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.
“Ecology? Preserving history?” He stomped his foot and raised his fist higher.
Out of the corner of her eye, Molly noticed three planning board members trying to weave their way through the press of bodies. Farther back, a constable was angling toward them.
Hurry, she thought. Get Barnaby to shut up. It wasn’t her place to intervene, nor was she interested in a public debate. That had already occurred in board meetings.
“Ecology has nothing to do with this,” Barnaby continued. “It’s pounds from the tourists—that’s what this is all about. And tourists don’t buy enough of my bait to put food on my table.” He sucked in a deep breath. “This construction is going to put me out of business. That damn grant doesn’t cover the whole cost. I have to shell out from my own pockets. We all do! It’ll put a load of us under and our livelihoods down the loo.”
Jennessee tried to ask a question, but Barnaby kept going.
“A cancer is what Molly Graham has brought to Blackpool!”
“He’s right!” cried another business owner. “A cancer that will spread and kill us all.”
A prune of a woman shouldered her way into the mix. Miss Alice Coffey, Molly recognized with chagrin. The woman was the head of the August Historical Preservation Society, which—flip a coin—was alternately for and against the marina renovation. Most recently against—after Alice had met with Aleister Crowe.
Miss Coffey said something, but it couldn’t be heard above the ruckus.
“Go back to America!” someone hollered. “We don’t want your kind of help, Molly Graham.”
“Go back to New York! Get that city a green grant, why don’t you! That cesspool needs it more than Blackpool.”
A few cameras whirled to catch Molly’s reaction.
She stood dumbstruck, tweed jacket sliding off her arm and landing at her feet.
“Go back! Go back!” Someone tried to start a chant.
“This is Jennessee Stanwood with Channel M of the Guardian Media Group, reporting from Blackpool.” The reporter had to raise her voice. “What was supposed to be a pleasant groundbreaking ceremony has become a shouting match between grant-writer Molly Graham and local businesspeople who feel the renovations are being rammed down their collective throats. This pretty day has turned ugly and erupted into—”
As if on cue, a scream pierced the air. It was punctuated by a thrown punch and someone hitting the ground like a tossed sack of potatoes. The press of bodies was so tight Molly couldn’t see who was involved.
Another punch. More fleshy thuds, followed by more screams, panicked shouts and whoops of encouragement for whomever was joining in the fight.
The board members forced their way through the crowd.
Molly thought everyone would have scattered, but instead, people shifted to form a human ring, backing up just enough to accommodate the combatants and the press recording it all for posterity. The red-hatted ladies struggled to get a front-row view.
The Draghici family moved in closer, too, the clan leader keeping an eye on his daughter, who was posing for a young man with a cell-phone camera.
The dockworkers had stopped what they were doing and joined the audience. Waitresses were coming out of the café, Michael with them, scanning the crowd.
“Molly! Molly!” The rest of his words were lost in the cheers and boos and piercing sirens.
Michael’s words of several minutes ago echoed in her mind:
See what you have wrought, Molly!
CHAPTER THREE
“OH, WHY COULDN’T THIS BE happening next week instead?” Molly said. She’d rather be poking into the murder of the young man on the cliffs, not facing this angry horde.
The pros and cons of the marina project had been hashed out already; Molly had witnessed most of the meetings and answered the barrage of questions about what costs the grant would cover. Blackpool’s council was a unitary authority form of government, and as such, the council oversaw housing, tax collection, education, libraries and municipal projects, and set up boards to deal with specific matters. Such as the wharf renovation.
The planning board members had been appointed by the council many months
