Murder, She Wrote: Prescription for Murder (13 page)

“I’m listening.”

“Don’t discount the seriousness of the matter in which you and Dr. Hazlitt find yourselves enmeshed. The stakes are high,
very
high.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He looked down at my leg and cooed, “You have a boo-boo.”

“A plant with sharp leaves.”

“Saw grass,” he said. “Nasty things, those leaves.”

“It’s nothing,” I said.

“We’ll have to continue this little chat another time,” he said, rising and stamping out his cigar on the dirt.

I started up the path out of the wooded wetland but was struck with a thought. “Are you responsible for having people follow me and Dr. Hazlitt?” I asked.

“Me? I’m simply concerned with your well-being, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“That may be true, but I assure you we don’t need someone watching after us.”

He ignored my comment and said, “Careful walking back to the hotel, Mrs. Fletcher. Avoid the saw grass, and keep a sharp eye out for alligators. They have a voracious appetite.”

I had to work at steadying my nerves on my way back to the hotel, not because he’d been threatening, but because I disliked him so.

Why had he bothered seeking me out that morning? All he’d done was to corroborate what Oona Mendez had said, that the United States government was interested in Vasquez’s research and in seeing that it not fall into Cuban hands.

I’d had the feeling after my conversation with Oona that she was aware that the laptop on which Vazquez’s notes were stored was missing, although she hadn’t said as much.

But if Seth was correct, it was all moot anyway. His reading of Al’s notes said that Vasquez had failed to come up with any conclusions that might lead to a cure for Alzheimer’s. The problem seemed to be that neither Oona nor Westerkoch, nor other governmental types, knew what Seth and I knew, and that begged the question: Was it incumbent upon us to let it be known?

I wasn’t the one to answer that. It would be Seth’s call, and his alone.

I filled Seth in about my conversation with Westerkoch during the ride to the Vasquez home on Davis Island.

“I don’t like it,” Seth said. “I don’t like this fellow trailing behind you.”

“I’d prefer that he didn’t, too. Do you have an agenda this morning?”

“Nothing specific, but I think it’s time I asked some direct questions.”

I was pleased to hear him say that because I had a few direct questions of my own.

T
he Vasquez daughter, Maritza, answered the door.

“How is your mother today?” Seth asked once we were inside the house.

Maritza twisted her hand from side to side, a nonverbal “so-so” reply. “She’s asked for you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Oh? I’d enjoy very much seeing her.”

Maritza’s brother, Xavier, joined us.

“How was your trip to Key West?” I asked.

He lifted his brows, apparently surprised that I knew he’d been away. “Great,” he replied pleasantly. “Smooth flight both ways. How have you been?”

“We’ve been fine,” I said, aware of the change in his demeanor. During our first meeting, he’d been sullen, perhaps even rude, but on this day he seemed more relaxed and there was warmth in his voice.

Maritza, who’d left us, returned with her mother as Xavier disappeared into another part of the house. Mrs. Vasquez looked stronger than she had the last time we’d seen her. She’d abandoned the blanket and was now stylishly dressed in a taupe skirt, teal blouse, and sandals.

“Hello, Mrs. Vasquez,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher.”

“Of course,” she said. “How good of you to come. Please won’t you join me in some coffee or tea?” She sank gracefully into a chair in front of a small table and waved at her daughter.

“Coffee would be fine,” I said, and Seth opted for the same.

We settled on a love seat across from Ivelisse as Maritza gave instructions to the housekeeper to fetch “
café con leche
” as Mrs. Vasquez had requested.

“Have you seen the newspapers?” I ventured, deciding to be direct.

“I never read those scandal sheets,” Ivelisse said placidly, smoothing her hair with one hand.

“Mami,” her daughter said. “I read the story about Papi to you this morning, don’t you remember?”

Ivelisse looked momentarily confused. Then she closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. “How could they even think such a thing? To say that Alvaro was murdered upsets me. The American press, with all its liberties, abuses them at times, don’t they?”

“I’m afraid they do sometimes,” I said. “It’s a price we pay for freedom of the press.”

“There is no free press in Cuba. The government controls what is written and broadcast. But when I hear what your reporters say about Alvaro, I wonder whether it isn’t better in Cuba.”

Seth joined the discussion. “Government-controlled press is never better,” he said with gravity.

Ivelisse cocked her head at him. “I suppose you’re right, Mr. . . . ?”

“Seth Hazlitt,” Seth answered.

“Yes, yes, you were a friend of Alvaro’s.”

“That’s right. I’m a physician.”

“Like Alvaro.”

“He was a great physician and a fine gentleman,” Seth said.

Her smile was part agreement but somewhat cynical. “Alvaro was a handsome man, yes?” she said to me.

“Yes, he was very handsome,” I replied, a vision of him flashing in front of me.

“So many women,” she said, as though casually commenting on the weather or a pretty flower.

Seth and I looked at each other as Maritza said, “I don’t think we need to talk about that, Mami.”

Ivelisse’s face was blank, serene, and a tiny smile came to her lips and stayed there while the housekeeper set out a tray with cups of strong Cuban coffee, sugar cubes, and a pitcher of hot milk.

“Have the police been in contact with you again?” Seth asked, adding sugar to his cup and stirring.

“The police?” she said in a startled voice. “Oh, them,” she said. “The police. Why would they be here?”

“I thought they might want to talk with you about their suspicion”—Seth hesitated before continuing—“that Al was murdered.”

Her serenity morphed into a hard mask. “Murdered? I will not stand to hear that. No, there will be no talk of murder in my house.”

“Maybe you’d better rest again, Mami,” Maritza said.

“I do not want to rest,” she said. “I want to talk with Mrs. Fletcher. She is a writer.”

“That’s right,” I said, “although I have to admit that I do write
about
murder.”

“Murder in books is all right,” she said.

Xavier returned and gave his sister a piercing look.

“I’m afraid Mami is getting tired,” said Maritza, rising.

“I am not,” Ivelisse said sternly.

Maritza motioned to Xavier and they walked from the room.

“My daughter is studying medicine,” Ivelisse said.

“You must be very proud of her,” Seth said.

“What sort of doctor are you?” she asked Seth.

“General practice.”

“Alvaro was a respected research scientist,” she said.

“Yes, I know,” said Seth. “Did he talk to you about his research?”

“Oh, no, and I didn’t want to know about it. He was trying to find a cure for . . .” She trailed off.

“For Alzheimer’s disease,” I filled in.

“That’s right, for Alzheimer’s disease,” she said. “For the brain.”

“For the brain,” Seth concurred.

“Alvaro liked women,” she said.

“Did he?” Seth said. “I do, too.”

“Do you cheat on your wife?”

Seth sat back on the couch as though having been shoved. “I’m not married,” he said.

“You, Mrs. Fletcher? Do you see other men?” she asked.

“Other than my husband? I’m widowed, Mrs. Vasquez, have been for a number of years. But my husband, Frank, and I had a wonderful marriage. We were devoted to each other.”

“That’s nice,” she said dreamily. She looked at Seth and her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, but you are?”

“Dr. Seth Hazlitt, Alvaro’s friend.”

“Of course, yes, yes, yes, I know that. What do they call it when you get older and forget?”

“A senior moment?” I suggested, although the term “Alzheimer’s” was at the front of my thoughts. “I have those senior moments myself now and then.”

She didn’t respond to my comment. She adopted a dreamy expression as she said, “Alvaro was such a handsome man, a Cuban Casanova. He was proud of that. Cuban men are hot-blooded, Mrs. Fletcher. We accept that when we marry them.”

Seth cleared his throat and asked, “Did Al ever share with you what was on the laptop he brought home with him every night from his laboratory?”

“No,” she said sharply. “I already told you that. He never told me about his work.”

“I’m sorry,” Seth said. “You did tell me that.”

“Where is Maritza?” she asked, swiveling her head left and right.

Her daughter immediately reappeared as though she’d been poised to be summoned.

“Is it time?” Ivelisse asked.

“Yes.”

Maritza explained to us, “My mother likes the Spanish soap opera
La Casa de al Lado
. She never misses it.”

“What does that mean in English?” I asked.

“‘The house next door,’” she replied. “Please excuse us.”

After they’d left the room, Xavier returned and took his mother’s place, sitting in the chair she had vacated and pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Your mother is a lovely woman,” I said, adding, “and a proud woman.”

“Yes, she is both of those things, and more.”

“How is she handling your father’s death?”

“She is very strong and doesn’t show her emotions easily,” Xavier said, sipping his coffee, “certainly not to strangers.”

I had thought she was open in expressing her opinions, but I wondered how much her memory problems affected her understanding of the current circumstances.

“Behind her closed door,” Xavier continued, “my mother is able to express herself to her family. She is very sad, of course. She and my father were married a long time.”

“There are a lot of questions about your father’s research,” Seth said.

“Yes. I’ve heard about the missing laptop,” Xavier said flatly.

“That’s right, his missing laptop. I was told that he brought it home with him every night from the lab, but it doesn’t seem to have shown up. Got to be an answer for that.”

“You aren’t suggesting that I might have done something with it, are you, Dr. Hazlitt?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Xavier, but it is strange that something as visible—and important—as that laptop would go missing.”

“Well,” Xavier said mildly, “maybe it’ll show up one of these days.” He turned to me. “So,” he said, “you told me at the party that you have a pilot’s license. I love to fly. I received my license in Cuba.” He laughed. “My father was supportive, but my mother was certain it would mean an early death for me. So far, she’s been wrong.”

“Thank goodness for that,” I said. “What sort of certificate do you have?”

“I am instrument rated and have started working on my instructor’s license.”

“What’s your goal?” Seth injected. “To fly big commercial planes?”

“Yes, I would like that someday. When I am in my plane, I feel free, more free than at any other time in my life. Do you feel that way, too, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes, I do,” I said. “There’s something liberating about being up there all alone, looking down at the earth, seeing your town from the air. I’m sorry that I’ll never get much further beyond my basic private pilot’s license, although I never intended to.”

“Mrs. Fletcher doesn’t have a driver’s license,” Seth said, chuckling, “but she can fly a plane.”

Xavier smiled broadly. “That is funny,” he said.

I returned his smile. “That’s what all my friends say.”

“Which includes me,” said Seth. “Frankly, I thought she was crazy when she said she was going to take flying lessons.”

“I thought for a while that maybe
I
was
crazy,” I said, “but once I started I knew I’d made the right decision.”

“How about going up for a spin with me, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“That sounds appealing,” I said.

Seth fixed me with a hard look.

“Maybe we can do that one of these days,” I said, keeping it vague for Seth’s sake.

“You know,” Xavier said, changing the subject, “my father surprised everyone when he welcomed your friendship, Dr. Hazlitt. He didn’t have many close friends.”

“Then I’m proud to have been among the few.”

“I’m thinking maybe we don’t even need my father’s laptop to know how his research was going.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, it’s just that since you became one of his close confidants, I figure you’d know a lot about his progress.”

“’Fraid I can’t help you there,” Seth said, slapping his knees and standing. He put a hand out to help me up.

I thought of the three thumb drives back at the hotel, and that not only did Seth know everything that Vasquez had noted about the research, but I did, too, although without the medical background to truly understand it.

Xavier said that it was good of us to have stopped by and repeated his invitation for me to go flying with him.

“Before we go,” Seth said, “I wanted to ask you about Ms. Mendez and Mr. Westerkoch.”

“What about them?”

“They were friends of your father’s, too, and I wonder what the basis of the friendship was.”

Xavier shrugged. “The ‘basis’? He liked them.”

“I know that Ms. Mendez works for the Cuban American Freedom Foundation here in Tampa,” Seth said. “Was she helpful in your father’s defection and application for asylum?”

He thought before answering. “Oona Mendez has her own agenda where my father was concerned. Sure, she was involved in those things, but she also had a more personal interest in dear old Dad.”

Maybe I’d been right when I speculated that Oona might have lost a lover in Dr. Alvaro Vasquez. I also found Xavier’s expression “dear old Dad” to be disparaging. I’d sensed tension between father and son during the party and now wondered about the extent of their animosity toward each other. Ivelisse may have been in mourning, but was Xavier also sad to have lost his father?

“And Mr. Westerkoch?” Seth asked. “He seems to be—well, he’s demonstrated a keen interest in your father’s research.”

“Did he?”

“What does he do?” I asked. “He says he’s a consultant, but he never said what company he consults for.”

“He’s—look, I really don’t care about Westerkoch.” He flashed me an engaging smile. “Last chance, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m flying to Key West first thing in the morning.”

“So soon again?”

“The weather report is good,” he said, ignoring my question, “so it should be nice flying weather. You can get in some flying time, and you can meet my girlfriend. You, too, Dr. Hazlitt. It’s a four-seater, a really nice plane. Game?”

“Can I think about it and call you later?” I said.

“Sure. I’ll be around all day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see how my mother is.”

When Seth and I were alone, he said, “You aren’t really considering going flying with him, are you?”

“It’s tempting,” I said. “He invited you, too.”

“It’s not tempting to me.”

“It would give us a chance to spend some uninterrupted time with him, Seth. I know that you’re not a fan of flying, especially in small planes, but he sounds like a responsible pilot. He has his instrument rating and is going for his instructor’s license. That means he’s a serious pilot. Besides, you’ve flown with Jed back home in his small planes and you made it out alive.”

He curtailed that topic of conversation by making a show of looking at his watch. “Let’s go get lunch,” he said, “and meet up with Dr. San Martín. I’m eager to find out why he wants to see us.”

I found Maritza and told her that we were leaving.

“My mother was happy to see you, Mrs. Fletcher. She admires authors. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay awhile?”

“I’d love to,” I said, “but we’re meeting someone for lunch at a place called the . . . What is it, Seth?”

“The West Tampa Sandwich Shop.”

“Oh,” Maritza said, “everybody raves about the Cuban food there—very authentic, I’m told. Xavier goes there a lot.”

“I’m ready for some good Cuban food,” Seth said.

“Enjoy it,” Maritza said, “and please come back anytime.”

We managed to find the West Tampa Sandwich Shop, a small, nondescript former house on the busy North Armenia Avenue, across from a large church. Seth had to circle the block a few times to find a parking space, and we ended up two blocks from the restaurant.