Submerged

“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.