LITMIR.BIZ

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pressed in from the street side, and the crowd surged forward from the dock side. Molly and Michael were caught between the two groups and had to inch their way through.

      Headly managed to pose for the camera. “This is Garrison Headly with BBC Four, reporting from historic Blackpool, where a ceremony just got underway…and has been interrupted…by a group of environmentalists apparently calling themselves the Green Gladiators. I’m speaking with their leader, Francis Weymouth.”

      Molly stopped in her tracks, belatedly realizing the man beside Headly wasn’t just a part of the crowd. The color drained from her face.

      “The day can’t get any worse now,” Michael said flatly.

      “We’ve tried to reason with the planning board—and with Molly Graham,” Weymouth said, eyes straight at the camera.

      “We’ve been against the changes to the docks from the very beginning, and we’ve been consistently ignored.”

      Weymouth had outdone himself today, looking trim and reasonably professional with pressed pants and a sport jacket over a bright Green Gladiators T-shirt. In his early thirties, he could pass for someone a decade younger, with sandy hair and intense blue eyes. Molly had to admit he was striking to look at, with his broad shoulders and square jaw, and he was perfect eye candy for the news cameras.

      But just because he was attractive didn’t mean she liked him. In fact, he set her teeth on edge. She didn’t trust him, not since she’d first seen him at one of the planning board meetings. She’d learned then that he lived in a shack at the edge of town, calling himself “off the grid,” because he had no need to rely on electricity or other modern conveniences that “stressed the environment.” Though apparently he had no qualms about the convenience of using his motorcycle to get around. He hadn’t been arrested yet for any of his numerous and noisy demonstrations regarding the harbor project, but he had been charged for trespassing on construction sites and damaging equipment to “preserve the balance” of the land.

      Molly didn’t doubt that he was an environmentalist, but she suspected he relished the publicity more than any actual change he might accomplish.

      “Short-term, dredging will hurt fishing in the area,” Weymouth explained. “Long-term, it will have a dire impact on the lobster population and lobster harvesting. It’s a lose-lose situation,” he added. “Nothing good will come of—”

      “There was an environmental assessment done,” Molly countered loudly, drawing the reporters’ attention. Jennessee—appearing out of nowhere—and Headly quickly thrust microphones in front of her, as Michael stepped behind. “Mr. Weymouth’s concerns were all addressed in the multiple assessments we commissioned. Yes, dredging will have a big impact on the ecosystem of Blackpool’s harbor, that’s why it wasn’t entered into lightly. But the impact will be favorable.”

      “How so?” Headly and Jennessee said practically in unison.

      Molly pulled in a breath. “A deeper harbor can accommodate larger boats, which is beneficial for our fishing and tourism industries. Plus, the silt that has accumulated on the ocean floor carries traces of contaminants like PCBs and heavy metals that are harmful to aquatic life. Ridding the harbor of them will be a boon to the ecosystem and healthier for the residents of the town. We wouldn’t have been awarded such a large green grant if the project caused harm.”

      “Liar!” a protester shouted.

      “They can make their bloody studies say whatever they bloody well want!” chimed in another.

      “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

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