marty.”

Her office was modest but carefully curated: warm oak furniture, framed degrees from Columbia University on cream walls, a window that caught afternoon light and made the whole space glow honey-gold. It was her sanctuary, and Marty Slye was profaning it simply by being there.

She settled behind her desk, grateful for the barrier of polished wood between them. “Let’s talk about Sade Jalloh.”

“Ah yes, the pesticide lady.” Marty’s grin was all teeth and no warmth. He leaned back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “Gotta say, I didn’t see that one coming. Standard cheating husband case.”

Margaret kept her expression neutral. Facts first. Judge later. “Walk me through your investigation. When did Mrs. Jalloh hire you?”

“Month ago. December 14th.” He pulled a notebook from his jacket—the only professional gesture she’d seen from him. “Three days of surveillance, and I had your client’s husband dead to rights. December 16th, dinner at Giuseppe’s with Myra Cox. December 18th, Riverside Motel, room 237. Two hours.”

Margaret made notes in her own precise handwriting. “And Ms. Cox? What can you tell me about her?”

“Waitress at Captain James Seafood House. Twenty-eight, single.” He said this with an appreciative leer that made Margaret want to dip him in sanitizer along with her hand. “Been seeing Mr. Jalloh about four months.”

“You gathered evidence? Photographs? Recordings?”

“Oh yeah.” Marty glowered. “Got timestamp photos, license plate confirmations, the works. Even recorded a few conversations.” He paused for effect. “That’s where it gets interesting. December 22nd, I’m outside Ms. Cox’s apartment—ground floor, terrible security—and I hear them through the window.” He consulted his notebook again. “Mr. Jalloh says, and I quote, ‘Once I’m free of Sade, we can finally start our life together’.”

Margaret’s pen stilled. “He used those exact words? ‘Once I’m free of Sade‘?”

“Exact words.” Marty looked inordinately pleased with himself. “Got it on tape. Gave the police a copy. The prosecutor has the original.”

She made a careful note, underlining it twice. This was worse than she’d thought. The phrase “free of Sade” could be interpreted so many ways, none of them good for her client. “What was Mrs. Jalloh’s reaction when you delivered this information?”

“She cried. Got angry. The usual.” He scratched his second chin—because of course he had a second chin. “But she also seemed... I don’t know. Resigned, maybe? Like part of her already knew. But when I gave her everything on December 23rd, she didn’t want to keep it. Asked me to hold on to it for a few days.”

Margaret’s attention sharpened. “She asked you to retain the evidence?”

“Yeah. Came back December 28th, picked it all up. Paid me in cash, too. The whole balance.” He leaned forward, and Margaret fought not to lean back. “Between you and me, I got the feeling she was planning something.”

“Planning something,” Margaret repeated flatly. “Such as?”

“Well, I’m not saying your client stole those pesticides to off her cheating husband.” Marty held up his hands in mock innocence. “I’m just saying the timeline is... suggestive.”

Margaret set down her pen with deliberate precision. “Mr. Slye, did you volunteer this information to the police, or did they contact you?”

His grin widened. “I reached out to them. Saw the story on the news, recognized the name. Figured they’d want to know about the affair. You know, context for motive.”

“How civic-minded of you.” Her voice could have frosted windows. “And I don’t suppose the resulting media attention was any part of your motivation?”

“All publicity is good publicity, Ms. Mitchell. And my testimony is solid. You can cross-examine me all day in court, but the facts won’t change. Mr. Jalloh was planning to leave his wife, she knew about it, and according to the police, she lied about knowing anything about his affair.”

Margaret leaned back in her chair, studying him with the same expression she’d use for something Spotty had dragged in from the yard. “Tell me, Mr. Slye—in your professional opinion, does a woman who’s planning to commit murder typically hire a private detective to document her motive first?”

That wiped the grin off his face. “What?”

“You heard me, hon.” She smiled sweetly. “Because that’s what you’re suggesting, isn’t it? Sade Jalloh deliberately created a paper trail of her husband’s infidelity, then immediately committed a crime that would make her the primary suspect?” She tapped her pen against her legal pad. “Doesn’t it strike you as remarkably stupid for a woman with an MBA?”

Marty’s face reddened. “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just reporting what I found.”

“And capitalizing on it.” Margaret stood, the universal signal that this meeting was over. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Slye. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon. In court. Under oath.”

He hauled himself out of the chair with considerably less enthusiasm than he’d shown entering. “Yeah. Well. Like I said, my testimony won’t change.”

“We’ll see about that.” She walked him to the door, maintaining her professional smile until it clicked shut behind him. Then she sagged against it, finally reaching for that the hand sanitizer.

The man was a publicity-seeking weasel, but he wasn’t wrong about the timeline. December 23rd, Sade received evidence of her husband’s affair. January 8th, someone stole pesticides using her badge. Just over two weeks.

Two weeks for rage to fester. Two weeks to plan. Two weeks to decide that if her husband wanted to be free of her, she’d make sure he paid for it.

No. Margaret straightened, squirting sanitizer into her palm with perhaps more force than necessary. Sade Jalloh was being set up, and every instinct Margaret had honed over fourteen years of criminal defense screamed it.

But she had to admit, Marty Slye had just handed the prosecution one hell of a motive on a silver platter.

Margaret grabbed her phone and pulled up Katherine’s number. Her friend’s investigative instincts were sharper than anyone else she knew, and right now, she needed that sharpness.

But as she started to dial, something else Marty said nagged at her. Sade had paid him in cash. The whole balance. Where had that money come from? Most people paid private detectives in installments, or with credit cards they’d hide from their spouses.

Cash was harder to trace. Cash suggested planning.

Or, Margaret thought with a sudden chill, cash suggested someone had something to hide.

Stay tuned for Chapter 5, next week!

Can’t wait? Paid Subscribers receive full access to “The Case of the Poison Powder” right now. If you’d like to get full novella now, you can upgrade your subscription here.

Margaret Mitchell, her white terrier Spotty, and her gang at the local nursing home tackle Baltimore mysteries with pluck, perception, and palaver.

In anticipation of the full release of this novella, I’m releasing one chapter a week to all free subscribers.

(Miss Chapter 2? Find it Here)

Chapter 3

The next morning, Margaret stepped into the security office at AgroSynthetics. The room hummed with machinery, its walls lined with monitors showing frozen images from the night before. A faded OSHA poster hung crooked beside a calendar stuck on December.

Chris Webb, a man in his late forties with graying temples and the rumpled look of someone who’d started work before sunrise, stood up from behind his desk, knocking over a tower of Styrofoam cups. He made no move to pick them up.

“Ms. Mitchell,” he greeted her. “Thanks for coming in this morning.”

“I appreciate you making the time, Mr. Webb,” Margaret replied, returning his handshake. The man had a firm grip—the kind that came from actual work, not just gym sessions.

Chris gestured to an uncomfortable industrial gray chair. As Margaret sat, she noticed him reach for sunflower seeds on his desk, cracking one between his teeth and depositing the shells into an overflowing coffee mug that read “World’s Okayest Security Manager.”

The mug should have been funny, but something about it felt sad instead. Like he’d given up before he started. Margaret noticed a stack of past-due notices barely hidden under a trade magazine.

The office had a lived-in staleness. Stale coffee, old sunflower seeds, and something else Margaret couldn’t quite place. Desperation, maybe, though that might have been projection. A motivational poster about “Security Through Vigilance” hung askew behind his desk, next to a child’s crayon drawing of a stick figure labeled “MY DADDY” in uneven letters. Chris didn’t wear a wedding ring, Margaret noticed, just a pale band of skin where one used to be.

“So,” Chris said, depositing another shell into the mug, “you want to know more about our security system.”

Margaret nodded, shifting slightly in the chair. It made a rather undignified squeaking sound. “Yes, I’d like to understand how it works, especially in relation to the incident involving my client, Sade Jalloh.”

Chris leaned forward, his fingers tapping lightly on the desk. “We have a pretty robust system in place here. Every employee has a unique badge, and these badges are equipped with RFID technology.” He emphasized the acronym with pride. “Whenever a badge is swiped at any entrance or restricted area, it’s recorded in our system—time, date, location, everything. It’s all very precise.”

He turned to a monitor on his desk, bringing up a digital readout that displayed a series of time-stamped entries. The screen had a thumbprint smudge right in the middle. “For example,” he continued, cracking another sunflower seed, “this is the log for the storage room where the theft occurred. As you can see here, Sade’s badge was scanned at the door to the storage room at 11:47 PM on the night in question.”

Margaret leaned in slightly, studying the screen. The interface reminded her of the timekeeping software at her old law firm—simple columns, clean data. She’d watched the office manager use that system once, fixing an error where someone had clocked in twice.

“And these records are accurate?” she asked. “There’s no possibility of a mistake?”

Chris shook his head, reaching for another seed. “The system is reliable. We’ve never had any issues with it before. If a badge is scanned, it’s logged here.”

Margaret frowned, crossing her ankles. The chair squeaked again. “But what about the security cameras? You mentioned that they were bypassed.”

“Yes,” Chris said, his tone turning serious. He set the bag of seeds down. Apparently this warranted his full attention. “Whoever did this knew what they were doing. The cameras went down at exactly 11:30 PM, and they didn’t come back online until 1:00 AM. During that time, there’s no footage of the storage room or any of the corridors leading to it.”

“And Sade’s badge was used during that window,” Margaret murmured, more to herself than to Chris. She tapped the armrest, thinking. “The police don’t believe her alibi.”

Chris nodded, resuming his seed consumption. “That’s correct. They think it’s too convenient that the cameras went down right when her badge was used.”

Well, it is awfully convenient, Margaret admitted to herself. But convenient for whom?

She sat back in the squeaking chair, deciding to embrace it. “What can you tell me about Sade? Do you know her well?”

Chris sighed, his gaze dropping to the sunflower seed in his hands. “I didn’t know her well, but she was a good employee. Quiet, kept to herself.” He paused, something softening in his expression. “But I liked her. Always said good morning, asked about my weekend. She didn’t seem like the type to do something like this.”

“What was her role here?”

“She was the storage manager,” Chris explained. “But I can’t think of a good reason why she’d want to steal a bunch of pesticides.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Margaret nodded, her thoughts mirroring his. Outside the office, someone walked past wheeling something that squeaked worse than her chair. “And the security feed? Would Sade know how to bypass it?”

Chris hesitated, then shook his head more firmly. “I doubt it. The system is complicated, and it requires a certain level of expertise. Sade is smart, but this kind of thing… it’s not something you just pick up on the job.” He cracked another seed. “You’d need to know your way around networks, security protocols. It’s specialized knowledge.”

Margaret leaned forward again, feeling a small spark of possibility. “So if Sade didn’t do it, that leaves the possibility that someone else used her badge. Is that possible?”

“It’s possible,” Chris admitted, meeting her eyes. “With the cameras down, someone could have used her badge without being caught on video. But how they got it…” He spread his hands.

The heater kicked on with a rattle that made Margaret glance at the vent. “Who else had access to the storage room?”

“There are only three people. Sade, myself, and Nick Liu, the director of Research and Development.”

“And where was Nick on the night of the theft?” Margaret asked, keeping her tone casual but curious.

Chris frowned slightly, picking up a pen and clicking it. “Nick wasn’t in the office that night. In fact, he’s not in today either.” He shrugged. “But he’s not the type to get his hands dirty. He’s more of a behind-the-scenes kind of guy.”

Margaret made a mental note to look into Nick Liu further. “And you? Where were you that night?”

Chris’s expression didn’t change, though the pen-clicking stopped. “I was at home. I’ve already given the police my alibi, and they’ve verified it. I’m cooperating fully with the investigation.”

Margaret smiled sweetly. “Just for my own understanding. What time did you leave work that evening?”

“Five-thirty, like usual,” Chris said without hesitation. “Went straight home, had Chinese delivered around seven. The police verified all of it.”

“I appreciate that.” Margaret made a note, though something nagged at her. Chinese delivery verified he was home at seven. But the theft happened at 11:47 PM. Four and a half hours later. Alone in his house. With no one to confirm he stayed there. She’d seen weaker alibis held up in court before. Barely, but they’d held.

She shifted forward slightly. “Now, you mentioned the security system requires specialized knowledge—networks, protocols, that sort of thing. Who here at the facility would have that expertise?”

Chris clicked the pen once. “Well, I do. It’s part of my job to know the system inside and out.” He paused, considering. “Nick and his team designed the system when they installed it three years ago, so he’d certainly know his way around it. And most of my security personnel would have at least some working knowledge. Not all of it, but enough to potentially cause problems if they wanted to.”

Margaret filed that away. “And when was the last time Sade used her badge before the night in question? Do your records show that?”

Chris turned back to his monitor, pulling up another screen. “Let’s see... yes, here. She clocked out at 5:15 PM that day, swiped her badge at the main entrance. That’s the last use we have on record before...” he scrolled down, “11:35 PM, main entrance, then 11:47 PM at the storage room door.”

So someone had gotten hold of her badge sometime between 5:15 PM and 11:47 PM. Six and a half hours. Margaret made a mental note of that window. “Do you know if Sade’s badge has been accounted for since the theft?”

Chris shook his head, reaching for his seeds one more time. “As far as know, the police have it.”

“One last thing, Mr. Webb. This director, Nick Liu—you said he wasn’t in the office the night of the theft and he’s not in today either. Is that typical for him? And do you know where I might find him?”

Chris frowned. “Nick keeps his own hours, I’ll say that much. He’s more of a night owl, comes in late, stays late. But missing work entirely?” He shrugged. “I honestly couldn’t tell you if that’s normal for him or not. We see each other in passing, maybe exchange a few words at the quarterly meetings, but that’s about it.”

“Do you have his contact information? An address, perhaps?”

“I can get you his office number and email from HR,” Chris offered. “As for his home address, you’d have to go through official channels for that. Privacy policy and all.”

Margaret stood, the chair giving one final squeak of protest, and extended her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Webb. You’ve been a tremendous help.”

Chris stood as well, wiping sunflower seed salt on his pants before taking her hand firmly. “Of course. And listen—” he paused, looking almost uncomfortable. “I hope you can help her. Sade, I mean. She seems like a decent person.”

“I’ll do my very best,” Margaret said warmly, meaning it. “That’s a promise.”

As Margaret left the security office, her low heels clicked through the sterile hallways. The pieces were forming a picture, though not a complete one. Someone with technical knowledge had taken Sade’s badge between 5:15 PM and 11:35 PM, bypassed the security cameras but left the badge logging system intact. And Nick Liu, who designed the system and had full access to the storage room, was conveniently absent.

Margaret had learned long ago not to believe in coincidences.

She needed to find Nick Liu. And she needed to talk to Sade about what happened to her badge.

Stay tuned for Chapter 4, next week!

Can’t wait? Paid Subscribers receive full access to “The Case of the Poison Powder” right now. If you’d like to get full novella now, you can upgrade your subscription here.

Margaret Mitchell, her white terrier Spotty, and her gang at the local nursing home tackle Baltimore mysteries with pluck, perception, and palaver.

In anticipation of the full release of this novella, I’m releasing one chapter a week to all free subscribers.

(Miss Chapter 1? Find it Here)

Chapter 2

Margaret sat in her car outside Shady Glenn, engine off, hands still on the wheel. Through the foggy windshield, the brick facade stared back at her. Spotty whined impatiently from the backseat.

“All right.” She opened the door. The terrier burst out like a furry cannonball, wagging his tail with such enthusiasm that his entire back half wiggled. Spotty had exactly two modes: asleep or convinced he was late for something very important.

Right now, he was definitely late.

Margaret smiled as she slipped his special canine visitor vest over his head, a process Spotty tolerated with the martyred air of a nobleman forced to wear peasant clothes. The vest read “THERAPY DOG” in cheerful letters, though “CHAOS AGENT” would have been more accurate. She’d adopted him from the shelter three years ago, and he’d been systematically destroying her throw pillows ever since while also healing hearts at Shady Glenn.

The automatic doors opened with a whoosh, releasing the smell of floor cleaner and lavender air freshener trying to mask institutional life. Wheel of Fortune blared from the lobby TV. Pat Sajak’s cheerful voice competing with someone’s gospel music playing down the hall and what sounded like Mrs. Henderson’s afternoon opera hour. The place was never quiet—one of the things Margaret actually loved about it. Her mother’s memory care wing was hushed and careful, but here in the main building, life was loud and gloriously messy.

As they rounded the corner of the big stone fireplace, Margaret saw Miss Linda resting in her wheelchair, rigidly upright even while she dozed off. The sound of Spotty’s paws clicking across the floor caused Linda to open her eyes.

“Spotty, you rascal, get on up here!” Linda was now fully alert, arms outstretched like a child waiting for Christmas morning.

Spotty skittered to a halt at her feet and waited. A nurse hurried past with a laptop cart, one of those rolling computer stations the facility had installed last year during their “digital transition.” She was muttering under her breath: “I know I entered Mrs. Patterson’s meds this morning, but the system says I didn’t. Now I have to go back and—” She noticed Margaret and switched to a professional smile. “Good afternoon, Ms. Mitchell!”

Margaret watched her wheel the cart toward the medication room, still grumbling about the computer system eating her entries.

Linda sniffed. “Technology. In my day, you wrote things down with a pen and that was that. None of this clicking and deleting nonsense.”

Margaret chuckled as she picked up the wiggling mass of white fur and gently placed Spotty on a pillow in Linda’s lap.

“How are you surviving the criminals and miscreants, Margaret?”

“One motion at a time, Miss Linda. But after a day of filing motions in court, your brand of miscreants is a whole lot more charming.

Linda’s eyes sparkled. “Speaking of criminals—they gave us chicken again. I’m convinced they’re trying to turn us into poultry.”

Margaret laughed warmly. Complaining was one thing that Linda did very often and very well.

A mechanical whir announced Cheryl’s arrival. Her motorized chair zipped around the corner at inadvisable speed.

“Early bird gets the worm!” Cheryl cackled, executing a sharp turn that would’ve impressed a NASCAR driver. The former race car enthusiast, who’d driven in the Powder Puff Derby in the 1960s and never let anyone forget it, treated every hallway like a speedway. She wore a silk scarf today, tied jauntily around her neck, and her lipstick was the same bold red she’d probably worn at Daytona.

“You nearly flattened us!” George Mitchell’s gravelly voice echoed from the hallway. Margaret found her father navigating his wheelchair with painstaking care, Tony shuffling behind in his own wheelchair, propelling it backward with his feet.

“Here, Dad.” She kissed his thinning hair and grabbed the handles. After settling her father, she returned for Tony, who’d stopped mid-hallway, staring at the wall.

“Marget!” His face transformed into a gap-toothed grin as he rocked his chair forward and back like a metronome. Tony’s cardigan was buttoned with the top button in the second hole, and he wore two different colored socks, one argyle and one striped. He’d been a mathematics professor before his stroke, and even now he counted things compulsively, tapping his fingers: one-two-three-four-five, one-two-three-four-five. “Angela’s putting up the decorations soon. The ones with the little bells that go tinkle-tinkle.” Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. “That’s how you know Christmas is coming.”

“Christmas was weeks ago, you old crackpot,” Linda called out.

Margaret wheeled Tony into the circle. “But it’ll come around again, won’t it?”

“That’s right!” Tony beamed like she’d confirmed a universal truth.

Linda rolled her eyes.

Everyone exchanged the usual small talk while Spotty made his rounds. Complaining about the food, debating The Price Is Right. Seeing the residents’ bright smiles warmed Margaret’s heart every time.

“How’s Mom?” she asked her dad quietly.

George shrugged. “She’s happy today. The nurse has been giving her lots of cookies.”

Margaret laughed. “I’d better go check on her. Y’all behave yourselves while I’m gone.” She winked at Cheryl. “And no drag racing in the hallways, you hear?”

Cheryl cackled as Margaret made her way down the familiar hallway, Spotty’s little paws clicking softly against the linoleum floor. As she reached her mother’s room, she paused to take a deep breath before gently pushing the door open. Candace Mitchell sat by the window, staring out at the garden below, her once bright eyes now clouded with confusion.

“Scarlett, is that you?” Candace turned her head slowly, a flicker of recognition lighting up her face.

“Yes, Mama, it’s me,” Margaret replied, slipping into the role more easily than she would have liked. She crossed the room, placing a gentle hand on her mother’s shoulder.

Candace’s face broke into a soft smile, her fingers reaching up to touch Margaret’s hand. “I’ve been waiting for you to come home. Have you checked on the farm? I heard Rhett had some trouble with the horses.”

“Everything’s fine at Tara, Mama.” The lies came easier now. “The fields are green; the house is standing.” She’d learned not to correct her mother back to reality. Meet her where she is, the doctors said. Don’t argue with the delusion.

Candace nodded, seeming satisfied with the answer. Her gaze shifted back to the window. “Do you remember when you were little, Scarlett? How we used to sit by the fire, and I would tell you stories about Tara?”

Margaret smiled at the memory. “I remember, Mama. You always had the best stories. You made everything seem so real, like I could reach out and touch it.”

Candace’s eyes softened, a rare moment of clarity passing over her. “You had such an imagination. Always asking questions, always dreaming. I knew you’d do great things. You’ve made something of yourself, even in these hard times. I’m proud of you, Scarlett. So very proud.”

Margaret’s throat tightened as the moment of clarity passed, but she kept her voice steady. “Thank you, Mama. I just want to make you happy.”

“You do, my darling,” Candace whispered, her hand reaching out to cup Margaret’s cheek. “You always have.”

Margaret leaned into the touch, eyes stinging.

“I’m tired now, Scarlett. Will you get the girls to come help me?”

“Of course, Mama,” Margaret said softly, pressing the red call button beside the bed. While they waited, she straightened the photographs on the nightstand, pictures from a life her mother no longer recognized. Law school graduation. Family vacation to Yellowstone. Mom and Dad’s fortieth anniversary.

Ashley arrived, and Margaret kissed her mother’s forehead. “Goodnight, Mama.”

“Tell Rhett I’ll talk to him tomorrow about those horses.”

Margaret and Spotty made their way back to the common area. The familiar sounds of laughter and chatter filled the air. Margaret smiled in spite of her heavy heart when she saw Linda, Cheryl, Tony, and her father, George, huddled together by the fireplace.

“Margaret!” Cheryl called out, her voice rising above the others. She was perched in her motorized chair, a gleam of excitement in her eyes. “We were just talking about you!”

Margaret raised an eyebrow, amused by Cheryl’s eagerness. “Oh? Should I be worried?”

Linda, sitting primly in her wheelchair, waved a dismissive hand. “Only if you’ve been stealing pesticides from agrochemical companies.”

Margaret’s attention snapped back to her current case. “Oh?”

Tony leaned forward, his eyes wide with the thrill of the gossip. “There was a story on the news, Marget. A woman got arrested for swipin’ a whole lotta pesticide—pesticide!”

Margaret’s stomach flipped. “You saw that?”

“Channel 7, noon.” Linda declared matter-of-factly. “She worked at the company—what was it?”

“AgroSynthetics,” George supplied, his lawyer’s mind still sharp despite his failing body. “They said she was caught red-handed, but the news didn’t say what she planned to do with it.”

“Well,” Cheryl chimed in, her gray eyes twinkling, “I reckon she was going to use it in her own garden. Prize tomatoes need serious pest control.”

Linda scoffed, shaking her head. “Nonsense! If she was going to use it for her garden, why steal so much? No, no, it’s much more sinister than that. I bet she was going to poison her cheating husband. Men like that deserve a good dose of something nasty.”

Tony gasped, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You think she was going to...to kill him?”

Margaret couldn’t help but smile at their enthusiasm. “I hate to break it to you all, but I know Sade Jalloh. She’s a good woman who’s been caught up in something she didn’t do. She doesn’t have a garden, and she’d never hurt anyone—least of all her husband.”

Four pairs of eyes swiveled to her.

“You know her?” Cheryl breathed.

“I’m representing her.”

The group fell silent for a moment, absorbing this new information. Then Cheryl leaned in closer, her voice low and dramatic. “So, if she didn’t steal it for herself, then who did? Maybe she’s taking the fall for someone else.”

Linda’s eyes narrowed, and she nodded slowly. “That makes sense. Maybe she was framed! It’s always the innocent ones who get caught up in these things.”

Margaret felt a surge of warmth for these dear souls. “She does have an alibi, you know. So, it’s possible someone else is responsible.”

The room erupted with excitement, the seniors talking over one another as they theorized about who could have framed Sade.

Cheryl waved her arms to quiet the group. “Maybe it was someone at the company. You know, those big companies are always up to something shady.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Linda said, unconvinced.

“Is it?” George steepled his fingers—a gesture Margaret had seen a thousand times. “An inside job makes sense—but that doesn’t mean it was her inside job.”

Margaret felt something click. George had always been a steady presence in her life, inspiring her to follow in his footsteps as a criminal defense attorney.

“Margaret,” Linda’s voice broke through her thoughts, pulling her back to the present. “Do you think the police will figure out who really did it?”

“I think the truth has a way of coming out, one way or another.”

Linda nodded, satisfied with the answer. “Well, whoever it is, I hope they get what’s coming to them. And I hope your client goes free. It’s not right, blaming an innocent woman.”

Cheryl grinned, leaning back in her chair. “Leave it to Margaret. If anyone can prove her innocence, it’s you.”

Margaret’s smile softened as she looked around at the group. “Thanks, hon. That means the world coming from you. All of you. I’ll do everything I can for her. I promise you that.”

As the conversation drifted to lighter topics, Margaret let herself relax into the moment. The room was filled with warmth and laughter, and surrounded by the people she cared about, the weight of her responsibilities felt a little lighter.

Stay tuned for Chapter 3, next week!

Can’t wait? Paid Subscribers receive full access to “The Case of the Poison Powder” right now. If you’d like to get full novella now, you can upgrade your subscription here.

Margaret Mitchell, her white terrier Spotty, and her gang at the local nursing home tackle Baltimore mysteries with pluck, perception, and palaver.

In anticipation of the full release of this novella, I’m releasing one chapter a week to all free subscribers.

As a paid Subscriber to Amethyst Drake Author Updates, you have immediate access to the complete version of “The Case of the Poison Powder” the first Margaret Mitchell Mysteries novella!

Fans of The Scheme will remember that Katherine’s best friend is named Margaret Mitchell. She is one of the best defense attorneys in Ba…

Read more

Enter the Margaret Mitchell Mysteries. Margaret, her white terrier Spotty, and her gang at the local nursing home tackle Baltimore mysteries with pluck, perception, and palaver.

The first novella in the series ties directly to The Scheme. Don't worry, if you haven't read The Scheme you can still follow the mystery. Or, purchase your copy of The Scheme here to make sure you don't miss any of the easter eggs.

In anticipation of the full release of this novella, I'm releasing one chapter a week to all free subscribers. If you'd like to get full novella now, you can upgrade your subscription here.

Subscribe now

The Case of the Poison Powder

Chapter 1

“My instinct and intuition tell me there’s a request behind that compliment.” Katherine set down her water glass with that deliberate precision she used when she was already three steps ahead.

Margaret couldn’t help but grin. After thirty years of friendship, Katherine knew her too well. She also knew Margaret had a habit of ordering the cheapest thing on the menu then “sampling” half of Katherine’s entrée. It was a dance they’d perfected over hundreds of meals.

“And your integrity will tell you to take this case.” She pulled a file folder from her oversized leather bag with a flourish. Katherine called Margaret’s Baltimore charm a “tactical weapon.” And honestly? She took it as a compliment.

“I suppose this will be a pro bono case?” Katherine accepted the folder.

“I’ll buy your dinner!”

Katherine didn’t even glance up. “You were already buying my dinner.”

“Well then, I’ll buy your next dinner!” Margaret leaned forward conspiratorially. “Plus dessert. That fancy semifreddo you pretend you’re too disciplined to order but always steal bites of mine.”

“I don’t steal. I accept your freely offered bites.”

“I offer them because you’re giving me the sad puppy eyes.”

“I don’t do sad puppy eyes. I do calculated strategic guilt projection.” Katherine finally looked up, one eyebrow raised. “And it’s working, isn’t it?”

Margaret laughed. “This woman is being railroaded, Kat. Absolutely railroaded. And we’re going to stop it.”

Katherine flipped through the file, and Margaret pretended to study the menu she had memorized. She knew better than to interrupt when Katherine was processing. They’d been doing this dance since Margaret was eight years old. She’d get them into mysteries, and Katherine figured out how to solve them. Now Margaret was a criminal defense attorney, and Katherine ran a private detective agency.

Some things are meant to be.

“Your table is ready, ladies.” The hostess led them to the back corner booth, Margaret’s favorite spot. High-backed, private, perfect for confidential consultations.

She slid across the buttery leather seat and breathed in the restaurant’s signature aroma: roasted garlic and fresh basil, with an undertone of that expensive truffle oil the chef used sparingly enough to feel special. The soft jazz was live tonight, a pianist in the corner playing something that sounded like moonlight feels. Warm Edison bulb lighting cast everything in honeyed tones, making even Margaret’s stack of legal documents look artistic. This was the kind of place where you could discuss felonies over pasta and nobody even blinked. In fact, the couple in the next booth appeared to be planning either a merger or a murder, and the server just smiled and topped off their wine.

This was her kind of place.

They ordered—mushroom ravioli for her, of course—and Margaret started talking about the case. Facts first, moral outrage second. That’s what worked with Katherine.

“Why are the police convinced she’s guilty?” Katherine’s tone was flat. Professional.

Margaret leaned forward. “The storage facility has restricted access. Only three individuals are authorized to enter the secure areas. My client, Sade Jalloh, is the storage manager. Her badge gets her everywhere.” She paused, making sure she had Katherine’s full attention. “And according to the ASA—who is far too smug about this, by the way—the digital logs show her badge was scanned at the facility on the night of the theft.”

The server set down a bowl of spinach and artichoke dip and a basket of bread. Katherine was watching Margaret with those deep blue eyes that missed nothing. “But you don’t believe she did it.”

“Not for one second, hon.” Margaret met her gaze directly. This was the part that mattered. “Sade has worked there for fifteen years. Never missed a day. Never had a single complaint. She volunteers at her church, for heaven’s sake. And suddenly she’s going to risk everything to steal pesticides?” She shook her head. “It doesn’t track. Kat. It’s someone looking at a scared Black woman and deciding she must be guilty because the computer says so.”

Katherine tore off a piece of bread. “The alibi is weak, Mags. Wandering a city for hours looking for an address that doesn’t exist?” A pause while she took a bite. “That won’t hold up.”

“Which is exactly why we need to find the construction worker who gave her directions that night! If he remembers her, we’ve got corroboration. We’ve got timeline. We’ve got reasonable doubt.” Margaret leaned in. “Sade insists she wasn’t anywhere near that facility. Someone used her badge. Someone set her up. And I am going to prove it.”

Katherine’s fingers started rhythmic tapping on the table. Thinking mode activated. “Jake is going to Wilmington tomorrow for our missing persons case. I’ll have him look for your witness, too.”

Margaret felt victory swell through her chest. She smiled wide and popped a whole slice of bread in her mouth, not even caring about elegance. “You’re an angel, Kat. A genuine angel.”

“Maybe the two of you can get together for dinner to discuss his results,” Katherine said with a sly smile.

Heat rushed to Margaret’s cheeks. “Why I...ah...” Good Lord, even thinking about Jake Mercer turned her into a flustered schoolgirl. The man was six feet of quiet competence and steady hands, and she’d been half in love with him since Katherine introduced them seven years ago.

“That would be very...strategic. Professional coordination,” she babbled.

Katherine mercifully changed the subject. “How does Marty Slye fit into all this? He told me he was ‘on the other side’ of this case.”

Just hearing that weasel’s name made Margaret’s nose scrunch up. Marty Slye represented everything wrong with their profession—all schtick, no ethics, and an ego that preceded him into every room.

“A few weeks ago, Sade suspected her husband of having another affair. She hired Marty to follow him and gather evidence.”

“And he found some.”

“Of course! Pictures of her husband with another woman. Recordings of conversations about divorce proceedings.” Margaret tapped the file folder with one coral-polished nail. “Then, when news broke about Sade’s arrest, Marty ‘came forward’ like any upstanding citizen would.” She rolled her eyes hard enough to see her own brain. “Publicity hound.”

Katherine lifted an eyebrow. “He’ll testify against her. Get his free publicity.”

“Exactly!” Margaret pointed her fork. “The police think an impending divorce and her husband’s infidelity give her a motive. She can sell twenty-five kilograms of chlorpyrifos to local farmers, build herself a nest egg while the marriage falls apart.”

Katherine tilted her head. “Chlorpyrifos isn’t particularly valuable. Most common pesticide in the US. A big company like AgroSynthetics must have more valuable inventory to steal.”

“Precisely!” Margaret felt that spark of vindication. This was why she needed Katherine. “The woman has an MBA. If she’s committing grand larceny, she’d at least steal something worth the prison time.”

“You need to talk to the other two people with access. Find out what else was stored there.” Katherine paused, and something shifted in her expression—a crack in that professional armor. “And triple-check Marty’s story. Wouldn’t be the first time he...” She stopped. Caught herself. “I wish I could do more. The Ames case has me stretched thin.”

Margaret reached across the table and squeezed Katherine’s hand. The woman worked too hard, always had. “No worries, hon. You just find my witness, and I’ll handle the rest.”

Their server arrived with steaming plates, and Margaret ate greedily. She’d been so busy prepping for Sade’s preliminary hearing that she’d forgotten to eat lunch. Again.

“If your client didn’t steal the pesticides, someone else did.” Katherine cut into her chicken with surgical precision. “Someone with access. Or someone who bypassed the security system.”

“Or someone who cloned her badge.” Margaret dabbed her mouth with her napkin, mind racing. “I’m meeting with the facility’s IT director tomorrow. And I need to have a very long conversation with Sade’s husband. If he’s planning to divorce her anyway, why not frame her for theft? He gets everything in the settlement while she’s fighting criminal charges.”

“That’s cold.”

Margaret felt her smile turn sharp. “Isn’t it just? But that’s what we’re dealing with, Kat. Someone cold enough to destroy this woman’s life.” She leaned back. “And I am going to find them.”

Katherine raised her water glass. “To justice.”

Margaret clinked her wine glass against it. “And to friends who help us fight for it.”

Read Chapter 2 Here

At some point during this deep dive into mobile phones, I realized I'd lost sight of why I was researching in the first place. The scene I was writing involved Katherine Carson receiving a text message. That's it. A simple text that moves the plot forward. But somehow I'd convinced myself that the entire credibility of Framed hinged on getting the phone model right.

Welcome to the research rabbit hole. Every historical fiction writer's simultaneous best friend and worst enemy.

When 2009 Feels Like Ancient History

Setting my Carson Crime Files Series in 2009 seemed straightforward at first. After all, I lived through 2009. I remember what it was like. How hard could it be to recreate a world from just seventeen years ago?

Turns out, incredibly hard.

The problem isn't that 2009 was so long ago. It's that technology has changed so rapidly that what felt normal then now feels like ancient artifacts. I found myself second-guessing every tech reference, wondering if I was misremembering how things actually worked.

Take social media. In 2009, Facebook was still relatively new to many people, MySpace was hanging on, and Twitter was just gaining momentum. But how did people actually use these platforms? What did the interfaces look like? When Katherine's team needs to investigate someone's online presence, what would they realistically find?

I spent an entire afternoon watching archived YouTube videos showing Facebook's 2009 layout, taking screenshots like I was documenting a lost civilization.

The BlackBerry Spiral

The BlackBerry research illustrates how good intentions can derail productivity. It started innocently. I wanted Katherine to receive an urgent message while investigating. Simple enough. Then the questions began:

Would a private detective carry a BlackBerry or a regular cell phone? Which models were available in Baltimore in 2009? How did texting work differently then? Did people use abbreviations the same way? What about email on mobile devices?

Before I knew it, I was deep in forums discussing BlackBerry features, reading tech reviews from 2009, and watching unboxing videos of phones that are now museum pieces. I learned more about early smartphone keyboards than any mystery writer should ever need to know.

The scene still just involved Katherine getting a text message.

When Research Becomes Procrastination

Here's the uncomfortable truth: sometimes research becomes a sophisticated form of procrastination. It feels productive because you're learning, but you're not actually writing. And there's always one more detail to verify, one more source to check, one more rabbit hole to explore.

I realized I'd crossed the line when I started researching the specific models of security cameras that Baltimore art galleries would have used in 2009. The cameras weren't even important to the plot. But I'd convinced myself that authenticity required knowing whether they recorded to VHS tapes or digital storage.

(For the record, it was probably digital by then, but the transition was ongoing. See? I'm still doing it.)

Finding the Balance

The key to managing research is remembering that perfect accuracy isn't the goal. Believable accuracy is. Your readers want to be immersed in the world you're creating, not impressed by your Wikipedia skills.

Here's what I've learned about when to research and when to write:

Research first for big-picture elements. I needed to understand the general technology landscape of 2009 before writing scenes that depended on it. But I didn't need to know every technical specification.

Write first, fact-check later. If I'm in the middle of a scene and need to know something specific, I often write "[RESEARCH: what kind of car would detective drive in 2009]" and keep going. The momentum of writing is too valuable to sacrifice for minor details.

Set research boundaries. I give myself permission to spend a reasonable amount of time researching specific questions—usually no more than an hour unless it's crucial to the plot. After that, I make my best educated guess and move on.

Remember your expertise. I lived through 2009. My instincts about how people behaved and what felt normal are probably more valuable than any amount of technical research.

Practical Rabbit Hole Management

Now if I find myself more than three clicks deep into research that started with a simple question, I stop. I bookmark the page, make a note, and return to writing.

I also remind myself that readers care more about compelling characters and engaging plots than about whether Katherine's phone had a physical keyboard or a touchscreen. If the story works, small anachronisms won't matter. (Right?)

My goal isn't to recreate 2009 perfectly. It's to create a believable world where Katherine Carson's story can unfold naturally. Sometimes that means accepting that some details will be approximations, and that's okay.

After all, I'm writing fiction, not a historical documentary. The BlackBerry can just be a BlackBerry.

Katherine Carson fans, look out! Book 3 of the Carson Crime Files is in the final stages of editing. That means it’s coming soon!

Follow me on Social Media for updates!

www.facebook.com/amethystdrake.author

www.instagram.com/amethyst.drake.author

www.pinterest.com/agswordsmiths

But one character in The Scheme refused to be compliant. I planned for Mrs. Nichols to be the kindly older woman who lived downstairs from the missing woman. I needed her to talk briefly to a detective and reveal what she knew about what happened the night Olivia disappeared. Which, as far as I knew, was not much. She would wring her hands, apologize for not being more help, express concern for the sweet young lady upstairs, and that would be that. Exit Mrs. Nichols. That was my plan when I started writing this scene:

“Lee knocked on the door of apartment 116, located directly beneath Olivia’s apartment. A woman with rosy skin and gray curls pulled the door open until the security chain caught.

“Yes?” She peered at the intruder, clutching the collar of a pink bathrobe to her chest.

Lee flashed his most winning smile. He pulled his credentials out of his pocket and held them so the woman could see. “Mrs. Nichols, I’m a private detective hired to find your upstairs neighbor, Olivia Ames.”

The woman didn’t budge. She took her time reading the license in his wallet. Lee swallowed back the impulse to ask her to get her reading glasses. Then she turned her bright green eyes onto the tall detective, looking him up and down. She nodded curtly and pushed the door closed.”

And that’s when I realized the this character was not going to be following my instructions.

Ms. Nichols is a vivacious and independent woman. She works at the library with the missing woman and is able to give the detectives a lot of information. The first scene with Ms. Nichols is the longest scene in the book. She commandeers the interview and makes the detective, Lee, slightly uncomfortable. She makes no bones about that fact that she finds him attractive!

In a later scene, Ms. Nichols interrupts a a conversation between Katherine and “her handsome detective friend.” The librarian gives the team what she considers to be an important clue—a stack of books that the missing woman had checked out of the library. This interaction also results in my personal favorite line in the entire book, when Lee reveals that he isn’t a reader: “The librarian sounded deeply disappointed, as if her prince charming had just turned into a toad.”

I found this surprising twist on Ms. Nichols character to be a delightful diversion. I ended up being more pleased with how the story developed when I let Ms. Nichols have her own way with things rather than trying to force her into a mold. Near the end of the novel, I had an important clue that I needed the detectives to find. And I couldn’t think of a natural way for them to come across the missing phone number. I thought about this plot hole for a couple days. Then it hit me.

The phone number could be written on a post it note inside one of the books found by Ms. Nichols. And how would the detectives know to look for it?

Ms. Nichols would tell them, of course!

I had planned for Ms. Nichols to be a minor character, but I love the bigger role she has. And if readers love her as much as I do, I think there is a good chance that she will reappear in a future novel.

Carson Investigations Office

January 2008

Jake unwrapped the second half of his sandwich and watched Sammi pick at her salad. She’d been quieter than usual for about ten minutes now. Which meant she was building up to something.

She twirled her fork through the lettuce one more time, then set it down.

“So,” Sammi said, “I’ve been noticing something.”

“Yeah?” Jake took a bite, waiting.

“Lee can find patterns in data that anyone else would miss.” Sammi leaned back against the couch, her tone carefully casual. “Like that insurance fraud case last week? He pulled connection threads from three different databases that had nothing obviously linking them. It was amazing.”

Jake nodded. “He’s good at that.”

“That’s from his NSA days, right?” Sammi watched him closely. “All those years analyzing intelligence data?”

“Yes.” Jake could see exactly where this was going. Sammi knew about their history. The National Security Agency and Espionage Services Agency and Army Rangers.

“And you—” Sammi gestured at him with her fork. “You were Army Rangers, then the Espionage Services Agency, then NSA. You’re ridiculously good at finding people. Following them without being seen. And you still have all these contacts who can get you access to things faster than they should. Not illegal, just …”

“A lot of people owe me favors,” Jake said mildly.

“Right. Exactly.” Sammi sat forward now, her enthusiasm building. “So I’ve seen these special skills from Lee and from you. Skills from your former careers.” She paused, choosing her words. “But you both act like Katherine was better than both of you. Like she was the star operative or something.”

Jake set down his sandwich and gave Sammi his full attention.

“But she seems...” Sammi trailed off, clearly struggling with how to phrase it. “Normal? Like, she’s a great detective, don’t get me wrong. She’s smart and observant and clients trust her. But she doesn’t seem to do anything you and Lee don’t do.” She met his eyes. “So what am I missing?”

Jake studied her for a long moment. Sammi wasn’t prying for drama. This was genuine curiosity. Three months of paying close attention had earned her the right to ask.

Exactly what he and Margaret had hoped for when they’d convinced Katie to hire her. Give Katherine a student smart enough to see past the careful limits. Let her rediscover those parts of herself through mentoring. Katie would refuse, of course. So Jake had promised he’d do the training himself.

“Katie is anything but normal. She has skills.” Jake kept his voice even. “But she doesn’t like to tap into most of what she learned in her ESA days.”

“Why not?”

“She has her reasons.” Jake’s tone carried finality. “It’s not my story to tell.”

Sammi absorbed this, her analytical mind clearly working. “But you’re saying she could if she wanted to.”

“I’m saying Katie was the best operative I ever worked with in twenty years in intelligence.” Jake held her gaze. “And I worked with some exceptional people.”

“Better than you?”

“In the things that mattered most? Yes.” No hesitation. Just truth.

Sammi sat back, processing. “Okay,” she said finally. “Okay.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Sammi’s phone buzzed with a reminder about filing that needed to be finished by end of day.

“Back to the glamorous world of document organization,” she said with a dramatic sigh.

Jake smiled. “That’s what you signed up for.”

“I know, I know.” Sammi gathered her lunch containers. “Thanks, Jakey.”

“For what?”

“For taking the question seriously.” She headed back to her desk.

Jake finished his sandwich slowly, thinking.

The plan was working. Katherine had started “helping” within two weeks. Jake had watched her slowly engage more over the past three months. Explaining case strategies, teaching interview techniques, letting Sammi shadow her on client meetings. Small steps, but real ones.

Sammi was perfect. Young enough, new enough, that Katie could feel protective rather than defensive. Margaret’s former student, smart and passionate, asking to break into investigative work. Easy to convince Katie that training her was good for the business.

But Sammi deserved to see what he and Lee already knew. The woman organizing case files and conducting client interviews had capabilities that went far beyond standard detective work.

He just needed the right opportunity.

And actually ... he might have just the thing.

Jake stood from his desk at 4:30 and grabbed his jacket. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

Sammi looked up from the filing cabinet. “Show me what?”

“You’ll see.” He headed for the door. “I’ll drive you home after.”

Sammi’s eyes lit with curiosity as she grabbed her coat. “Okay.”

They drove fifteen minutes toward a warehouse district.

“You asked a fair question at lunch,” Jake said. “Deserved a real answer.”

Sammi turned to look at him, waiting.

“Most of what Katie still lets herself use looks like regular investigative work. Her instincts, intuition, reading people. She calls them detective skills.” He paused. “You wouldn’t notice she’s doing anything different.”

“But she is.”

“Yeah. She is. But what I’m about to show you… You’ll see why Lee and I know she’s better than us. Why we defer to her judgement.”

He pulled into the parking lot of Summit Rock Gym, a converted industrial building with high ceilings and large windows.

Inside, climbing walls stretched thirty feet high, covered in colorful holds. Ropes hung from the ceiling. A few climbers worked various routes, their movements careful and deliberate.

Jake walked through the main area without stopping. He stopped at the edge of the advanced section in the back and pointed toward the far wall.

Sammi followed his gaze.

Katherine stood at the base of what looked like the most difficult route in the gym—an overhang section with widely spaced holds, the kind that required serious upper body strength and problem-solving just to attempt. She wore athletic clothes, her hair pulled back, chalk dust on her hands. She was checking her harness with practiced efficiency.

“Is that—” Sammi started.

“Just watch,” Jake said quietly.

Katherine stepped up to the wall and studied the route for ten seconds, reading it the way other people read books. Then she reached for the first hold.

Sammi’s mouth fell open.

Katherine moved up the wall with impossible precision, her body flowing from hold to hold. She reached for grips that seemed too far apart, core strength pulling her across the overhang without hesitation. flexibility and power adapting to each challenge.

Jake had seen this hundreds of times. In controlled environments like this gym. In the field, where the stakes were life or death and the walls weren’t equipped with safety holds. He’d seen Katherine scale embassy walls, apartment buildings, warehouse exteriors. Places that weren’t meant to be climbed, finding handholds in brick and stone that other operatives swore didn’t exist.

It still amazed him every single time.

Because it wasn’t just physical capability. It was the way her mind worked. The spatial awareness. The ability to see solutions in spaces that looked impossible. Reading the wall three moves ahead, positioning for problems she hadn’t reached yet. She could read a vertical surface the same way she read people. Seeing patterns, connections, possibilities that others missed.

This was what he’d wanted Sammi to see. Not the operational skills Katie kept carefully hidden behind “detective work” labels. But this—something she still let herself enjoy. Something that showed what she was capable of when she stopped holding back.

Katherine reached the top of the route and tagged the final hold. Then she rappelled down with the same controlled grace, her movements economical and precise.

When her feet touched the ground, she unclipped from the rope and reached for her water bottle.

That’s when she saw them.

Jake watched Katherine go still for just a moment. He could see her read the situation. He’d deliberately brought their newest team member to watch her climb.

She knew exactly what he was doing.

Katherine walked over, wiping chalk dust from her hands, her blue eyes assessing both of them.

“Jake.” Her tone was carefully neutral. “Sammi.”

“Hey, Katie.” Jake smiled. “Thought I’d show Sammi the gym. She mentioned she likes climbing.”

“That was incredible,” Sammi breathed. “I’ve never seen anyone climb like that.”

“It’s just practice.” Katherine took a drink from her water bottle. “Years of practice.”

“That’s not just practice,” Sammi said. “That’s—that’s like professional level.”

Katherine shrugged, but a slight smile touched her face. “I’ve been climbing since I was a kid. My grandfather thought it would be fun.”

And it had been, Jake knew. One of the few things Katherine had chosen for herself, not for training. She’d turned it into an operational tool later, used it on missions across three continents, but climbing had always been hers first.

“Do you come here a lot?” Sammi asked.

“Two or three times a week.” Katherine’s posture relaxed another degree. “It’s good exercise. Keeps me sharp.”

“She’s being modest,” Jake said, meeting Katherine’s eyes. Letting her know this was intentional. “Katie could probably teach the instructors here.”

Katherine shot him a look, but she didn’t contradict him. Didn’t shut it down.

That was permission. Or at least acceptance.

“I should get back to it,” Katherine said. “I’ve got another route to finish.”

“We won’t distract you.” Jake gestured to the seating area.

Katherine nodded and headed back to the wall. Within moments, she was climbing a different route, equally challenging.

Jake gave Sammi time to process. Katherine’s strength and grace, the problem-solving happening in real-time, capabilities that went far beyond recreational athletics.

“This is what you meant,” Sammi said quietly. “About skills.”

“One of them,” Jake confirmed. “Infiltration. Getting into places that should be impossible to access.” He paused, watching Katherine navigate a section that would have stopped most climbers cold. “Climbing’s one of the few things Katie still enjoys from those days.”

Sammi continued tracking Katherine’s progress up the wall. “Why this one? Why not the other skills?”

Jake considered how to answer that. “Because climbing’s just climbing. It doesn’t require her to be someone she’s afraid to be.”

Katherine was at the top of the route now, tagging the final hold with one hand, her body balanced perfectly against the overhang.

She finished the route and started a third one. Jake watched her climb. Up on the wall, Katherine was whole. No carefully acceptable pieces. Just all of her, the way she was supposed to be.

And she was letting Sammi see. She could have stopped. Made an excuse, left. Instead, she was climbing a third route.

“Come on,” he said finally. “Let’s get you home.”

Jake drove through the early evening traffic toward Sammi’s home.

“You and Margaret and Lee, you’re trying to help her remember who she was. Before,” Sammi said quietly.

Sharp kid.

“Yeah.” Jake pulled up in front of the Garcia house. “She’s told herself that detective skills are acceptable, operative skills get buried. We think it’s time she stopped splitting herself in half.”

Sammi unbuckled her seatbelt. “Jake? How good was she? Really. In her ESA days.”

Jake met her eyes. “The best I ever saw.”

Sammi nodded and got out.

Jake watched her head inside, then pulled back onto the road. Katie would have questions tomorrow. About the gym, about Sammi, about what he was trying to accomplish.

And he’d answer honestly.

Because small steps toward Katherine whole again, not hiding half of herself because she thought using those skills betrayed Daniel’s memory.

That was worth whatever lecture he’d get tomorrow.

My father passed away on September 1st after a battle with cancer. Three weeks later, I found myself sitting behind a table at the Midway Fall Festival. My books were arranged just so, but I struggled to remember how to talk to strangers about murder mysteries when all I could think about was death. The real kind, not the fictional kind I write about.

I was a zombie. I didn’t talk to the other authors. Sold maybe two books. And I don’t even remember the drive home.

If you’re a creative who’s experienced loss, you know this feeling. The world expects you to keep showing up. Book launches don’t reschedule themselves. Marketing plans don’t pause for heartbreak. And there’s this weird guilt that creeps in about trying to separate work from personal stuff.

Turns out, that’s not how grief works.

Early November, I did it again. An author room at a local craft fair with my Bluegrass Writer Coalition friends. This event was great business for me last year. I knew all the authors there, so I should have felt comfortable. I didn’t. The grief was still too raw. I hadn’t really started writing again, just some planning and an article or two. I sat with my books and tried to engage, but I was still underwater. Still masking to get by. Still not myself.

That’s when it hit me: grief doesn’t follow a marketing calendar. We put so much pressure on ourselves to “bounce back,” stay productive, or not let people down.

Then came Boston Crime Bake in early November. A mystery conference I’d been looking forward to, before my dad got sick. A dear friend drove me (I don’t fly), and we made it a road trip. Sightseeing before and after, just the two of us and her five-year-old son, whom I adore.

And something shifted.

Maybe it was being far from home, away from the constant reminders. Maybe it was being forced to listen to K-Pop Demon Hunters soundtrack for the first time.

But I think it was networking with other authors who didn’t know my story. No sympathetic looks, no assumptions, or preconceptions. Sometimes I feel more confident around people I’ve never met before. And interacting with other authors who share my fascination with poisons and art theft? That’s a special kind of inspiration.

The workshops pulled my brain back into mystery author mode instead of grieving daughter mode. The grief came with me, riding along quietly, but for the first time in weeks it wasn’t the only thing taking up space in my head. Spending almost a week with my best friend and her son away from home helped more than I expected.

When Writing Returns
(But Not the Way You Expected)

When I got home from that trip, I discovered that I wanted to write again.

The problem was what I wanted to write wasn’t the book I’d promised readers for January. You know, Beyond Tarnish, book three in the Carson Crime Files series. The one people are waiting for.

Instead, I found myself working on character backstory, a novelette, and other story ideas. It was enjoyable but scattered, and I kept avoiding the main project because the story I’d already plotted involves Katherine reliving the trauma of her parents’ deaths.

My dad didn’t die in the Colombian jungle when I was nine years old. But trauma is trauma, loss is loss, and sometimes fiction gets a little too close to reality. Even when the details are completely different. I just couldn’t bring myself to write the scenes I’d already outlined, not yet.

December 6th. Franklin County Band Booster event with my Bluegrass Writers Coalition friends.

This was the first author event since my father’s passing where I actually felt like myself. I enjoyed talking to people and genuinely wanted to share my books with them. The conversations with other authors felt natural instead of something I had to force myself through.

Small victory, but it showed me something I needed to see. Grief doesn’t stay at that initial overwhelming intensity forever. It starts to integrate, becomes part of your life instead of the thing that’s swallowing it whole.

The grief isn’t gone. It isn’t going anywhere. This holiday season is going to be rough. But I’m figuring out how to give myself more grace and work outside the lines I’d drawn for myself.

This is why I’m glad I chose to self-publish. Traditional publishing has its upsides, but flexibility isn’t really one of them. When you’re indie, you can adjust publication dates, be honest with readers about where you are, honor both your commitments and your need to be human about things.

So will I finish Beyond Tarnish by January 2025?

Ask me next month.

Here’s what I can tell you: when it comes, it’s going to be worth the wait. I’m not rushing, I’m not forcing words onto the page, and I’m writing from a place where the grief informs my work instead of overshadowing it. Katherine’s journey through trauma and healing means something different to me now than it did when I first outlined this third novel.

For Anyone Marketing Through Heartbreak

If you’re trying to promote your work while your heart is breaking, here’s what I want you to know:

You’re not failing. Grief and creativity don’t follow the same timeline. That’s okay.

Show up in whatever capacity you can. Some days that’s a full book signing. Some days it’s posting on social media. Some days it’s just not deleting your author accounts. Showing up while struggling actually is the productivity. All of it counts.

Give yourself permission to adjust. Deadlines aren’t more important than your mental health. Readers who matter will understand. And the ones who don’t are not your people anyway.

Find what helps your brain shift gears. For me, it was a conference away from home. For you, it might be something completely different. Trust yourself to know what you need.

Work on what calls to you. Even if it’s not the “right” project. Sometimes character backstory or a random novelette is exactly the creative energy you can handle. Honor that.

The strange dissonance of marketing books while grieving is real. You’re not imagining it, and you’re not alone in feeling it. Being present in whatever way you can manage is actually enough. We don’t have to choose between honoring our grief and honoring our creative work.

We can hold both. Imperfectly. With grace.

What about you? Have you navigated the challenge of maintaining your creative career during a season of loss? I’d love to hear how you handled both the struggles and the small victories.

This wasn't because I was squeamish about writing murder, or because I couldn't think of a good killing. It was because I wanted to prove something to myself and to readers about what crime fiction could be.

Most crime in real life doesn't involve murder. People embezzle money, commit fraud, engage in corporate espionage, run elaborate cons, and break hearts along with laws. These crimes have real victims and serious consequences, but they don't end with someone in a body bag. So why do so many mysteries default to murder?

The Non-Murder Experiment

"The Scheme" was my attempt to explore the vast landscape of crime beyond homicide. I wanted Katherine Carson's first recorded case to showcase different detective skills like pattern recognition, deductive reasoning, and good old fashioned persistence.

The Scheme dealt with fraud, identity theft, and financial manipulation. The stakes were high—people's life savings, their sense of security, their ability to trust—but nobody died. Katherine could use her interrogation skills to uncover lies, her investigation experience to follow complex paper trails, and her team's diverse expertise to solve a puzzle that was no less intricate for lacking a corpse.

I loved writing that story. It felt fresh and different, and it proved that Katherine Carson could anchor a compelling mystery without anyone getting murdered.

But reader reactions were... mixed.

Here’s what I learned from The Scheme: mystery readers carry decades of genre training, and bucking those expectations comes with a cost.

Some readers embraced the unconventional approach, but an equal number kept anticipating the body drop. They’d been conditioned by countless mystery novels to expect specific escalations, particular stakes. When those elements never showed up, some readers were disappointed.

“Well it isn’t a murder mystery,” I’d respond, but the explanation didn’t erase the disconnect. Readers choose mysteries anticipating specific thrills, particular flavors of danger. When you intentionally deny those elements, you’re asking them to reset their mental framework halfway through.

Their reaction isn’t unreasonable. Genre fiction works partly because of its reliable expectations. Romance readers crave the relationship payoff. Thriller readers hunt for adrenaline-pumping sequences. Mystery readers want the ultimate puzzle: who killed whom and why?

Why Framed Needed a Body

I always planned for Book 2 to be a murder mystery. Because like many readers, I am a fan of all the murder mystery tropes.

More importantly, Katherine’s character arc demanded it. As a former intelligence operative who lost her husband Daniel to violence, Katherine needed to confront the ultimate crime. Her grief, her guilt, and her determination to protect other widows like Misty Vanderlin—all of these elements required the gravity that only murder provides.

Writing murder mysteries versus non-murder crime fiction presents distinct challenges. With The Scheme, I had to work harder to maintain tension without the ticking clock of a killer on the loose. I had to make financial crimes feel as urgent as physical danger. I had to create emotional stakes that matched traditional mysteries' life-and-death situations.

With Framed, I faced different obstacles. How do you make a murder feel fresh in a genre saturated with bodies? How do you honor reader expectations while still surprising them? How do you balance the familiar pleasure of a classic whodunit with your own desire to innovate?

The answer came in the form of a specific setting and a unique character backstory. Katherine's espionage background and the art world's sophisticated facade let me give Framed distinctive elements within the familiar murder mystery structure.

What I've learned is that series evolution is about finding the balance between reader expectations and innovative thinking. The Scheme proved I could write compelling crime fiction without defaulting to murder. Framed proved I could write murder mysteries that felt personal and fresh.

As I plan future books, I'm not limiting myself to either murder or non-murder crimes. Some cases will demand bodies; others will demand different stakes entirely. What matters is matching the crime to the story Katherine needs to tell.

After all, the best mysteries aren't just about meeting genre expectations.

They're about exceeding them.

Happy Reading! Amethyst Drake

Award Announcement