Читать книгу Submerged - Jordan Gray - Страница 11

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.