Case of the Poison Powder Chapter 4
Margaret Mitchell Mysteries - The cozy cousin of Carson Crime Files
The Case of the Poison Powder
(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!
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Margaret Mitchell, her white terrier Spotty, and her gang at the local nursing home tackle Baltimore mysteries with pluck, perception, and palaver.
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