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