Submerged

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.