CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
The Pemberton home sat on at least two acres in one of Richmond's most exclusive neighborhoods, where houses were positioned far enough apart to ensure privacy and close enough to the city center to maintain prestige.
The brick exterior was painted a soft cream color that complemented the forest green shutters and the perfectly manicured landscaping.
Mature boxwood hedges lined the front walkway, and seasonal flowers had been arranged in decorative planters that probably cost more than most people's monthly mortgage payments.
She was excited to be working on it, but at the same time, it was a bit daunting.
She found herself surprisingly nervous as she opened the van's rear doors and surveyed the carefully arranged inventory inside.
Fabric samples, paint cards, furniture catalogs, and measuring tools—they were organized in portable cases that allowed her to transform any client's living room into a professional design consultation space.
She'd built her business, New Beginnings Home Design, on the ability to help clients reimagine their living spaces during major life transitions.
The irony of the company name wasn't lost on her.
She selected the materials she'd need for today's appointment and loaded them into a wheeled case.
The Pembertons were simply redecorating their master bedroom and main living areas, nothing complicated or emotionally charged.
Mrs. Pemberton had mentioned during their phone call that their youngest daughter had recently graduated from college and moved to Seattle, but they seemed to be handling the empty nest transition well.
They weren't inviting anyone back home, weren't struggling with anxiety about their changing family dynamics, and probably weren't taking prescription medications to cope with the stress.
In other words, they weren't candidates for her more specialized services. This job would be only about… well, her job.
Margaret had learned to recognize the difference between clients who were simply redecorating and those who were dealing with deeper emotional transitions. The latter group was much more interesting to work with, though for reasons the clients themselves never suspected.
Before gathering her materials and heading to the front door, Margaret pulled out her phone and opened her browser.
She'd developed a routine of checking local news websites before each appointment, partly to stay informed about her community and partly to monitor whether any of her recent projects had reached their intended conclusion.
She typed "Richmond obituaries" into the search bar and scanned the results, looking for familiar names among the recent death announcements. It was always satisfying to see that her work had been effective, though she was careful not to display any inappropriate reactions when she found what she was looking for. She saw nothing there, so she then turned to the world’s most efficient conveyor of breaking news: Facebook.
And after just two minutes of searching, she found a result… and an unexpected one.
Linnda Harper was dead.
Linda had died just yesterday, according to the announcement. The timing was remarkably fast, much quicker than Margaret had anticipated when she'd visited Linda's home three days ago.
She remembered the consultation clearly.
Linda had been so excited about her son's upcoming return from rehab, so hopeful about the converted garage apartment she'd been preparing for him.
She'd hired Margaret to help select paint colors and furniture arrangements that would make the space feel welcoming but not overwhelming for someone in early recovery.
"I want Ben to feel supported but not smothered," Linda had told her, running her hand along the freshly painted walls of the garage conversion. "This is his chance to start over, and I want everything to be perfect for him."
Margaret had smiled and nodded, offering suggestions about lighting and fabric choices that would create a calming environment.
She'd praised Linda's dedication to her son's recovery and had listened sympathetically as Linda described the stress and anxiety she'd been experiencing during Ben's addiction struggles.
"It's been so hard," Linda had confided. "I've been seeing a therapist, and she's prescribed medication to help with the panic attacks. But honestly, some days I don't know how I've gotten through it."
That had been the opening Margaret needed.
While Linda was distracted by fabric samples, Margaret had excused herself to use the bathroom and had taken a brief detour through Linda's bedroom.
The prescription bottle for Atenolol had been sitting on the nightstand, exactly where Margaret had expected to find it, but there were also anxiety medications.
It was the sort of seemingly harmless medication that was becoming more and more common in American households.
Anxiety meds were perfect for her purposes because the capsules were small and similar enough to her specially prepared capsules that the substitution would go unnoticed.
Margaret had quickly opened the bottle and added three of her poisoned pills to the legitimate medication, mixing them in so they would be indistinguishable from the real ones.
Linda would have no way of knowing that some of her pills now contained a lethal combination of potassium chloride and sedatives instead of anxiety medication.
The beauty of the method was its unpredictability.
Margaret had no control over when Linda would take one of the poisoned pills, but she didn't need control.
She just needed patience… and she had that to spare.
The death would appear natural, a heart attack brought on by the anxiety Linda had been struggling with for months.
What Margaret hadn't expected was how quickly it would happen. Three days was remarkably fast, suggesting that Linda had been taking her medication more frequently than prescribed, probably due to the stress of preparing for Ben's return from rehab. Or she’d just been unfortunate enough to grab one of Margaret’s special pills right away.
Margaret closed the browser and slipped her phone back into her purse.
The Pemberton consultation was scheduled to last two hours, which would give her plenty of time to assess whether they might be candidates for her more specialized services.
But based on their initial conversation, they seemed to be adjusting well to their empty nest status.
They had plans for travel, hobbies they wanted to pursue, and a social circle that would help them navigate this new phase of their lives.
They were probably going to be disappointed with her services, actually. Margaret's expertise was in helping people through difficult family transitions, not in simple redecorating projects for well-adjusted empty nesters.
Margaret gathered her materials and headed toward the front door of the Pemberton house, her professional smile already in place.
She would spend the morning discussing paint colors and furniture arrangements, taking measurements, and offering suggestions that would help her clients create the living space they wanted.
But part of her attention would remain focused on identifying her next extra-curricular project.
Somewhere in Richmond, there was another parent struggling with an adult child's return home, another family dealing with the stress and anxiety that came with trying to rebuild relationships damaged by addiction, mental illness, or simple failure to launch.
And when she found them, Margaret would be ready to offer her specialized form of mercy, whether they knew they needed it or not.
The Pemberton consultation would be routine and professional. But Margaret's real work, her true calling, would continue as soon as she identified the next family that could benefit from her intervention.
She pressed the doorbell and waited for Mrs. Pemberton to answer, her portfolio of fabric samples and design ideas ready to transform another living space. But her thoughts remained focused on Linda Harper.
Some projects, Margaret reflected, simply worked out better than others.