He could have kissed her.

“Tiffani says that there’s not anything going on right now to outrage them, either. So what I want to know is what made them decide that this courtroom, this trial, is where they wanted to make their stand. There are a lot of places in Sterling where you can find a decent-sized crowd, and in most of them, you wouldn’t risk being taken out in handcuffs. Who was the woman who was leading them?”

“Florence Edmondson,” Colby said instantly. “She’s a real firecracker.”

“Get me her address, would you?”

“On it. I’ll text it to you. And—sorry. I should have thought to ask.”

“I wouldn’t have thought of it myself if I hadn’t spent half of dinner talking about coin collecting.”

“Tiffani collects coins? Ask her if she has any Ben Franklin half-dollars!”

He learned something new about his team every day.

So he didn’t burst Colby’s bubble immediately, he said, “I’ll let you know,” and hung up.

He looked at Tiffani.

“I know I already owe you two kinds of dessert, so I can’t believe I’m saying this, but do you want to come with me to talk to the head of the Historical Society?”

Tiffani patted her mouth dry with her napkin and folded it beside her plate. The smile on her face was so wide anyone would have thought Martin had offered to whisk her away to the Caribbean.

“I’d love to.”

*

Florence Edmondson lived in exactly the kind of house she fought so hard to preserve, and it was impossible to miss how much love and attention had gone into keeping it up. The Victorian gingerbread trim was freshly painted, the steps leading up to the porch had been sanded smooth, and there was a stained glass window set in the front door that looked like a real antique. Martin could see the bubbles in it from where a real glassblower had done their work. It was, of course, polished to a shine.

Martin rang the doorbell.

“It’s late,” Tiffani said, checking her watch. “Almost nine. She might have gone to bed.”

But a light clicked on the entryway and then Florence opened the door. She had changed into a housecoat of the kind Martin hadn’t seen in years, but she at least didn’t look like they had woken her up.

She blinked at them a little owlishly for a moment and then said, “Oh, yes, the nice young lady from the courtroom and her young man. I hope you haven’t come to arrest me after all.”

“No, ma’am,” Martin said. He was privately delighted at having been identified as Tiffani’s young man. “And we’re sorry to bother

you. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“Well, come on in. You’re letting all the cold air out.”

There was no quick way to ask Florence Edmondson his questions, because first she insisted on sitting them down in her parlor. Then she insisted on them admiring that it was what she called a “genuine, no-fooling” parlor, down to the wrought iron grate on the fireplace and the clutter of carefully preserved knickknacks.

Then she had to bring in a plate of cookies—“These aren’t homemade, but who has the time for that nowadays? I’m up sunrise to sunset trying to keep civilization intact”—and glasses of water for them both.

“A little late for coffee or tea, I suppose,” she said. “But I could put on the kettle and make hot cocoa.”

“It’s really fine,” Martin said hastily.

When they were all seated, refreshed, and educated on the history of her home, Florence said, “Now, young man. What questions did you have for me?”

Instinct told Martin not to just jump in, however much he wanted to. He took a bite of one of her shortbread cookies and praised it. That wasn’t hard: it was one of the best things he’d ever tasted. He might have to start coming to Historical Society meetings after all.

He said, “Has the Historical Society had any protests like this before?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “We’ve had protests aplenty. But usually they’ve been more... reactive. Chaining ourselves to gates and fences, collecting signatures to protest against the historic waterfront being destroyed by a land deal that’s already in the works. This was the first recruitment rally we’ve done.”

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