met with the August Historical Preservation Society.
All the board members, the historical society—at the time—and the majority of citizens agreed the pros of the project very much outweighed the cons. So after six months of study, the board had recommended that the project go ahead, the council’s gavel sounded and Molly went after the grant from the nation’s Sustainable Development Fund. She knew several “green grants” were available, was an expert at writing proposals and thought it was the least she could do for her new hometown.
And though the dissenters had continued to quietly grumble, Molly had assumed that all of the public naysaying had been swept under the proverbial rug.
But Barnaby had tossed that rug out the window a few minutes ago…along with any chance of favorable coverage on the evening news. His wasn’t the only shop affected along the wharf. Grandage’s Bait and Tackle was larger and in better shape, did a more profitable business and the owner, Jamey Grandage, championed the renovation. Why couldn’t Barnaby see that his own business might actually improve because of the renovations?
She tried to back away from the crowds, managing to find some breathing room as she put space between herself and the throng of people. The whole gathering reminded her of an amateur boxing match. The punches thrown were clumsy, and it was difficult to tell who was on which side of the argument as more and more spectators got involved.
She spotted her expensive tweed jacket being trampled by a teenager jostling for a better view of the brawl, a fitting metaphor for her hope and excitement about the project.
Faintly, she heard the cry “Go home, Molly Graham,” and she knew the man didn’t mean to her manor house on the outskirts of Blackpool.
“I’m an outsider here, too, dear heart.” Michael had found her and pulled her even farther away from the melee. Michael was British through and through, but he hailed from London. Not quite an “outsider” like Molly, he was nonetheless not considered a local. Blackpoolers were a tight community. “Maybe this was all a mistake.”
She understood he didn’t mean the harbor project.
“No,” she said. “I like it here, I really do. Our house. The people. And they don’t all hate me.”
“Us. No, they don’t all hate us.” He smelled of bacon and she inhaled deeply, finding the scent oddly reassuring at the moment.
“Most of them are quite friendly actually.”
Michael laughed and put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. “The friendly ones just aren’t as vocal this morning, eh? The nutters are the loud blokes.”
“Nutters?”
“All right, Barnaby passed nutter and went straight to barmy.”
“I thought I was doing something worthwhile here,” she said, more to herself than to Michael. “The harbor needed—”
“A sprucing? It certainly does.” He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “We wouldn’t have personally contributed so heavily if it wasn’t warranted. And you are doing a good thing here. Barnaby’s just getting his fifteen minutes of fame.”
“Venting his steam—that’s what he’s doing,” said another man behind them. It was Percy Lethbridge. Molly had spotted him earlier with two other planning board members. His companions were working their way through the ring of spectators, trying to reach Barnaby, who appeared to have acquired a broken nose. Blood splattered his once-bright yellow shirt. “I think he had too much to drink last night, Molly, and this is all the product of a hangover.” Softer, so only she could hear, he added, “There’s something I need to talk to you about. But not here, and not now.”
“Later then,” she said.
“When we’ve a little more privacy. When there’s no Barnaby Stone bellowing about.”
“I sympathize with him, Percy,” she said. “Barnaby has to kick in a good bit of money of his own, but—”
A cheer went up and Molly spotted one of the combatants drop. “Good lord.”
A shrill whistle cut above the shouts and a constable shouldered his way through. Someone in the crowd started whistling back, and there were guffaws and more cheers. Molly saw another constable, and at the edge of the gathering D.C.I. Paddington. The Draghici family moved farther away from the police, as Stefan headed onto the largest dock.
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
