Читать книгу Submerged - Jordan Gray - Страница 9

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.”

Molly had a different subject on her mind.

“I’m still thinking about the murdered man, Michael.”

“Yesterday Paddington told us it could take quite some time to learn his identity. They’ll have to use dental records.”

“I was thinking about talking to some of the people who live near the cliffs.”

Michael nodded. “I agree completely. Another mystery to solve.” He winked. “I’m sure Paddington will be delighted.”

“I’ll bet he already has someone on it.”

“If he can spare anyone,” Michael reminded her. “I’ll bet every constable is scheduled at the marina today.”

“I’m sure he’ll focus on nothing but the murder tomorrow.”

They didn’t say anything for a few moments, just locked eyes. “But you want to do some investigating of our own,” Michael offered.

“It’ll keep my mind off this fiasco,” Molly admitted, nodding toward the front window. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about that chewing tobacco tin.”

“Ah…the little green tin Paddington pulled out of the corpse’s pocket. Maybe find out who sells that brand around here?”

“And if any young men regularly buy it. That would narrow the possibilities.”

She noticed people glancing her way, some hiding their faces behind steaming mugs of tea or the laminated menus. For a moment she considered getting up and leaving, but things hadn’t wholly calmed down outside—she could still see the constables and planning board members hustling through the crowds. The beautiful Draghici girl strolled by the window, two teenage boys dutifully following her. A cameraman walked past, getting color shots. Molly desperately wanted to avoid the media for at least a few blessed minutes, even though earlier this morning she’d been looking forward to doing a few interviews.

“Be careful what you wish for,” she muttered.

It was her turn to hide behind the menu she hadn’t relinquished to the waitress when she caught sight of a reporter in one of the booths. An old-style recorder was on the table, and he sat, leaning forward on his elbows, chatting with Clement Horsey, owner of a shop selling dockside bumpers, ladders and the like.

Michael followed her gaze. “Old Clement was against it, right?”

She nodded.

“You’d think the reporters would talk to someone in favor of the project. There’s loads more of them.”

“But they’re probably not as interesting.” Molly shushed him with a finger to her lips. “I want to hear what Clement is saying.”

She knew Horsey had celebrated the “double nickel” this year, but to her he easily looked at least a decade older than fifty-five. Exposure to salt air and sun had weathered his skin to the point that it resembled aged, cracked leather. Even his eyes seemed old, a rheumy blue. She liked him, but she wasn’t sure she was going to like what he was saying to the reporter.

“The whole town hasn’t gone aggro over this,” Horsey said. “There’s only a few of us opposed to all the work.” He ran his fingers through the few strands of hair on the top of his head.

The reporter waited for him to continue.

“I’m not saying fixing the harbor is a bad idea. It’s not. In the long run it’s ace, I suppose.” Molly couldn’t make out what Horsey said next, because the waitress returned and clunked their glasses of pineapple juice in front of her and Michael.

Molly picked up the conversation again and strained to hear over the background noise.

“…just that some on the planning board are playing favorites.”

The reporter leaned farther forward, as interested as Molly in this angle. “Can you elaborate, Mr. Horsey?”

“S’pose it’s just my personal opinion, but I think the whole thing’s a bit dodgy. See, two of the planning board members own businesses on the wharfs. They’re gonna get some of that grant money, and I believe they’re going to get more than their fair share. It’s not all been set who’s getting what, you know. They’re still working that out. But why wouldn’t them two take as much as they need for themselves?”

“And you’ll be left out?” the reporter asked.

“Well, not entirely. Already got some funds marked for me. But not enough to cover everything to bring the place up to the new codes, and I doubt any more money will come my way. I’m gonna have to dig deep into my own pocket. Barnaby—the bloke who started all the ruckus this morning—it’s gonna cost him the most. His place is falling apart, and the town’s forcing him to do the fixes.”

“Forcing?”

Horsey’s nod was so exaggerated he reminded Molly of a bobblehead doll. “They’ll not renew his licenses, the Blackpool council, until he does. They’re putting teeth into their plan to clean up the area. They’ve passed tougher building codes, and they’ll close him down if his place doesn’t meet them. He’s got reason to be right pissed and I don’t think he’ll belt up about it. They should leave ’im alone, you know. Let Barnaby keep his licenses without doing any of the work, let the building fall down around him, and then sweep away the pieces. Wouldn’t take much more than a strong wind to flatten the dump.”

Horsey drained the contents of his cup in one long swallow and thunked it on the table to get the attention of one of the waitresses.

Molly’s frustration grew with every word. “Michael, he’s off-base. There is plenty of grant money to go around. I told him that we’re still waiting to hear on a couple more applications I have out there. And if this first grant won’t cover enough, I’ll find another one to apply for. No one should go belly-up over this. Barnaby, Horsey—they’re just worried and reactionary. They’re…”

At that moment their waitress returned, setting down a bowl of yogurt in front of Molly that would have cost a pittance in a grocer’s compared to the price on the menu. Michael dug into his omelet and would have replied but Molly shushed him as she heard Horsey continue.

“I’ve butted heads with the planning board,” Horsey said once his cup was refilled. He had raised his voice and was attracting the attention of most of the café patrons now. “Said my piece to Molly Graham, but she’s not the one giving away the grant money. That’s all the planning board. Said my piece to the board, too. Nothing’s gonna come of it. I still have to make the changes the plans require, and the grant money’s not gonna cover it all. Like I said, you should talk to Barnaby. He’d give you some real colorful quotes for your article. You could maybe even print some of them.”

The reporter chuckled, stopped his recorder and turned the tape over, restarting it.

Molly finished her yogurt and stared into the bottom of the plastic cup, her desire to march over there and set the record straight warring with her growing sense of despair about the whole thing.

“You really did do a good thing, getting the grant.” Michael ran his index finger over the back of her hand, raising goose bumps. “Horsey’s right. Barnaby’s Bait Shop is a ruin, a real eyesore that might not be worth fixing. The sea, the salt and the wind in the fall, especially…they all take a toll on the buildings. And the businesses aren’t going to repair themselves.”

Molly ran her thumb around the top of the cup. “Yeah, I know it’s a good thing, Michael. I just wish someone else had gone after that grant.”

“Not another soul in town has your expertise.” He shoveled in the last mouthful of eggs and speared a piece of banger, holding it up and waving it like a conductor’s baton. “Some of these folks couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery. Mark my words, sweetheart, when this is done, they’ll all be singing your praises.” He popped the sausage in his mouth and swigged down the last of his pineapple juice, then nodded to the clock on the wall. “Got about five minutes before the official ceremony.”

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.”