Submerged

“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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