Submerged

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.”