Port Silva is a small town on the California north coast, an area where political opinions tend to be strongly held and the holders vocal. In the fall of 2002, Port Silvans are busy choosing sides over the increasing possibility that the U.S. will declare war on Iraq, and the big bridge over the Pomo River estuary has become the favorite spot for demonstrators to display their forceful and sometimes rude placards, "pacifists" lining up along the west rail and "patriots" along the east.
As FAMILY BUSINESS opens, the crowd gathered at South Bluffs Park for a memorial ceremony on the first anniversary of September 11 is quiet and apparently respectful, but Patience Smith, old Berkeley lefty that she is, senses unease around her. Police Chief Vince Gutierrez, also alert to possibilities, has been keeping his force tuned in to demonstrators on the bridge and elsewhere in town; and the police presence at the memorial event, while low-key, is larger than usual, a fact that Patience notes with approval.
The memorial concludes without trouble, and when a group of anti-war citizens subsequently petitions the city council for permission to hold a peace rally in that same South Bluffs Park, Chief Gutierrez, a Marine veteran of Vietnam, is inclined to go along with the request. The mayor and city council, however, see such a gathering as potentially dangerous, and refuse to permit it. When the rally organizers simply proceed quietly with their plans via phone and internet, the resulting silent march and rally builds slowly, brings another huge crowd to the park south of the bridge, and eventually explodes into a riot in which several people are hurt and two men disappear. Gutierrez and his force will work to locate one of them, a troubled and troublesome young man from a well-regarded local family. Patience Smith, Investigations is hired by the girlfriend of the second young man not to find him, since he was observed falling into the storming ocean, but to try to discover who he really was.
Reviews
"Set in 2002, LaPierre's crisply plotted ninth Port Silva mystery features mother-daughter sleuths Patience and Verity Mackellar (after 2004's DEATH DUTIES), who once again must deal with violence in the picturesque Northern California coastal town. A rally against the march to war in Iraq turns ugly when several protesters struggling with police tumble off a cliff into the ocean. Among the causalties is Daniel Soto, a worker Verity has hired to help remodel her new home. Though Daniel is missing, he's presumed dead. But Soto's grief-stricken girlfriend, Grace Beaubien, refuses to accept his death and hires the Mackellars to find him—and to uncover the past he had never disclosed. Lending support are Verity's hunky boyfriend, Det. Johnny Hebert, and her engaging soon-to-be-adopted daughter, nine-year-old Sylvie. Blending contemporary issues and family conflicts with a solid mystery plot, the author reaffirms her fluid mastery of the cozy."
—Publishers Weekly, July 17, 2006
"A memorial service for 9/11 victims in the northern California coastal town of Port Silva leaves an aftermath of civil strife and murder... Another of LaPierre's complex tales whose strongly rendered characters continue to captivate."
—Kirkus Reviews, June 15, 2006
Excerpt
Chapter One
"I wish Verity was coming with us," Sylvie Medina said as she clicked her seat belt into place.
"She's busy, dear, so you and I will be representing the family." Patience Mackellar, in spite of an unorthodox business life as proprietor of Patience Smith, Investigations, was a fairly regular attendee at Port Silva's First Baptist Church. Nine-year-old Sylvie accompanied her there for the comfort of familiarity and because she knew her dead mother would have wished it. Verity, however, Patience's daughter and Sylvie's "found mom," was respectful but secular, and the event they were setting off for would be largely a gathering of the faithful.
"Wow! Look at the traffic!" said Sylvie moments later, staring in wonder through the windshield.
"There's certainly a lot of it," said Patience with a good deal less enthusiasm. Cars, vans, pickups, and the occasional motorcycle were streaming past the intersection where Raccoon Lake Road joined California Highway One, which was also known further south in Port Silva as Main Street.
"How are we going to . . . ? Oh, very good," Sylvie said as Patience stepped on the gas and inserted her little RAV4 neatly into the opening she'd glimpsed. "Patience, where do you think they're all going?"
The small American flags fluttering from many antennas made that an easy call. "I'd say they're headed for the same place we are," Patience told her. Port Silva's one-year memorial for the victims of September 11 deserved to draw a crowd, and she hoped that the park on the bluffs south of the river was big enough to accommodate what promised to be one. "It appears that many people besides you and me want to pay their respects today."
"How come so many cars have those teensy American flags?"
Surprise; she'd noticed. "Because the people we'll be honoring were Americans, killed in an American city."
"Could we get a flag?"
Patience admitted silently that her inner response to this request was almost pure reflex from her lefty-Berkeley-student days in the sixties, and not something that should be passed on. "Of course we can."
Sylvie settled back in her seat, apparently satisfied with her victory, and Patience turned her attention to her mental map of the town ahead, and possible parking places.
"Patience, weren't some of the people in the buildings and the airplanes from other countries? Besides the bad guys who took over the planes, I mean."
She foresaw the next request, and headed it off. "I'm sure some were, Sylvie, but we're honoring them, too, just by going to the memorial today. Now, keep an eye out and help me look for a parking place."
Sylvie obediently sat up straighter and turned her gaze on the passing streets.
"Sylvie!"
Sylvie stopped and turned, causing the slow-moving tide of humanity to slow still further before splitting to flow around them. "Patience, there's Jess."
"I see, dear. And her mother, too. Let's step to the side and wait for them."
Ronnie Kjelland—mother, restaurant owner, and Verity's now-and-then employer—waved to Patience and followed her daughter through the crowd. "Incredible turnout," she said as she reached out to take the older woman's arm. The little girls greeting each other with hugs made a picture of contrasts: tall Sylvie with a narrow, olive-skinned face, shoulder-length black hair, and air of controlled intensity; and Jessica, a diminutive red-haired dynamo of ten.
Patience and Ronnie stood where they were to survey the scene. People of all ages, in numbers too large to estimate, nearly filled the grassy expanse of the park. Latecomers were still trickling in, trying to find a spot with at least a partial sight line to the flag-draped stage set at bluff's edge above the Pacific. Patience noted a couple of rows of folding chairs at the front and a few people sitting on the grass, but most who'd come to this memorial service were standing, shading their eyes or squinting into the last rays of a sunset muted by wisps of fog and talking, if at all, in low voices.
"Parking was a bitch," said Ronnie. "My Jeep is sitting partly on somebody's lawn about six blocks away."
"I got lucky," said Patience. "There was a space just this side of the bridge too small for the van trying to get into it, so I waited and then whipped right in. I saw a couple of big videocams on my way in," she added, "I think from the local station. Nothing from the networks, at least not so far."
"I'd bet there's an event like this in most major cities and a good many small ones today," said Ronnie. "So if Mayor Riley was expecting national notice, he'll be disappointed, but I'd say his little town is doing itself proud." She glanced past Patience. "Verity's not with you?"
"Verity's busy with her new love."
Ronnie's eyes widened. "New? What's happened to Johnny Hebert?"
Patience's grin made her round, middle-aged face look years younger. "Nothing, or so I devoutly hope. Her new love is a house she's just bought and is remodeling."
"Well, that'll keep her busy for a while," said Ronnie with a sigh. "I was hoping I could get her to come in on the lunch shift at Veronica's. My best daytime cook is eight months pregnant."
"I don't think . . . Yes, Sylvie?"
"Excuse me, Patience? Jess and I aren't going to be able to see from back here." Sylvie's tone was polite, but her feet were fidgeting, eager to move.
"We'll just go down in front and sit on the grass," said Jess. "We'll be able to hear better from there, too."
"Hank Svoboda told me the event will be very well patrolled," said Patience, and Ronnie nodded.
"Yeah, I saw several cops on my way in. Okay, girls. Just stay together and out of trouble, and meet us back here by the main path when it's over. And remember the purpose of this event."
Sylvie stopped just short of rolling her eyes, substituting a nod instead. "Yes, ma'am. We'll be just like in church."
Ronnie sighed as the pair ran off. "Hey, I'm really glad we ran into you two. Jess finds Sylvie much better company than her tired old mom."
A brief click-click of sound, probably from someone tapping a live microphone, stilled chatter and brought most eyes to the stage, where the row of seated dignitaries, in dark suits or black robes, got to their feet as a local man with a not-bad tenor voice stepped center-front to sing "The Star-Spangled Banner."
The singer finished, and after a moment of respectful silence, Mayor Ed Riley moved forward with somber greetings to this group gathered to honor the victims of the tragic events of a year earlier. He ended with a slow, precise recitation of the names of nine locally connected people who were among those thousand of victims. Each name brought a reaction from some part of the crowd, and Patience stood a little straighter as the name of her insurance agent's adult son was spoken. Then came the Assemblywoman from District One, who spoke briefly and introduced two large, blue-suited men, Port Silva firemen who had joined New York firefighters in dealing with the disaster.
That brought the whole crowd to vocal life, and the pair of heroes stood even straighter and looked abashed at the roar of approval and applause.
Mayor Riley again: "Following a few hymns from one of our fine choirs, we'll listen to hopeful words from men of faith well known to Port Silva. Please hear Pastor Schultz, Father Eccles, Rabbi Hirsch, Father Lucchesi, and Reverend Noble." As he moved back to his seat, some twenty-five or so black-robed figures began to line up in front of the stage.
"Let's see," said Ronnie, who was not a Port Silva native but was married to one. "That takes in Lutheran, Episcopalian, Jewish, R.C., and Baptist. Pretty old-line ecumenical."
"I'd heard there was to be a Muslim, from that storefront mosque downtown," said Patience.
"Yeah, my mother-in-law was really pissed about that. Maybe he got cold feet."
Patience frowned, and took another look around. The choir members were still arranging themselves, the crowd mainly quiet. "So far, it looks peaceful enough. Did you notice many political buttons as you came in?" Port Silva was a northern California coastal town and thus home to many political points of view. Earth First!ers and people opposed to coastal oil drilling had marched here; lumbermen and fishermen from both ends of the political spectrum were vigorous in defense of their waning industries. While local support for the military action in Afghanistan was nearly total, rumblings were beginning to be heard over the possibility of another war in Iraq.
Ronnie shook her head. "Beyond a lot of Support Our Troops, the only buttons I noticed were those Peace is Patriotic numbers, and I wouldn't think that's a statement to pull anybody's chain."
Patience, with Vietnam-era protests part of her personal history, knew very well that political buttons and banners could have nuances not always obvious to the uninitiated. "You're probably right."
"However," Ronnie went on, "I do believe that's our Lutheran choir. They must have beaten out the Baptists, and now we'll get 'A Mighty Fortress' instead of—what would Baptists go for, 'Onward Christian Soldiers'?"
"Possibly," said Patience, and turned to watch, and listen. A note sounded very softly—a pitch pipe, she thought—and the choir straightened, took breath, and the old hymn burst forth: "Oh God, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come . . ."
"A fitting choice," said Patience softly, and Ronnie nodded.
Sylvie and Jess had threaded their way politely to the edge of the crowd and now moved more freely among others, mostly teenagers, who were hanging about in pairs or groups. Jess said, "Hi, Sara," to a plump girl with spiky purple hair whose low-slung jeans and cropped top exposed a broad strip of less-than-flat belly. Sara said, "Oh, hi, Jess," with a nod, and turned to rejoin two other girls about her age, the three of them giggling as they looked around in search of more interesting passersby.
"She used to baby-sit me," Jess told Sylvie. "She's kinda dumb, but nice enough. Except my mom didn't like it that she brought her boyfriend over."
"She must be cold," Sylvie said, pulling her own light jacket closer against the early-evening chill as they moved on.
"Sara likes to be right out there," said Jess. "She's got this big tattoo on her butt. Oh, look out." Three big guys Sylvie thought looked older and hairier than high school boys blocked their path in a face-off with two others. Before the confrontation got any further than snarled comments, a uniformed policeman appeared out of nowhere, it seemed to Sylvie, and snapped, "Cool it!"
The boys froze and then the trio stepped back from the other two with exaggerated care. "Hey, man, no problemo," said the tallest with a shrug.
"That really relieves my mind, Dickerson. Now. If you guys want to pay your respects to the people who died, maybe you better do it separately. Or you can all just clear out so other folks can hear what the preachers have to say." He watched as the boys set off with various degrees of swagger, then noticed the little girls as he himself turned to go. "Well hi there, Sylvie, you're looking real pretty today. Verity here with you?"
"Hi. No, I came with Patience."
"Well, tell Verity 'hey' from me when you see her. You two be careful now, and keep out of the way of the big boys." He gave a half salute and strolled away.
"Who's he?" asked Jess.
"Dave Figueiredo. He likes Verity."
"He's really good-looking," said Jess, following the departing figure with her glance.
"I guess. Listen!" Sylvie breathed, and cocked her head. "The choir is starting. Oh, they're very good."
"That's our choir from Shepherd of the Sea," said Jess, but Sylvie waved her to silence and stood stock-still through that hymn and those that followed.
"Come thou almighty King, help us thy name to sing . . . "
"Be still my soul, the Lord is on thy side; bear patiently the cross of grief or pain . . ."
As the last words died away and the choir members began to separate and move into the crowd, Jessica said, "I'm tired of standing here. Let's go find a place to sit." She tugged Sylvie's hand, and Sylvie sighed and followed. "That was just lovely, Jess. I wonder if I could maybe come to your church?"
"Sylvie, I don't think you become a Lutheran just for the music."
"I don't see why not."
By the time they'd found a patch of summer-dry grass to sit on, a tall, black-robed man with a neat beard had been speaking for a few moments. His deep voice was sad, Sylvie thought; and he talked about being sorrowful but staying hopeful and strong with God's help. " . . . the Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace."
The next speaker, in a suit and beanie, was speaking of sorrow and bravery, a fight against evil, God on our side, when a small crowd of teenagers, Jess's former baby-sitter among them, drifted past and stopped to talk, bumping against each other and laughing. By the time two women moved out from the crowd to hush them and shoo them away, the third speaker was up and talking. "Pastor Schultz," said Jess.
Sylvie, attention wavering, turned to see whether she could spot Patience and saw another familiar cop, Verity's friend Alma Linhares, pause in her patrolling of the crowd's edge to speak into what Sylvie knew was the radio mike near the collar of her jacket.
When she turned her eyes to the stage again, another black-robed man—Father Lucchesi, Sylvie had seen him at Our Lady of Mercy church and school a few blocks from Muir Elementary—was at the lectern, speaking of what he called a "just war," to be conducted according to moral principles. What had happened on this date, he said, was neither just nor moral. Scenes of smoke and falling buildings and running people filled Sylvie's mind again, and she clenched herself against those images and concentrated on Father Lucchesi as he told the audience to pray and seek counsel in this time of sorrow.
And next—last?—was a smallish, bouncy man in a suit whose big voice made the sound system seem unnecessary. "Reverend Noble, I promised Patience I'd listen," Sylvie said, but it seemed to her that the words these men were speaking differed only in tone, from sad to angry. Maybe there'd be more music soon.
". . . and to this memorial of a tragic event I'll add Our Lord's words from Matthew 10:34. 'Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword.' Amen, and God bless America."
That brought movement and scattered cries of "Amen" from the crowd, but it was the action in front of the stage that captured Sylvie's full attention. Moving into the place the choir had occupied earlier were four young women wearing tunics of various colors over white trousers. "Jess, look, that's 'Old Music, New Voices'! Gracie's quartet!"
"Gracie? That teaches the chorus?" Unmusical Jess was not one of the participants in the select chorus at their school.
"She's the little one, with all the brown, curly hair. Wait till you hear them, they're awesome!"
"Who's that big guy helping them get set up? He's the one I'd call awesome."
Now and then Sylvie was reminded that Jess was a year older than herself. "That's Gracie's boyfriend, Danny. He's one of the guys working on our new house. Shh, now."
Jess grimaced but sat back down as one of the woman sounded a note on a pitch pipe and then the four voices soared into "Amazing Grace." Sylvie listened so hard she nearly forgot to breathe.
"That was interesting," said Patience, as Father Lucchesi blessed the crowd and stepped back. "Did you notice a bit of unease around us?"
"Probably just in people who were listening very carefully," said Ronnie, and looked at her watch as Reverend Noble approached the lectern. "Last guy now, I believe. This should be pretty straightforward."
And it was. "So who won, the Catholics and 'moral war,' or the Baptists with the sword?" Ronnie asked softly as the "Amens" rang out. "And do you suppose it matters?"
"I hope not. I prefer to think the music won. Ah," Patience went on, peering around the people in front of her to see what was happening, "this will be good. And Sylvie will be in heaven. Let's see what 'Old Music, New Voices' gives us."
Some minutes later she sighed and grinned at Ronnie, who grinned back. "I'd bet," Patience said, "that's the best white folks' version of 'Amazing Grace' we'll ever hear. And I personally bless them for ending with 'America the Beautiful'."
"Yup. Fine choice. Fine voices."
Patience pulled her jacket closer and glanced out at the horizon where only the faintest line of light still shone, and then around the park, where high banks of lights to either side of the grassy expanse had not yet been turned on, but low lamps along the paths were now glowing. "Let's move out smartly and find the girls. It's getting cold, it's getting dark . . . ."
"And this park is a night-time hang-out for teenagers looking for action or trouble."
"Hank's information was clearly correct," noted Patience. "I've seen six—no, seven. Eight. Eight cops just out here on the grass. There's Alma," she added, and waved to a uniformed woman who waved back but didn't stop her half trot along the edge of the moving mass of people. Patience craned her neck, and after a moment thought she spotted Sylvie, or more accurately her hooded red jacket. She gave a shrill, two-fingered whistle and the red-clad figure turned to whistle in return. "There they are. Here they come."
Not too far away a siren blared, then rose and fell, another joining in moments later. Patience and Ronnie exchanged glances, and Ronnie took the lead in forging a path for the pair of them.
"Patience! Did you hear the music? Did you see Gracie?" said Sylvie moments later, reaching to take Patience's hand.
"It's cold, and I'm hungry," announced Jess." Can we all go get something to eat before we go home?"
Ronnie's "Not tonight" followed fast on Patience's "I don't think so."
"It's late, and my feet hurt," Ronnie went on. "We'll do it another time. Now grab hands and let's get out of here before we get trampled in the rush."
© Janet LaPierre.