The Pegasus Marshal's Mate (U.S. Marshal Shifters 2)

“Why, young man, are you going to track him down for me? Arrest him for not having come to a second meeting?”

Maybe.

“I don’t cooperate with any thuggish attempts by the government to squash free speech and assembly,” Florence said. “No offense intended, of course, and do have another cookie, but if you’re just after making sure that whoever recommended our little act of civil disobedience disappears into the hands of Big Brother, I’m sure I can’t help you.”

Tiffani interrupted by saying that if Florence didn’t mind, she thought she would take some cocoa after all. Florence, who clearly, prided herself on being a good hostess, softened immediately.

The two of them disappeared into the kitchen for a while and when they came back out, they were both smiling. Florence seemed much more relaxed.

She was more open to Tiffani—she was the nice young woman, while Martin was only her young man. He should have known he could trust Tiffani to pick up on that.

“Cocoa’s on,” she said to him cheerfully.” Balancing the cookie on a cocktail napkin on her knee, she said, “Getting back to where we were before, that isn’t what Martin is after, ma’am. No one wants to stop the Historical Society from meeting.”

“Please, call me Florence.”

“Florence. And I’m Tiffani.”

“I remember that now. Tiffani with an I.”

Her tone said she disapproved of the spelling and wanted them to know it even though she was too polite to say so.

“Martin is a US Marshal, Florence, that’s true, and he is here because of his job, but—maybe you heard that we had a bomb threat at the courtroom yesterday?”

Florence admitted she had heard something like that. “But it all turned out to be a hoax.”

“We are ninety-nine percent sure it was a prank,” Tiffani said, nodding. “But then, the next day, we have another courtroom disruption—if it’s just a protest, then everything’s fine. But if someone specifically nudged you to protest when, where, and how you did—”

“Then,” Martin said, “that could mean that someone is testing how the courthouse responds. First to a threat, then to an actual disturbance. And in both cases, of course, nothing happens. Someone could be feeling out our defenses while we get more and more persuaded that this is just a cursed trial that’s going to attract all kinds of strange things. Then maybe we don’t jump when we really need to.”

He was impressed. He hadn’t even had time to explain his worries to Tiffani, and she had grasped them anyway. If it weren’t a huge conflict of interest, he would have tried to hire her on the spot.

“We’re only asking because we care about keeping everyone safe,” Tiffani said. “We want to make sure that there’s no chance that whoever showed up to that one Historical Society meeting was whoever also called the courthouse with a bomb threat.”

Florence had a pugnacious jaw, one that suggested she could defy any amount of pressure they could bring to bear. It insisted that if she decided to help them, it would only be because her conscience told her to.

With that in mind, Martin didn’t want to risk saying anything else. Tiffani clearly felt the same, because the two of them just waited in silence for Florence to make up her mind.

Then Florence stood. “Well, I don’t remember his name,” she said. “I think it started with a T—but he would have signed the guestbook. I’ll go and get it.”

“Thank you so much,” Tiffani said.

“Yes, thank you, ma’am,” Martin added.

He, after all, hadn’t been invited to call her Florence. She didn’t invite him to do so now, either. He felt like he was on probationary status with her and therefore barred from taking another cookie after all.

Florence left the parlor and bustled around for a moment out of sight before returning with a heavy, leathe

r-bound book. Martin wouldn’t have been surprised to have learned it was made out of vellum and the names were signed only in blood. The Historical Society clearly wasn’t to be trifled with.

“Here we go,” Florence said, oblivious to their awe. She flipped open the book towards the end and ran her finger down the page. “Two prepatory meetings this week and then, ah, last week’s meeting. He came in a little late, so his name would be the last—” She broke off suddenly.

Martin’s blood ran cold. “What is it?”

“But that’s not right,” Florence said slowly. “He wasn’t there. I would have remembered that, certainly. And it would be too much of a coincidence...”

Martin couldn’t wait any longer. He took the book from her hands as gently as he could and turned it around so he could read the neat column of names.

At the very bottom of last week’s attendance record: