“I need to see Detective Chief Inspector Paddington.”

The assistant pushed her glasses up with an index finger. “He’s busy, Mrs. Graham.”

“It’s critical that I speak to someone. You see, I found—”

“The D.C.I. will get to you when he has a moment, flower. Or you can return when—”

Molly couldn’t stand it anymore. “Can I use a phone? Please?”

The assistant gestured to a desk overflowing with papers and used foam cups. “You can use that one.”

Molly was quick to punch in the numbers. “Michael. No, I’m not using my mobile. It fell off the side of the cliff where I was hiking. I’d pulled it out to call you and the D.C.I., but I dropped it.”

“Molly, are you all right? You sound upset,” Michael said.

“I’m fine, really. It’s just… I’m at the police station…to report a dead body.”

Cast of Characters

Michael and Molly Graham—The young couple have come to Blackpool for a simpler life… Only, things in the small town are anything but simple.

D.C.I. Paddington—The stolid inspector has a laid-back approach to investigation—so laid-back that it’s fuelled rumors he’s only in Blackpool to bide his time until retirement.

The Crowes—The members of the Crowe family are reputed to have more secrets than they have money. And they keep both very well.

Dennis Carteret and Percy Lethbridge—The two men are members of the planning board for Blackpool’s harbor renovation—but they hadn’t planned on a conspiracy.

Rosamund Carteret—Dennis’s only child, and his world. The teenager lost her mother when she was very young, and Dennis would do anything to shield her from further suffering.

Francis Weymouth—He says his only ambition is to protect the environment, though he seems awfully cozy with the media. And very antagonistic toward Molly.

Rohan Wallace—The Jamaican émigré came to Blackpool to work, but lately he and Michael have become obsessed with the legend of Charles Crowe’s stolen gypsy gold. Is his interest purely recreational?

Greed, jealousy, betrayal, trickery, murder—secrets are the heart of Blackpool.

Submerged
Jordan Gray

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER ONE

MOLLY GRAHAM CAME TO a shaky stop in front of an old Victorian on Walnut Grove, steeling herself to go inside Blackpool’s police station. Except for the modest sign near the walk, a passerby wouldn’t have thought it anything other than a stately old house with a primrose garden in need of serious weeding. The white paint was peeling in places around the cornices on the second floor.

In contrast, the inside was completely modern, though nothing she would call “state of the art.” There was a drop ceiling in the main room, and fluorescent lights hung from it. The air was filled with the scent of lavender and Lysol, and an underlying acrid pong of cigarette smoke. Not that anyone could smoke in the building, but she knew that a scattering of officers and assistants did so elsewhere, and the odor clung to their clothes.

The assistant at the front desk—the only person Molly spotted this afternoon—was a petite woman who would have been forced into retirement years ago, had she been with a larger city’s police department. She looked at Molly through wire-rimmed trifocals, tucked a few wisps of iron-gray hair behind one ear and waited for Molly to speak.

Molly drew a calming breath. “I need to see Detective Chief Inspector Paddington.”

The woman pushed her glasses up with an index finger. “He’s busy, Mrs. Graham.”

Although Molly didn’t know the woman, she wasn’t surprised the assistant recognized her; Molly had her picture in the newspaper enough times, especially recently. She wished it had more to do with the grants that she had helped to secure for the town, but to Molly and her husband, Michael’s, dismay, their notoriety seemed to stem from a series of local murders and mysteries that they had solved—which brought Molly back to why she was here.

“This is very important.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“Please, can you tell him—”

“Is it a life-and-death emergency?”

“Yes.” A pause. “Well, not exactly, but—”

“Then take a seat, flower, and he’ll get to you when he has time.”

Trying to find some composure, Molly brushed her fingers along the edge of the desk. It was walnut, with a heavy lacquer on it, handmade by a craftsman and not mass-produced in some factory like the rest of the desks in the small department. She wondered if it had come with the house when the city bought it for the station.

“How about Sergeant Krebs? I could talk to her.”

“You could if she wasn’t busy, too.” The woman made a huffing sound. “They’re both occupied because of you, Mrs. Graham. They’re in a meeting about tomorrow’s big marina to-do.”

“It’s critical that I speak to someone. You see, I found—”

“I’m sure it is. Everything you do is momentous, isn’t it, Mrs. Graham? But I’m sure this is nothing that can’t wait, eh?”

Molly felt a surge of panic. “How about another officer? I don’t care which one, but—”

The woman shook her head and eased back from her desk. The glasses had slid halfway down her nose, and she pushed them up again. “The D.C.I. will get to you when he has a moment, flower. Or you can return when—”

Molly couldn’t stand it anymore. “Can I use a phone? Please.”

The assistant gestured to a desk overflowing with papers and used foam cups. The tag on it read Sergeant Merle Oates. “You can use that one…if it’s a local call.”

Molly was quick to punch in the numbers. She tapped her fingers on the only empty spot on the desk. “C’mon, c’mon. Iris? Put Michael on.” She drummed faster. “Michael? No, I’m not using my mobile. It fell off the side of the cliff where I was hiking. I’d pulled it out to call you and the D.C.I., but I dropped it.”

“Molly, are you all right? You sound upset,” Michael said.

“I’m fine, really. It’s just…I’m at the police station…to report a dead body.” Molly noticed the old woman quickly pick up her own phone. “I’m going back out there to try to figure out who it is and what happened. I should’ve done that right away, I guess, poked around, but I didn’t want to disturb anything before the police looked it over.”

“What? A body? Molly, slow down—”

“I didn’t get that close, but I think he must have slipped and cracked his head open on a rock. It isn’t an easy hiking trail, you know, even for a young person in good shape. Paddington’s too busy right now to deal with it so I’m going back on my own.”

“No, don’t go by yourself. I’ll meet you there. Where is it?” Michael asked.

Relief flooded over her. “It’s out by Jack Hawkins’s nose. See you soon, love.”

Molly raced out the front door, feet flying down the steps. She slid into her car just as D.C.I. Paddington and Sergeant Krebs ran out a side door.

“Molly!” Paddington waved at her. “Wait, Molly!”

She had the top down on her Mini Cooper, and she twisted in the seat toward him.

“What’s this about reporting a murder?” Paddington demanded.

Gripping the car, he loomed over her. Krebs, half his age and size, stayed a step back and regarded her reflection in the Mini Cooper’s gloss paint.

“A dead body,” Molly corrected. “I was hiking—”

“—out by Hawkins’s nose,” Krebs interrupted. “That’s what Evelyn told us.”

Paddington raised a bushy eyebrow at Krebs.

“Yes, that’s where I was.” Molly started the car. “Follow me, I’ll show you. I believe the man slipped. Like I told Michael, it’s not an easy trail, and it’s not well marked.”

Paddington nodded and turned toward a nearby police cruiser, Krebs not far behind. Molly eased away from the curb, not waiting for Paddington to change his mind and order her to stay away.

She kept the top down, even though it felt a little chilly this late in the afternoon. The car had been a gift from Michael last year, and it gave her comfort as she drove toward the horror she’d discovered earlier.

Molly kept to the speed limit, no easy feat. But she needed to give Paddington and Krebs a chance to catch up. Besides, the dead body wasn’t going anywhere. As Molly headed down Walnut Grove and turned on Main, she noticed a police cruiser pull up behind her; it looked like Krebs was driving—no flashers or siren.

They wound their way to the southern outskirts of Blackpool and onto an access road that ran along the cliffs.

Molly often found excuses to drive this road during the late spring because of the colors—leaves greening and flowers springing up everywhere. That’s why she’d gone hiking this afternoon. It had been too lovely to pass the time indoors. That, and she wanted a distraction to keep her mind off tomorrow’s groundbreaking ceremony for the harbor renovation.

She considered this part of the countryside especially stunning. From here it looked like all of Blackpool was a watercolor painting and the buildings, with their colorful red roofs, seemed to be tumbling down the cobbled streets toward the sea.

After a few more minutes she pulled onto a narrow strip of gravel and waited for the cruiser to stop behind her, trying not to think about what awaited them. She got out and walked toward the edge of the cliff. The sun, just starting to set, turned the waves a glimmering copper down below.

“What were you doing way out here?” The question came from Krebs, who had silently appeared behind her. The policewoman verged on petite, but she had a masculine look about her, with a square jaw and short-cropped hair.

“To enjoy the day and St. Hilda’s Serpents,” Molly answered.

“Fossils,” Paddington explained, joining them. “Blackpool has one of the richest coasts for fossils on the north shore of England.”

Krebs snorted. “Fossils.”

Ignoring her, Paddington continued. “At low tide in the rock pools, coiled ammonites, nicknamed St. Hilda’s Serpents, can be found. I used to look myself once in a while…but in places where the trails are a little friendlier.”

Molly heard the approach of a motorcycle and spun to see Michael pull up.

“Wonderful,” Krebs growled. “Might as well invite the whole town.”

“Afternoon, Michael,” Paddington greeted, then turned to Molly. “Show me this dead body. I want to take a look before I call the coroner. Hopefully we can get this wrapped up before we lose the light.”

“Is anyone else joining us?” Krebs asked Molly. “Did you invite more people, Mrs. Graham?”

Molly didn’t bother to answer. She started picking her way down the side of the cliff, pointing to her left and right at narrow spots they should avoid.

There were only a few handrails along this trail. In her opinion they marred the scenery, but made it a little safer for the less surefooted hikers—and now the police.

Michael nimbly stepped around Paddington and joined Molly. Experienced hikers, the Grahams were familiar with the long, winding trails that cut across the entire coastline, including this section.

The handrails stopped when the trail became steeper, discouraging the less proficient hikers from going further.

“Pretty desolate here,” Michael observed.

“And beautiful,” Molly added. There were a few cottages along the ridge farther to the south, and soft glows came from some of the windows. The air was clean here, and the wind carried a slight chill. It smelled of salt and rocks and felt good against her face.

“Careful,” Michael cautioned Paddington.

The D.C.I. motioned for Krebs to stay behind him. “Two more years,” he grumbled. “Two more bloody years.”

“Not much farther!” Molly called several minutes later.

“What!” Paddington said. “If we keep going we’ll be in the sea.”

“Here.” Molly stopped on a meter-wide ledge and pointed. “He’s down there, see?”

“Not yet,” Paddington said.

Michael maneuvered around Molly so they were out of the D.C.I.’s way.

“Should’ve called Oates to handle this.” Paddington leaned over and peered at the rocky terrain below and a thin strip of rock covered with scree. “Is that a footprint? It’s as dry as Ghandi’s flip-flop here. Hasn’t rained in days.” He took a few more steps down and reached out a hand as if to catch himself. “I’ll probably take a tumble and ice myself, and you berks will be left with Krebs.”

Molly quietly watched him as she inched forward. She noticed Krebs was staying farther up on what passed for a trail. “See him yet?”

There was a shuffling sound, the click-click-click of a rock caroming down the cliff from Paddington’s movements. Nobody else even breathed, and the sounds around Molly seemed to intensify—the lapping of the sea against the base of the cliff, the cry of some bird, farther away was the shushing sound of a car driving by up on the main road, and fainter came a dog barking.

“Yes, I see the poor bloke,” Paddington finally said. “Now, how the hell am I going to get to him?” He looked up. “Sergeant Krebs…call it in and notify the coroner.”

The D.C.I. managed to get on his hands and knees and lever himself over the edge of the cliff. Molly and Michael joined him and hovered, hands out to grab him if it looked as if he was going to slip.

Paddington scrambled onto the lower ledge. “And Krebs? Get Oates out here and tell him to bring some ropes with him.” Molly started down the last section just as he added, “You two, stay there.”

Seconds later when she knelt beside him, he shook a scolding finger at her. “I thought I ordered you to keep back.”

“Sorry.”

“Jack Hawkins’s nose, eh?”

She nodded to a long, bulbous rocky outcropping that shadowed the body.

“The actor from Middlesex,” Michael explained. He stayed on the rocks above them, recognizing there was not enough space for all of them. “He was in Lawrence of Arabia, Ben-Hur, Zulu, The Bridge on the River Kwai…”

Molly was shoulder-to-shoulder with Paddington, and now could see the body clearly. The dead man had looked elderly to her, but she hadn’t been that close when she’d first spotted him. Now she realized that he was quite young, and she’d been confused by the rock dust on his skin and all the bruises. His clothes were rumpled and torn from the fall, his legs and arms twisted, and already the hungry, curious sea birds had inflicted damage on his body. She wrinkled her nose at the foul stench and sucked in a breath when she spotted a small crab crawl out of his mouth and scurry away.

“I’d say late twenties,” Paddington said. “Maybe thirty, but no older than that.” If the odor bothered Paddington, he didn’t let it show. “Tennis shoes.”

New-looking ones, Molly noted, but a cheap brand. Molly knew shoes. “Not what I’d wear to hike this cliff,” she remarked. Actually, not what she’d ever wear.

“Been dead two, three days, I’d wager.”

“That recent?” Molly was surprised by Paddington’s assessment. The body looked so decomposed she would have thought it had been here weeks or months.

“But how—”

“The sea air,” Paddington explained as he pulled a pen out and used it to open the flap of the dead man’s shirt pocket and fish around inside. “Bodies decay fast in the open. The salt, the water spraying up here, the birds and crabs, other scavengers. Two days, maybe three at the outside, but the coroner will tell us for sure. Poor bloke.” He searched the other pocket. “Empty. Figures.”

Molly stared at the top of the corpse’s head. That way she could avoid looking into its empty eye sockets. She’d read somewhere that birds went for the eyes first. “All this blood…” she said. “I figured he had been hiking and fell, hit his head.” The rock beneath the body was stained dark. She suspected there’d been more blood, but the sea spray had no doubt washed some of it away.

After pulling on gloves, Paddington gently examined the corpse’s skull. “Oh, he hit his head all right, and broke a few other bones in the process. But he was dead before that.” He pointed to the man’s neck, moving the shirt collar open and exposing the jagged line across the man’s throat.

Molly felt bile rising in her mouth when she tried looking away and her gaze passed over the eye sockets again. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea, climbing down here with the D.C.I. Maybe she should have just given him directions.

“Slit all the way across,” Paddington pronounced. “That’s what killed him. This young fellow was murdered.” He angled around to the other side of the body and shifted it to check the pants’ pockets.

“No wallet, no ID, a couple of folded euros and a green tin of chewing tobacco.” He straightened and regarded Molly. “Maybe he wasn’t carrying a wallet. Or maybe the killer took it.”

“So you don’t know who he was.”

“No.” Paddington turned to stare out to sea. “But I’ll make short work of it, no doubt. It’ll give me something to do…not that I need anything else with that big marina to-do of yours tomorrow. It’s going to be quite the show, I’m sure….”

CHAPTER TWO

MOLLY COULDN’T SMELL the fish, though she normally smelled nothing but when she came to the marina.

Today, the perfumes and aftershaves of the crowd overpowered any hint of fish, though Molly could still detect the scent of sizzling bacon from a dockside café still serving breakfast and a sudden belch of diesel fumes from a tourist bus that had pulled up.

The sounds were almost as overwhelming as the smells. The radio on the bus blared Topley-Bird’s vocals on Massive Attack’s “Psyche.” The chatter of people moving past her sounded like swarms of insects, their monotone buzzing interspersed with the bass bleat of a tugboat out in the harbor. In the distance came the wail of an ambulance siren.

Molly raised her eyes to appreciate the fine weather, the bright sky full of beggar gulls. It was a perfect day for the official groundbreaking—the few clouds thin and high with no hint of rain. The pleasant temperature had helped to lure much of the town to this spot for the ceremony that would officially announce a major overhaul of the harbor. Molly had written the grant proposals to secure the funds, and was excited to see the work begin.

Beside her, Michael was clearly not as enrapt. Her husband was talking into his mobile about the computer game he was designing, something called “Dead Space.”

“Michael, can’t you put work aside for just a little while?” Molly tugged on his arm and steered him through a group of red-hatted ladies who were all on the far side of middle age.

“Hold a moment, please,” he said into the phone. He winked at her. “I shouldn’t work? You’re working.” A boyish expression spread across his handsome face. He waved his free arm to encompass the gathering on the dock. “You’ll be working most of the day.”

“Well…yes…sort of,” she reluctantly admitted. “Though I’d rather be looking into the murder.”

“Grisly pastime that. I think I’d rather you be here, appreciating the results of all your efforts. Admit it, you’re chuffed to bits by all of this.”

Molly had to agree that she was pleased. But she also wished this event was next week, not today. While she was happy about these festivities, her curiosity about the dead man was eating at her. She wanted to be talking to people who lived in the area about the murdered man’s identity, maybe fishermen who might have seen him on the cliff…and who might also have spotted his killer.

But she did have a right to be proud today. The buzzing crowds were turning Blackpool’s docks into a carnival atmosphere and it was largely because of her. She didn’t object to standing in the spotlight, and actually relished being the center of attention from time to time. It made her feel necessary, and she liked to think she was leaving her mark on the world, something to indicate she’d made a difference.

Michael ended his phone conversation, promising to call back someone named Alvin to discuss the effects of faster-than-light travel on zombie astronauts. He stuffed the iPhone in his front pocket. “You’re practically glowing,” he said. “You put Lily Donaldson to shame today, Molly.”

Molly struggled to avoid smiling. Inwardly she beamed at being compared to a young British super-model. “I’ll never be that skinny,” she protested.

“Lord, I wouldn’t want you to. You’re perfect the way you are.”

Molly had put extra effort into her appearance this morning. She’d had her hair and makeup done at seven, the stylist opening an hour early to accommodate her, and she wore a new ivory-colored blouse over dark green pants that Iris had pressed, so a faultless crease ran down the front. She carried a light tweed jacket and a new leather handbag was looped over her shoulder. It matched the shoes that she’d been wearing around the house for a few days to break them in.

She’d kept the jewelry simple: a black onyx set in a pendant hung from a fine silver chain around her neck; small hoop earrings, difficult to see beneath her hair; her wedding ring, of course, and on the other hand a pearl set in a bronze twist that fit her index finger. They were among her favorite pieces, and she considered them lucky.

She wanted positive coverage from the reporters. At least they’d be concentrating fully on the marina, since Paddington had released nothing yet about the murder. She knew there would be some media in attendance, scattered throughout the harbor, and she hoped to look her best—but not overdone—on camera. Business-casual, they called it in the States. Michael, however, was wearing casual-casual, new jeans and a polo shirt.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in such a crowd,” he continued. “Well, at least not in Blackpool. See what you have wrought, Molly!”

Molly’s background in public relations and grant writing had served Blackpool well on a few previous occasions, but she’d outdone herself this time by landing an impressive government-administered “green grant” that would cover a good portion of renovation to the town’s docks and marina. She’d secured some matching local pledges, too, including a hefty one she and Michael had put up. The planning committee was responsible for the project now, but Molly’s name was still very much attached to it in the news coverage.

“I wonder how long it will take the D.C.I. to learn who that man was,” she mused to Michael.

“It’ll take as long as it takes,” Michael said, keeping his voice low. “Paddington’s pretty efficient. I have to admit, though, I would rather be poking around about the murder than here rubbing shoulders with the local officials and media.”

Not only had this event caught the attention of regional newspapers, as well as magazines and television stations, but rumor also had it that someone from the History Channel would be filming.

“Good thing the reporters haven’t heard about the dead man. Let them concentrate on your grants, Molly.”

“Focus on good news for a change, huh?” Molly scanned the crowd. She recognized people everywhere she turned. They were dressed informally for the most part, though she could see that the planning board members, town councilmen, business owners and the like had taken their appearance up a notch because of all the cameras.

There were tourists as well, like the group who’d filed off the bus.

And then there were the Gypsies. Her stomach twisted into a knot when she spied a group of them on the dock. They weren’t wearing coin belts and scarflike skirts or carrying tambourines as the movies portrayed them. In fact, they could have passed for tourists were it not for their exaggerated, mismatched garb, long hair, gold hoop earrings and swarthy complexions.

They were relatively new to Blackpool, and rumor had it that they were after the gold that the town’s founder, Charles Crowe, had stolen from their ancestors. The tallest one, who was about six feet, walked with a swagger and gestured wildly.

His name was Stefan Draghici, and she’d heard from the town gossips that he was the head of the family that was staying in Blackpool. His hair, cascading in coarse curls down to the middle of his back, was as dark as his eyes. Not a trace of gray in it, though she guessed him to be in his fifties. Draghici’s two sons and his wife must be nearby. She saw his daughter, Anjeza, dressed provocatively and drawing stares from Blackpool’s young men. The girl was, indeed, beautiful. The family reminded Molly of bloodhounds hot on a scent, though she wondered if the gold they were after really existed.

Well, they weren’t going to find any gold on the docks. But they’d certainly get publicity if they wanted it.

Michael noticed the focus of her attention. “Easy,” he said. “The Draghicis are probably down here to see what’s going on. Just like everyone else.”

“Yeah, I suppose. But I doubt they’re really in town for the groundbreaking.” She sidestepped a group of the red-hatted ladies, all of them dressed in varying shades of purple and wearing buttons proclaiming themselves the Brighton Belles.

“There she is!” shouted a silver-haired man with a camera perched on his shoulder. “There’s Molly Graham!”

A young woman holding a microphone shouldered her way past him and headed straight toward Molly. The reporter was dressed in a pale blue suit and had dark red lipstick that made Molly think she’d been sucking on a cherry Popsicle.

She swung to Molly’s side, held up the mike and adjusted her hair. “Jennessee Stanwood with Channel M of the Guardian Media Group, reporting live from Blackpool.” Jennessee stared straight into the camera.

Channel M was out of Manchester. Not one of the major stations there. Still, it was significant that they’d sent someone to cover the ceremony.

She tried to read the numbers and letters on the other cameras in the mix and spied an older reporter talking to one of the Blackpool planning board members a few yards away. With all the noise she couldn’t catch what they were saying.

“With me is Molly Graham, the woman who landed the grant to cover this renovation of the town’s historic and notorious harbor.” Jennessee droned on for another few moments, and then turned slightly to Molly, holding the microphone just under her chin. “Can you tell us why, Mrs. Graham, you’ve spent so much time working on this grant? I understand you were not paid to do this, and that you personally won’t make any profit from the construction.”

Molly saw Michael inch away, heading toward the café while pulling his iPhone out of his pocket, no doubt to talk about space-faring undead.

“I love Blackpool,” Molly began, “and I have experience going after grants. This one…”

“Six hundred and fifty thousand pounds, correct? And some matching local money on top of that?”

Molly nodded. “Which certainly will not cover everything, but will ensure that the history of the marina is preserved, keeping the original construction of the buildings intact, down to the hardwood floors, fixtures, tin ceilings in some cases. At the same time, we’re protecting the ecological integrity of the harbor, the whole wharf area. It’s an ambitious plan that—”

“Preserve history?” The voice cut loudly above the various conversations that floated in the air. “Preserve history?” The crowd quieted.

Molly couldn’t see the speaker at first, but a few heartbeats later he shouldered his way through the throng, the red-hatted ladies parting like the Red Sea to allow him passage.

It was Barnaby Stone, who owned a bait-and-tackle shop on the wharf.

“You’re not preserving anything, Molly Graham!”

The cameraman spun to record Barnaby, red-faced and shaking his fist. He had come dressed for the event in worn blue jeans and a bright yellow T-shirt with “Barnaby’s Bait” emblazoned in black letters on it.

Molly’s shoulders slumped. Barnaby had been one of the project’s opponents in the town meetings, but he’d never been this vocal.

The reporter stepped away from Molly and toward Barnaby, holding the microphone out.

“So much for focusing on the good news for a change,” Molly grumbled.

Other reporters jockeyed to get closer to Barnaby.

Jennessee smiled sweetly. “Could you tell us, Mr.—”

Barnaby didn’t give her a chance to finish the sentence. He plowed on with his rant, the camera getting every juicy word and catching every piece of spittle that flew from his bulbous lips.

“Ecology? Preserving history?” He stomped his foot and raised his fist higher.

Out of the corner of her eye, Molly noticed three planning board members trying to weave their way through the press of bodies. Farther back, a constable was angling toward them.

Hurry, she thought. Get Barnaby to shut up. It wasn’t her place to intervene, nor was she interested in a public debate. That had already occurred in board meetings.

“Ecology has nothing to do with this,” Barnaby continued. “It’s pounds from the tourists—that’s what this is all about. And tourists don’t buy enough of my bait to put food on my table.” He sucked in a deep breath. “This construction is going to put me out of business. That damn grant doesn’t cover the whole cost. I have to shell out from my own pockets. We all do! It’ll put a load of us under and our livelihoods down the loo.”

Jennessee tried to ask a question, but Barnaby kept going.

“A cancer is what Molly Graham has brought to Blackpool!”

“He’s right!” cried another business owner. “A cancer that will spread and kill us all.”

A prune of a woman shouldered her way into the mix. Miss Alice Coffey, Molly recognized with chagrin. The woman was the head of the August Historical Preservation Society, which—flip a coin—was alternately for and against the marina renovation. Most recently against—after Alice had met with Aleister Crowe.

Miss Coffey said something, but it couldn’t be heard above the ruckus.

“Go back to America!” someone hollered. “We don’t want your kind of help, Molly Graham.”

“Go back to New York! Get that city a green grant, why don’t you! That cesspool needs it more than Blackpool.”

A few cameras whirled to catch Molly’s reaction.

She stood dumbstruck, tweed jacket sliding off her arm and landing at her feet.

“Go back! Go back!” Someone tried to start a chant.

“This is Jennessee Stanwood with Channel M of the Guardian Media Group, reporting from Blackpool.” The reporter had to raise her voice. “What was supposed to be a pleasant groundbreaking ceremony has become a shouting match between grant-writer Molly Graham and local businesspeople who feel the renovations are being rammed down their collective throats. This pretty day has turned ugly and erupted into—”

As if on cue, a scream pierced the air. It was punctuated by a thrown punch and someone hitting the ground like a tossed sack of potatoes. The press of bodies was so tight Molly couldn’t see who was involved.

Another punch. More fleshy thuds, followed by more screams, panicked shouts and whoops of encouragement for whomever was joining in the fight.

The board members forced their way through the crowd.

Molly thought everyone would have scattered, but instead, people shifted to form a human ring, backing up just enough to accommodate the combatants and the press recording it all for posterity. The red-hatted ladies struggled to get a front-row view.

The Draghici family moved in closer, too, the clan leader keeping an eye on his daughter, who was posing for a young man with a cell-phone camera.

The dockworkers had stopped what they were doing and joined the audience. Waitresses were coming out of the café, Michael with them, scanning the crowd.

“Molly! Molly!” The rest of his words were lost in the cheers and boos and piercing sirens.

Michael’s words of several minutes ago echoed in her mind:

See what you have wrought, Molly!

CHAPTER THREE

“OH, WHY COULDN’T THIS BE happening next week instead?” Molly said. She’d rather be poking into the murder of the young man on the cliffs, not facing this angry horde.

The pros and cons of the marina project had been hashed out already; Molly had witnessed most of the meetings and answered the barrage of questions about what costs the grant would cover. Blackpool’s council was a unitary authority form of government, and as such, the council oversaw housing, tax collection, education, libraries and municipal projects, and set up boards to deal with specific matters. Such as the wharf renovation.

The planning board members had been appointed by the council many months ago and were accountable to it. They’d held several public meetings, attentively listening to concerns about the proposed construction and harbor work, the latter of which included a good bit of dredging to deepen the channel. They’d even met with the August Historical Preservation Society.

All the board members, the historical society—at the time—and the majority of citizens agreed the pros of the project very much outweighed the cons. So after six months of study, the board had recommended that the project go ahead, the council’s gavel sounded and Molly went after the grant from the nation’s Sustainable Development Fund. She knew several “green grants” were available, was an expert at writing proposals and thought it was the least she could do for her new hometown.

And though the dissenters had continued to quietly grumble, Molly had assumed that all of the public naysaying had been swept under the proverbial rug.

But Barnaby had tossed that rug out the window a few minutes ago…along with any chance of favorable coverage on the evening news. His wasn’t the only shop affected along the wharf. Grandage’s Bait and Tackle was larger and in better shape, did a more profitable business and the owner, Jamey Grandage, championed the renovation. Why couldn’t Barnaby see that his own business might actually improve because of the renovations?

She tried to back away from the crowds, managing to find some breathing room as she put space between herself and the throng of people. The whole gathering reminded her of an amateur boxing match. The punches thrown were clumsy, and it was difficult to tell who was on which side of the argument as more and more spectators got involved.

She spotted her expensive tweed jacket being trampled by a teenager jostling for a better view of the brawl, a fitting metaphor for her hope and excitement about the project.

Faintly, she heard the cry “Go home, Molly Graham,” and she knew the man didn’t mean to her manor house on the outskirts of Blackpool.

“I’m an outsider here, too, dear heart.” Michael had found her and pulled her even farther away from the melee. Michael was British through and through, but he hailed from London. Not quite an “outsider” like Molly, he was nonetheless not considered a local. Blackpoolers were a tight community. “Maybe this was all a mistake.”

She understood he didn’t mean the harbor project.

“No,” she said. “I like it here, I really do. Our house. The people. And they don’t all hate me.”

“Us. No, they don’t all hate us.” He smelled of bacon and she inhaled deeply, finding the scent oddly reassuring at the moment.

“Most of them are quite friendly actually.”

Michael laughed and put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. “The friendly ones just aren’t as vocal this morning, eh? The nutters are the loud blokes.”

“Nutters?”

“All right, Barnaby passed nutter and went straight to barmy.”

“I thought I was doing something worthwhile here,” she said, more to herself than to Michael. “The harbor needed—”

“A sprucing? It certainly does.” He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “We wouldn’t have personally contributed so heavily if it wasn’t warranted. And you are doing a good thing here. Barnaby’s just getting his fifteen minutes of fame.”

“Venting his steam—that’s what he’s doing,” said another man behind them. It was Percy Lethbridge. Molly had spotted him earlier with two other planning board members. His companions were working their way through the ring of spectators, trying to reach Barnaby, who appeared to have acquired a broken nose. Blood splattered his once-bright yellow shirt. “I think he had too much to drink last night, Molly, and this is all the product of a hangover.” Softer, so only she could hear, he added, “There’s something I need to talk to you about. But not here, and not now.”

“Later then,” she said.

“When we’ve a little more privacy. When there’s no Barnaby Stone bellowing about.”

“I sympathize with him, Percy,” she said. “Barnaby has to kick in a good bit of money of his own, but—”

A cheer went up and Molly spotted one of the combatants drop. “Good lord.”

A shrill whistle cut above the shouts and a constable shouldered his way through. Someone in the crowd started whistling back, and there were guffaws and more cheers. Molly saw another constable, and at the edge of the gathering D.C.I. Paddington. The Draghici family moved farther away from the police, as Stefan headed onto the largest dock.

A head above the mass, Molly caught sight of Aleister Crowe. He was perched on something. In his mid-thirties, he was only a handful of years older than her and Michael. His dark hair was slicked back, making his widow’s peak prominent.

He reminded her of a vulture, both predatory and scavenger, looming over the carnage and surveying people with eyes set close over a beaklike nose. The sunlight glinted off the silver crow’s head that topped his walking stick. He waved it and shouted, though she couldn’t hear what he was saying. The noise was deafening, and she realized she couldn’t really make any of it out—it was just a wall of sound closing in on her.

There were more whistles from the constables, a long sustained blast from Paddington and, miraculously, the crowd quieted. The D.C.I. obviously commanded respect from the locals.

“Go home, Molly Graham!” It was Barnaby, who had been nabbed by one of the constables, hands cuffed behind him. A man with an equally bloody shirt was also being detained, the pair of them prodded toward a police van. “Go home, I say!”

“I have to go, Molly. But we must talk soon.” Lethbridge gave Molly’s arm a gentle squeeze and strode toward Paddington. “Calm down, everyone!” He gestured like a conductor. “The show is over. Calm down.”

Crowe was now talking animatedly to Jennessee and had climbed down from his perch. He pointed to a building behind him: Nan’s Nautical Inn, an eatery that belonged to Dennis Carteret, who also served on the planning board. It was the first building to be renovated and work had already begun. Carteret was only a few yards away, trying to quiet the Brighton Belles.

“Molly? Molly Graham?”

She’d been so distracted watching Crowe that she hadn’t seen another newsman approach her. He was short, maybe five-five or five-six, with broad swimmer’s shoulders and a face weathered by the sun. Good-looking, though, and with a strong voice that must carry well on television.

“Yes, I’m Molly Graham.”

“Garrison Headly with BBC Four.” He held the microphone toward her. Behind him a cameraman magically appeared. “Mrs. Graham, you’re responsible for acquiring the green grant that made this project possible?”

Molly didn’t say anything. She was still a little numb from watching the fight.

“It’s a considerable grant, is that correct?”

She blinked. “Yes.”

The reporter started to become flustered; she wasn’t giving him anything for his piece.

“Mrs. Graham, how is the grant money being administered? Do you decide which businesses are entitled to—”

“No. It’s the planning board,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “The members of the planning board were appointed by the town council to oversee the project. The board allocates the grant money to the various businesses and to the company that will be doing the dredging work out in the harbor. I only obtained the grant and organized the local contributions. I’ve also applied for a few more, so hopefully less will have to be paid by the individual business owners. But how it’s all divided is not up to me.” She locked eyes with the reporter. “The merits of the project—”

“I understand that you and your husband made a sizable contribution.”

She nodded. If he wanted to know the amount, he could ferret that out from the planning board’s open records.

“The grant…how did you obtain it?”

She let out a breath, the curls fluttering against her forehead. “I knew that grant money was available from the Sustainable Development Fund. Normally home owners and small businesses apply for individual grants, but there are exceptions for larger projects such as this. I was able to demonstrate the need for the work, and the fact that the harbor is steeped in history and that the business owners wanted to preserve as much of the original—”

“Most of the business owners, from what I understand,” Headly interrupted. “There are a few exceptions, as we noted just a handful of minutes ago. The owner of the bait shop, for example.”

Molly inclined her head slightly, her eyes daggers. “One of the bait shops,” she corrected.

“But some of the owners are afraid they are actually going to lose the history of the wharf section, not have it preserved. Could you explain—”

“That’s not true. The grant would not have been awarded if we hadn’t planned to retain the history of this place,” Molly protested. But over the next several minutes as Headly continued to grill her, it was clear he was focused only on the conflict. Michael stayed within arm’s reach the entire time, and she wondered if he’d become as tired of all of this as she had.

She’d honestly thought obtaining the grant was a good idea.

She wouldn’t have spent the time and energy on it otherwise. She could have curled up in an easy chair with a stack of mystery books and pleasantly wiled away the days instead of writing the thick proposal, staying up until all hours doing the research and preparing the presentation.

Maybe she shouldn’t have gotten involved with the marina work, she thought now. Maybe the project should have been left to the locals, the native Blackpoolers who treasured their close-knit community.

But without the grant she’d obtained, only half of the proposed work would have been possible. In that case, many buildings, like Barnaby’s Bait Shop, would have continued to fall apart, victim to the salty sea air and age. On the other hand, Grandage would have been more than happy to lose what little competition Barnaby’s business provided.

Her bleak mood was reflected in the reporter’s closing comments. “So despite the pronounced opposition, Molly Graham forged ahead and obtained an impressive grant to refurbish this town’s historic and notorious harbor,” Headly concluded. “Molly, an American, is married to world-renowned computer game designer Michael Graham. They chose to settle in this peaceful coastal town, which is anything but today. This is Garrison Headly, reporting from Blackpool.”

CHAPTER FOUR

MICHAEL TUGGED HER toward the café.

“My jacket—”

“I’m afraid it’s been trampled, love. C’mon. It’ll be a little less noisy in here. You’ll still be close enough, and when this rabble clears and the ceremony actually starts, you can run right out there and smile for the cameras.”

She groaned but didn’t protest.

“Besides, Molly, my love, they have excellent breakfast.”

“Isn’t it a little late for that? And didn’t you already eat when I was getting my hair done? You’re like a hobbit—you want a second breakfast.”

He escorted her graciously through the door. “Yes, and yes,” he replied. “But I didn’t have much the first time, just a muffin, and they’re serving brunch, actually…omelets filled with cheddar, and bangers. And I’m still hungry.”

Molly wrinkled her nose.

“The bangers aren’t too spicy here. I promise.”

There was only one empty table. Molly sat facing the front so she could stare out at the dissipating bedlam.

Michael nudged the menu toward her. “Bloody Marys, too. Made from scratch, they claim.”

Molly glanced at the offerings. Her stomach rumbled, but she didn’t have much of an appetite. “I’ll have a yogurt.”

Michael’s mobile chirped but he ignored it, stuffing it farther down in his pocket to muffle the sound.

“Don’t you need to answer that? To deal with your vampires in orbit and whatnot?” Her attempt at humor was forced. “Mummies on meteors?”

He reached across the table and gently squeezed her hand. A waitress hovered, tapping her pen against her order pad.

“The omelet with the bangers, extra cheddar,” he said. “Pineapple juice for both of us, a yogurt for Molly.”

“Plain?” the waitress asked.

“Strawberry if you have it,” Molly answered.

The woman walked away, bobbing her head and tapping her pen.

Molly relaxed, but only a little. The smells in the cozy café were preferable to the assault on her senses outside. Cinnamon, bacon, oranges—together they made a pleasing combination. The conversations were more subdued, some purposely hushed, she was sure. But she easily picked up the theme—“that Molly Graham and the harbor grant.”

Molly had a different subject on her mind.

“I’m still thinking about the murdered man, Michael.”

“Yesterday Paddington told us it could take quite some time to learn his identity. They’ll have to use dental records.”

“I was thinking about talking to some of the people who live near the cliffs.”

Michael nodded. “I agree completely. Another mystery to solve.” He winked. “I’m sure Paddington will be delighted.”

“I’ll bet he already has someone on it.”

“If he can spare anyone,” Michael reminded her. “I’ll bet every constable is scheduled at the marina today.”

“I’m sure he’ll focus on nothing but the murder tomorrow.”

They didn’t say anything for a few moments, just locked eyes. “But you want to do some investigating of our own,” Michael offered.

“It’ll keep my mind off this fiasco,” Molly admitted, nodding toward the front window. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about that chewing tobacco tin.”

“Ah…the little green tin Paddington pulled out of the corpse’s pocket. Maybe find out who sells that brand around here?”

“And if any young men regularly buy it. That would narrow the possibilities.”

She noticed people glancing her way, some hiding their faces behind steaming mugs of tea or the laminated menus. For a moment she considered getting up and leaving, but things hadn’t wholly calmed down outside—she could still see the constables and planning board members hustling through the crowds. The beautiful Draghici girl strolled by the window, two teenage boys dutifully following her. A cameraman walked past, getting color shots. Molly desperately wanted to avoid the media for at least a few blessed minutes, even though earlier this morning she’d been looking forward to doing a few interviews.

“Be careful what you wish for,” she muttered.

It was her turn to hide behind the menu she hadn’t relinquished to the waitress when she caught sight of a reporter in one of the booths. An old-style recorder was on the table, and he sat, leaning forward on his elbows, chatting with Clement Horsey, owner of a shop selling dockside bumpers, ladders and the like.

Michael followed her gaze. “Old Clement was against it, right?”

She nodded.

“You’d think the reporters would talk to someone in favor of the project. There’s loads more of them.”

“But they’re probably not as interesting.” Molly shushed him with a finger to her lips. “I want to hear what Clement is saying.”

She knew Horsey had celebrated the “double nickel” this year, but to her he easily looked at least a decade older than fifty-five. Exposure to salt air and sun had weathered his skin to the point that it resembled aged, cracked leather. Even his eyes seemed old, a rheumy blue. She liked him, but she wasn’t sure she was going to like what he was saying to the reporter.

“The whole town hasn’t gone aggro over this,” Horsey said. “There’s only a few of us opposed to all the work.” He ran his fingers through the few strands of hair on the top of his head.

The reporter waited for him to continue.

“I’m not saying fixing the harbor is a bad idea. It’s not. In the long run it’s ace, I suppose.” Molly couldn’t make out what Horsey said next, because the waitress returned and clunked their glasses of pineapple juice in front of her and Michael.

Molly picked up the conversation again and strained to hear over the background noise.

“…just that some on the planning board are playing favorites.”

The reporter leaned farther forward, as interested as Molly in this angle. “Can you elaborate, Mr. Horsey?”

“S’pose it’s just my personal opinion, but I think the whole thing’s a bit dodgy. See, two of the planning board members own businesses on the wharfs. They’re gonna get some of that grant money, and I believe they’re going to get more than their fair share. It’s not all been set who’s getting what, you know. They’re still working that out. But why wouldn’t them two take as much as they need for themselves?”

“And you’ll be left out?” the reporter asked.

“Well, not entirely. Already got some funds marked for me. But not enough to cover everything to bring the place up to the new codes, and I doubt any more money will come my way. I’m gonna have to dig deep into my own pocket. Barnaby—the bloke who started all the ruckus this morning—it’s gonna cost him the most. His place is falling apart, and the town’s forcing him to do the fixes.”

“Forcing?”

Horsey’s nod was so exaggerated he reminded Molly of a bobblehead doll. “They’ll not renew his licenses, the Blackpool council, until he does. They’re putting teeth into their plan to clean up the area. They’ve passed tougher building codes, and they’ll close him down if his place doesn’t meet them. He’s got reason to be right pissed and I don’t think he’ll belt up about it. They should leave ’im alone, you know. Let Barnaby keep his licenses without doing any of the work, let the building fall down around him, and then sweep away the pieces. Wouldn’t take much more than a strong wind to flatten the dump.”

Horsey drained the contents of his cup in one long swallow and thunked it on the table to get the attention of one of the waitresses.

Molly’s frustration grew with every word. “Michael, he’s off-base. There is plenty of grant money to go around. I told him that we’re still waiting to hear on a couple more applications I have out there. And if this first grant won’t cover enough, I’ll find another one to apply for. No one should go belly-up over this. Barnaby, Horsey—they’re just worried and reactionary. They’re…”

At that moment their waitress returned, setting down a bowl of yogurt in front of Molly that would have cost a pittance in a grocer’s compared to the price on the menu. Michael dug into his omelet and would have replied but Molly shushed him as she heard Horsey continue.

“I’ve butted heads with the planning board,” Horsey said once his cup was refilled. He had raised his voice and was attracting the attention of most of the café patrons now. “Said my piece to Molly Graham, but she’s not the one giving away the grant money. That’s all the planning board. Said my piece to the board, too. Nothing’s gonna come of it. I still have to make the changes the plans require, and the grant money’s not gonna cover it all. Like I said, you should talk to Barnaby. He’d give you some real colorful quotes for your article. You could maybe even print some of them.”

The reporter chuckled, stopped his recorder and turned the tape over, restarting it.

Molly finished her yogurt and stared into the bottom of the plastic cup, her desire to march over there and set the record straight warring with her growing sense of despair about the whole thing.

“You really did do a good thing, getting the grant.” Michael ran his index finger over the back of her hand, raising goose bumps. “Horsey’s right. Barnaby’s Bait Shop is a ruin, a real eyesore that might not be worth fixing. The sea, the salt and the wind in the fall, especially…they all take a toll on the buildings. And the businesses aren’t going to repair themselves.”

Molly ran her thumb around the top of the cup. “Yeah, I know it’s a good thing, Michael. I just wish someone else had gone after that grant.”

“Not another soul in town has your expertise.” He shoveled in the last mouthful of eggs and speared a piece of banger, holding it up and waving it like a conductor’s baton. “Some of these folks couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery. Mark my words, sweetheart, when this is done, they’ll all be singing your praises.” He popped the sausage in his mouth and swigged down the last of his pineapple juice, then nodded to the clock on the wall. “Got about five minutes before the official ceremony.”

Molly pushed back from the table. Her hand lingered on Michael’s. “Join me?”

“Wouldn’t miss it, love.” He scanned the bill and left money on the table. “After you, Mrs. Graham.”

Not more than a dozen steps beyond the café’s front door, Molly spotted Jennessee again. She was now interviewing Edwin Barker, the owner of the narrowest building along the wharf, where he sold boating supplies such as cushions and oars, and an assortment of T-shirts the tourists favored.

“It’s all impractical,” Barker said into the microphone in front of him. “I sell to independent fishermen, mostly, and making these renovations won’t help my sales. The fishermen don’t care what my place looks like…but they will after I have to raise my prices to help cover the expense.”

“So you’re not getting enough of the grant money.” Jennessee didn’t pose it as a question.

The color was bright in Barker’s cheeks. “No way, I’ll have to pay so much out of my own coffer that it’ll put me out of business. But maybe that’s what the planning board wanted all along. Put me and Barnaby out, buy up our places cheap and turn a good profit for themselves. That’s what they’re planning, I’ll wager. That’s it, I say.”

Barker worked at something in his mouth, chewing gum or tobacco. “You can ask them, but they’ll come across all selfless, saying this is for the good of Blackpool.” He spat a blob on the ground, and immediately Molly thought about the murdered young man with the tin of chewing tobacco. “They can go to hell as far as I’m concerned. They’re all a bunch of arses and—”

Molly gritted her teeth. She suspected—hoped—the interview would be edited before it was played on the news tonight. At least things seemed to have settled down for the most part. No one was fighting, the reporters were either interviewing townspeople and board members or staking out a place behind the ribbon for the ceremony. She counted five constables in addition to D.C.I. Paddington, and they were all keeping a wary eye on the crowd.

“My children will inherit nothing but loads of debt. Oh, and a historical building with a mortgage they can’t afford—”

The rest of Barker’s tirade was cut off by a dissonant screech, feedback from the microphone on the podium. Planning board chairman Arliss Hogan was adjusting it so it didn’t tower over her.

“Let the real show begin,” Michael said. He stepped away from her and walked over to Barker for a moment.

“Some show,” Molly muttered, wondering what Michael wanted with Barker. “Let it all be over with soon.”

“After this chaos, I’ll happily go back to my mummies on meteors,” Michael said, returning. He patted the pocket that contained the iPhone and grinned at Molly. “After, of course, we visit the shop where Barker buys his chewing tobacco. There’s only one tobacconist in Blackpool, according to him.”

“Good work,” Molly said.

Dennis Carteret climbed up the stairs to stand behind Arliss. Percy Lethbridge, in front of the gathering, spotted Molly and waved, then headed her way, sidestepping Aleister Crowe, who was talking to another reporter.

“Today begins an important chapter for Blackpool,” Arliss began. For such a petite woman, she had a loud, deep voice, and Molly thought she could get along without the microphone. A few people from the town council joined her behind the podium, and Molly wondered if the wood platform would hold them all. “Today we kick off improvements to our storied wharf that will preserve our town’s history for the coming generations.”

Polite applause followed more of her practiced words, and then Arliss stepped back and Carteret took a turn.

“You were all witness to an unfortunate incident a short while ago, when our friend Barnaby Stone—”

“Put on quite a display, he did!” someone in the front hollered. The remark was followed by a round of chuckles.

“Much thought was put into this project,” Carteret continued, raising his voice. “I’m not just a planning board member. I’m one of those businessmen who own property on the wharf. I, too, will be spending some of my own money. In the end, we’ll have buildings that meet Blackpool’s new codes and will stand against time and the sea. This work will prevent our precious buildings from deteriorating and will preserve our town’s past. If we lose our history, we lose part of ourselves, who we are and who we were—good people and notorious scoundrels, heroes and villains, colorful souls all. But more than that, we would lose our heritage.”

The applause was loud and Molly released the breath she’d been holding. Maybe this would be a good day, after all. Everyone but the Draghicis and the few opposing business owners were clapping and cheering.

Lethbridge finally found his way to her. “It’s a good speech,” he pronounced. “Heard him practice it a few days ago.”

“What did you want to talk to me about earlier? Something to do with the marina?”

He hesitated. “It can wait,” he said. “Let’s listen to him.”

Carteret went on about Blackpool being blessed with the grant money Molly had obtained, and mentioned which buildings would be renovated first and the order that the others would follow. He gestured behind him to the water, and described the dredging that had started several days ago and would ultimately deepen the channel. Although he spoke clearly and the microphone carried his voice to the very back of the audience, he was suddenly drowned out by a chorus of voices approaching from the street.

“Say no! Say go!” It was a chant that crashed like a tall wave over Molly. “Say no! Say go!”

She spun around to see a gaggle of T-shirted young men and women, all carrying signs with slogans:

Dredging is Dreadful

They’re Dredging our Graves

Go Green Gladiators

Stop the Digging!

Keep the Water Safe

Dredgers are Murderers Fish Slayers!

Green Gladiators=Blackpool Heroes

“Say no! Say go!”

So much for ending the day on a positive note. She turned to Michael, frustrated. “Let’s get out of here.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“MAYBE WE CAN ACTUALLY accomplish something good today,” Molly told Michael. “Why don’t we visit that tobacco shop.” She wasn’t one to shrink from conflict, but she knew that arguing with protestors or TV reporters wouldn’t do her or the renovations any good. If anything, her presence might fuel the naysayers.

“Sure, we’ll walk over to the tobacconist, look around—”

“Ask a few questions—” Already Molly was brightening at the thought of doing a little sleuthing to take her mind off the protest at the marina.

“—see what we can find out.”

“Then we’ll drop you at home to your waiting undead, while I come back and face this…”

Garrison Headly shot past them, microphone out, attempting to be the first reporter to interview the protestors. Jennessee Stanwood was fast behind him, with their respective cameramen following.

The air was instantly filled with the murmurs of the townsfolk and tourists. Someone shouted “Bring back Barnaby,” and the constables blew their whistles.

“What a nightmare,” someone grumbled near Molly. “This has become a real dog’s dinner.”

Michael and Molly turned to go, but Garrison Headly was directly in Molly’s path. Michael tried to steer around him, but the protestors pressed in from the street side, and the crowd surged forward from the dock side. Molly and Michael were caught between the two groups and had to inch their way through.

Headly managed to pose for the camera. “This is Garrison Headly with BBC Four, reporting from historic Blackpool, where a ceremony just got underway…and has been interrupted…by a group of environmentalists apparently calling themselves the Green Gladiators. I’m speaking with their leader, Francis Weymouth.”

Molly stopped in her tracks, belatedly realizing the man beside Headly wasn’t just a part of the crowd. The color drained from her face.

“The day can’t get any worse now,” Michael said flatly.

“We’ve tried to reason with the planning board—and with Molly Graham,” Weymouth said, eyes straight at the camera.

“We’ve been against the changes to the docks from the very beginning, and we’ve been consistently ignored.”

Weymouth had outdone himself today, looking trim and reasonably professional with pressed pants and a sport jacket over a bright Green Gladiators T-shirt. In his early thirties, he could pass for someone a decade younger, with sandy hair and intense blue eyes. Molly had to admit he was striking to look at, with his broad shoulders and square jaw, and he was perfect eye candy for the news cameras.

But just because he was attractive didn’t mean she liked him. In fact, he set her teeth on edge. She didn’t trust him, not since she’d first seen him at one of the planning board meetings. She’d learned then that he lived in a shack at the edge of town, calling himself “off the grid,” because he had no need to rely on electricity or other modern conveniences that “stressed the environment.” Though apparently he had no qualms about the convenience of using his motorcycle to get around. He hadn’t been arrested yet for any of his numerous and noisy demonstrations regarding the harbor project, but he had been charged for trespassing on construction sites and damaging equipment to “preserve the balance” of the land.

Molly didn’t doubt that he was an environmentalist, but she suspected he relished the publicity more than any actual change he might accomplish.

“Short-term, dredging will hurt fishing in the area,” Weymouth explained. “Long-term, it will have a dire impact on the lobster population and lobster harvesting. It’s a lose-lose situation,” he added. “Nothing good will come of—”

“There was an environmental assessment done,” Molly countered loudly, drawing the reporters’ attention. Jennessee—appearing out of nowhere—and Headly quickly thrust microphones in front of her, as Michael stepped behind. “Mr. Weymouth’s concerns were all addressed in the multiple assessments we commissioned. Yes, dredging will have a big impact on the ecosystem of Blackpool’s harbor, that’s why it wasn’t entered into lightly. But the impact will be favorable.”

“How so?” Headly and Jennessee said practically in unison.

Molly pulled in a breath. “A deeper harbor can accommodate larger boats, which is beneficial for our fishing and tourism industries. Plus, the silt that has accumulated on the ocean floor carries traces of contaminants like PCBs and heavy metals that are harmful to aquatic life. Ridding the harbor of them will be a boon to the ecosystem and healthier for the residents of the town. We wouldn’t have been awarded such a large green grant if the project caused harm.”

“Liar!” a protester shouted.

“They can make their bloody studies say whatever they bloody well want!” chimed in another.

“Bring back Barnaby!” someone behind her called. She thought it might have been Barker.

One of the Green Gladiators waved his sign, bopping it on the head of a tourist, and the crowd began to turn ugly again.

Molly heard D.C.I. Paddington shout for order, then Michael called to her. The reporters dove into the mass of people with glee as Molly headed toward her husband’s voice.

“You can’t do any more here,” Michael said. His fingers closed around her elbow, and he gently led her through the mob of shoving, arguing people.

They emerged on the street behind a group of the red-hatted ladies, who had also had enough.

“Looks like Weymouth is backing off,” Michael observed as he glanced over his shoulder.

“He got what he came for,” Molly said.

They crossed the narrow street and walked toward downtown.

“You’re right, you know,” Molly added. “I couldn’t have done or said anything to make matters better back there. I’m not on the planning board.”

“Thank God for that.”

“I have no real power over any of it.”

He pulled her into a long hug. “But you have power over me.”

“You’re sweet,” she said.

“You really did do a very good thing, Molly dear, getting that green grant.”

“Tell me that again and again,” she said. “And maybe tomorrow I’ll start to believe it.”

“Cheer up, we’ve still got a murder to solve.”

It was black humor, but strangely it did lift her spirits. “Right—the tobacco shop. Let’s go.”

CHAPTER SIX

THE TINY STORE WAS CALLED Havana Haven, and it was marked by a carved wooden Indian standing outside the door, hand raised to its brow in a salute. The statue was nearly life-sized, and Molly was surprised she’d never noticed it before…not that she’d ever had an occasion to visit a shop like this.

Still, it was a pretty storefront—red wooden trim against a dark green front, brick accents, narrow windows flanking the door. On display in the window were pipes and pipe stands, cigar boxes, a sun-faded smoking jacket and all manner of accoutrements, such as cigar cutters.

Inside, it smelled like tobacco, naturally, though no one could smoke inside. She and Michael were the only customers. The odor was neither bad nor pleasant, but it was strong. Molly took a quick glance around.

A glass-fronted counter showed a variety of forms and types of tobacco, and the shelf behind it held pipes, lighters, pipe cleaners, tampers, ashtrays and the like. On the opposite wall were humidors, cigars, matches in colorful containers, Native American figurines, replicas of Blackpool’s lighthouse, jigsaw puzzles, T-shirts, hip flasks and a stand with magazines and postcards. In short, the place was packed with stuff.

A woman strolled in from the back room and stood behind the counter.

“Can I help you?”

Molly hadn’t thought she’d come here with a preconceived notion of who would be minding the store, but she wasn’t prepared for the proprietor. The woman was a little younger than Molly, trim and well-dressed.

Michael held out his hand and the woman took it. “Michael Graham,” he said by way of introduction. “And this is my wife—”

“Molly,” the woman finished. “I’ve seen your picture in the paper. From America.”

“New York,” Molly said.

“I’m from Boston.” She paused a moment. “Sandra Kettle, of the Boston Kettles. And a graduate of the Pennsylvania Tobacconist College.”

“You have a degree in…tobacco?” Molly didn’t bother to hide her surprise.

“Yes, graduated two years ago. My parents wanted me to be a dentist. Instead, I’m a certified tobacconist.” She pointed to a framed certificate on the wall behind her. “I know how to treat for beetle infestations, how to grow and harvest, how to set up a humidor, the best way to evenly light the foot of a cigar and how to store them.”

“Fascinating. However did you come to Blackpool?” Michael asked.

“Met a fellow at the college. He was from Blackpool, so I followed him here. He returned to the States to pick up another degree, and I decided to stay.” She smiled broadly. “Places around here aren’t as anti-smoking as in America, so it’s a better fit.”

“We’re not here to shop,” Molly said. And for no particular reason, she added, “We don’t smoke.”

“Figurines? Puzzles? Got a new shipment of both.” Sandra indicated a stand in the corner. “Magazines?”

“Actually, we’re here about tobacco,” Molly said.

“Chewing tobacco,” Michael elaborated.

Sandra pulled a face. “I sell it, but I don’t recommend it. Mouth cancer and all that. Not as much risk with a pipe or a cigar. Still, some folks seem to enjoy a good chaw.” Like a TV hostess showing off the prizes available on a game show, she pivoted and pointed to a smaller counter toward the front filled with tins and packets. “Name your poison.”

“You’re not the only place in Blackpool selling chewing tobacco, are you?” Molly asked.

Sandra seemed offended. “I’m the only tobacco shop, but the little convenience stores sell it, too, though their prices are higher.”

Michael and Molly stepped over to the counter. Michael turned to squarely face Sandra. “We’re looking into a murder,” he explained.

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