Murder, She Wrote: Prescription for Murder (2 page)

T
he hotel’s dining room was small and intimate, with crisp white napery, heavy flatware, and a vase of pink roses on each of the fifteen tables. Seth, who had arrived before me, chatted with a waitress by a small bar meant more for fulfilling drink orders than for directly serving customers.

“She says our table will be ready in a few minutes,” he told me in greeting. “You don’t look any worse for wear after your book tour.”

“It went well,” I said. “No hitches, and the people I met were lovely. You look well yourself.”

“There you go again, Jessica, trying to kid a kidder. The last week back home was busy. Seems that everybody in Cabot Cove decided to come down with the flu at the same time. Tough strain this year. I even had a few patients end up in the hospital. Had me running around like a headless chicken, but they’re all on the mend now. Good thing, too. We got a real cold snap, lots of snow. There’s something to be said for those snowbird folks who escape cold winters and head south.”

“It’s pretty chilly here in Florida, too,” I said.

Which was true. Temperatures had dipped to near freezing every night since I’d arrived, threatening the citrus crop and causing Floridians to walk around bundled in heavy coats and sweaters.

“I’d call the weather here pleasant,” was Seth’s reply.

I decided to change the subject. “Have you seen your friend Dr. Vasquez?”

“Only briefly. He’s been occupied with his research lab.”

“A research lab must cost a lot of money,” I said.

“Doesn’t seem to be a problem. Al has funding from K-Dex, a pharmaceutical company in Tampa. He introduced me to K-Dex’s founder and CEO, a nice chap named Peters, Bernard Peters, a real go-getter who has great faith that Al is making important strides in coming up with a definitive treatment of the disease.”

“If he succeeds, it could be worth millions, even billions,” I commented.

“It takes millions to find cures for diseases,” was Seth’s response.

It occurred to me that since Al had defected to Tampa, the Cuban government had not only lost a distinguished citizen, but stood to lose bragging rights for pioneering a medical breakthrough, to say nothing of the money that it could generate for the island and its people. I expressed my thoughts to Seth.

“Ayuh, Al is very aware of what it means to the Castro regime to have a breakthrough in Alzheimer’s research happen here in the States after so much of the initial research was done in Cuba,” Seth replied. “I had a long talk with him about that very subject. Al’s philosophy is that it shouldn’t matter where the breakthrough occurs, just as long as it happens.”

“I imagine the Cuban government isn’t happy that he’s defected,” I offered.

“No, I imagine they’re not,” Seth said.

“How do you feel about it?” I asked. “If Dr. Vasquez did most of his research in Cuba, shouldn’t the Cuban people share in the rewards of his work?”

I didn’t ask it to put my friend on the spot, but he reacted as though I did. He muttered something about it being premature to think about such things, then said, “Are you finished with your third degree, Mrs. Fletcher?”

I laughed. “I didn’t realize I was interrogating you.”

“Well, you were.”

“In that case, what do you say, sir? Ready to take our table? I’m famished.”

He motioned for the hostess, who came to us. “I reserved a table for four,” Seth said. “Hazlitt.”

I looked at him quizzically.

“I took the liberty of inviting two others to join us,” he said, “to slowly introduce you to the local cast of characters. Hope that’s all right with you.”

“Of course it is,” I said as we were led to a window table. “Who are they?”

“A couple of folks I’ve met on my previous trips to Tampa. Oona—that’s Oona Mendez, a terrific young lady. She works for the Cuban American Freedom Foundation, some kind of organization that lobbies the State Department. They’ve just started flights directly from Tampa to Havana, and that was one of their projects. Bright as a newly minted penny, and pretty, too. She’s got herself a boyfriend—I suppose that’s what you’d call him—a fella named Karl Westerkoch. He’s older than Oona, a bit of a stuffed shirt. Not sure what she sees in him, but that’s not my business. He’s got a German name but talks with a British accent. Hard fella to figure out.”

“What does this Mr. Westerkoch do?” I asked as our waitress filled our water goblets.

“Never did find out,” Seth said. “Looks like he might be some sort of diplomat, dresses that way, very high in the collar, if you get my drift, doesn’t say much, and when he does talk, he mumbles.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“Not sure I’d use that word,” said Seth. “But she’s lovely. Let’s check the menu. I’m starvin’.”

We’d no sooner begun to peruse our menus when Seth’s guests arrived. He had been right: Oona Mendez was indeed a pretty woman—and a tall one, skirting six feet with the high heels she wore. She’d donned a form-fitting green-and-yellow silk dress, the narrow waist of which made her substantial hips and bosom seem larger. Her hair was jet-black and worn long, her café au lait face skillfully, albeit heavily, made-up.

Mr. Westerkoch, her companion, was slightly taller than Ms. Mendez. He was a foppish sort, graying hair worn long on the sides and cascading down over the collar of his blue button-down shirt. His paisley bow tie drooped fashionably. His blue blazer was double-breasted and hung loosely on his pencil-thin frame. He didn’t look like a diplomat to me, but I was beginning to learn that Seth and I saw more things differently than I’d realized before. What I noticed most about Mr. Westerkoch at that initial meeting was his posture and mouth. He perpetually leaned forward as though being propelled in that direction, and there was a curl to his lip that could be taken as a physical trait or an editorial comment. It would take a while for me to decide.

After we’d finished with introductions and they’d been seated, Oona said, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher. Dr. Hazlitt tells me that you’re quite famous as an author.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ve been fortunate in my career.”

“That’s very self-effacing,” she said.

“One attribute Jessica doesn’t have is an inflated ego,” Seth said.

“That’s refreshing in this day and age,” Westerkoch said through his crooked lip.

“You know who I am,” I said, “but I’d like to know more about you, Ms. Mendez.”

“Please, it’s Oona.”

“And I’m Jessica.”

I glanced at Westerkoch, who didn’t offer his first name.

Seth jumped into the conversation. “Oona is a close friend of Al’s,” he said.

“Dr. Vasquez,” I said.

“A dear, sweet man,” Oona said, “speaking of self-effacing. As a Cuban American, I’m very proud of Alvaro and the work he’s doing in medical research.” She paused and then continued. “He is extremely pleased that Dr. Hazlitt has taken such an interest in his work. You’ve become one of his most trusted friends, Seth.”

“I do seem to enjoy Al’s confidence. He’s not only a fine gentleman; I believe that he’s onto a very important medical breakthrough.” Perhaps to stave off more questions from me, Seth abruptly changed the subject and suggested that we order a bottle of wine.

“And so secretive,” Oona added, winking at me.

“Who?” I asked.

“Alvaro, of course,” she replied. She wagged her red-tipped index finger at Seth. “I really believe that only you and his lab assistant know what’s really going on behind that fortress of a lab that Alvaro has built.”

Seth seemed flustered at the comment, turned, and waved our waitress to the table. We gave her our dinner choices from the menu. “We’d like a bottle of wine,” Seth said. “What do you recommend?”

“Is there Cuban wine?” I asked.

Westerkoch, who hadn’t said anything, rolled his lip into an even more pronounced snarl and said in a low voice, “Cuban wine is dreadful.”

“It is not!” Oona said.

“Did you have Cuban wine when you were in Havana?” I asked Seth.

“Ayuh. Didn’t think much of it, but . . .”

“But what?” I said.

“Well,” he said, “Al knows this physician from Cuba, a neurosurgeon, I believe, who left Cuba years ago, settled in Oregon, and has a winery that produces what he calls Cuban wine.”

“How can it be Cuban wine if it’s produced in Oregon?” I asked logically.

“Cuba’s climate is bad for the grapes,” Westerkoch said, waving a hand in front of his face as if to dissipate a bad odor. “It’s too hot there. Grapes need cool winters with cold rain. It only rains in Cuba in the summer.”

“I suppose because the doctor was Cuban, he can claim it’s Cuban wine,” Oona offered as an answer to my question.

Seth asked our waitress, “What wine would you recommend to go with the food we’ve ordered?”

She smiled and said, “We have a Cuban pinot noir that some folks say goes nicely with the paella, but you can’t prove it by me. It does have a pretty label, though.”

Seth ordered a California wine.

The conversation during dinner spanned a variety of subjects, the Tampa professional sports teams taking center stage. Westerkoch seemed to come to life when discussing the relative prospects of baseball’s Rays and the National Football League’s Tampa Bay Buccaneers. He also held a heated debate with Oona about whether restaurants in Havana have improved; and, of course, Cuba itself was a hot topic, and Fidel Castro, who in 2008 had ceded control to his brother Raúl. I listened with great interest as Oona, who was into our second bottle of wine, railed against the Castro brothers and the destruction they’d brought to her beloved homeland.

“They took what was a thriving economy and turned it into a Communist slum,” she said.

“It wasn’t any paradise before Castro came,” Westerkoch said in a tone that did not invite debate. “It was a sinner’s paradise when Batista was in power, nothing but gambling dens and brothels run by the bloody U.S. mafia.”

“He’s such a hypocrite,” Oona said, referring to Fidel Castro. “He complains about the food in Cuba, but when
paladares
are allowed to open he complains that the owners are being enriched.”

“Paladares?”
I said.

“Private restaurants in homes,” Oona explained, “where the best food is served. They were illegal until 1994, but the government charges them so many fees, as much as six hundred U.S. dollars every month, the owners can barely survive.”

“Cuban food is pretty good here in Tampa,” Seth said.

This prompted Westerkoch to mutter, “They put salami on Cuban sandwiches here in Tampa. Real Cuban sandwiches don’t have salami.”

And so went the rest of the table talk. Westerkoch’s frequent and barely stifled yawns heralded the end of the evening for our two dinner guests. As Seth examined the check to determine how much of a tip to include, Oona said to me, “I hope you’re up to par tomorrow, Jessica.”

“I expect to feel fine,” I said.

“No, no,” she said, laughing, “on the golf course. I understand that you have plans to play golf tomorrow with Alvaro, our Dr. Vasquez, and your charming friend Dr. Hazlitt.”

I looked at Seth, who smiled and said, “Forgot to mention it to you, Jessica. Al is a big golfer, got serious about it after coming to the States. I thought a morning on the course was a perfect way for you to get to know each other.”

“But I—”

“We’ll discuss it later,” Seth said as we walked with the others outside where Westerkoch’s car was parked.

Oona gave me a big hug and said that she looked forward to spending time together. “At Alvaro’s house tomorrow night,” she added.

Another event that Seth had “forgotten” to tell me about.

After they left, Seth and I repaired to the lounge, where he ordered a mojito and a glass of club soda with lime for me.

“Golf?” I said. “You know I don’t play golf, and I wasn’t aware that you did either.”

“Another thing you don’t know about me, Jessica. True, I haven’t played in years, at least not in Cabot Cove. But I did play when I was a teenager and young med student—was pretty decent, as a matter of fact. Al persuaded me when I met him in Havana to play a round with him, and I did pretty darn good considering how many years it was since I last held a golf club. I’ve been playing with Al whenever I visit him here in Tampa.”

“So much for your golfing history,” I said. “The last time I played was in—let me see—it was at least fifteen years ago. I hated it.”

Seth laughed, tasted his mojito, and complimented the bartender on the drink. “As good as they make in Cuba,” he said. He turned to me. “You’ll love it out on the course, Jessica, fresh air, sunshine, good conversation. All you have to do is keep your eye on the ball and swing the club smoothly. You’ll be fine, a regular Babe Zaharias.”

“What will I wear?”

“Slacks, a sweater, what you have on right now. The country club’ll provide you with golf shoes. Trust me. It will be a nice informal get-together. The perfect way for you to meet Al.”

“What about this event at Dr. Vasquez’s house tomorrow night?” I asked.

“A party to honor
you
, Jessica.”

“I thought I was staying an extra week in Tampa for R and R.”

“Can’t think of a better way to rest and relax than bask in the spotlight at a party welcoming you.”

I sat back, cocked my head, and said, “Something has come over you, Dr. Hazlitt.”

“Oh? What might that be?”

“Ever since you befriended Dr. Vasquez, you’ve—well, you’ve changed.”

“Still my usual charming self,” he said, smiling broadly.

I returned the smile. The fact was that Seth
had
changed. There was a twinkle in his eye that hadn’t been there before, the sort of twinkle that you see in Santa Claus at Christmas. Whatever was behind it—and it certainly wasn’t off-putting—my extended week in Tampa was shaping up to be unusual, to say the least.

G
olf!

The last time I’d been on a golf course was during a charity tournament to benefit Cabot Cove’s fire department—and more than fifteen years ago, as I’d told Seth earlier. I’d actually enjoyed the experience because we did more talking than playing, and I even managed to hit that little white ball straight a few times, although not very far. As I recalled, Sam Watson, a local financial planner and accountant, won the match, which surprised no one. He and his wife were avid golfers who played even in winter when the course wasn’t covered with snow. For some the game is that much of an obsession.

I had, however, played many rounds at our local miniature golf course and had always done quite nicely.

As I settled in a chair by my hotel room window to read a few chapters in a novel before going to bed, I had visions of swinging a golf club and completely missing the ball, or managing to make contact and sending it into someone’s head, causing massive brain injury leading to death. Would I be liable for manslaughter? Then I wondered whether a skilled golfer who deliberately aimed at an intended victim would be guilty of murder, one of those “what if?” moments.

Those bizarre thoughts got in the way of the novel, and I closed the book’s cover, sighed, and tried to conjure reasons for begging off the golf date. I didn’t come up with anything plausible. Sprained ankle? Carpal tunnel syndrome from working too much at my computer? A terminal case of prickly heat? None of the above. I decided I’d be a good soldier and go along with the plans for the day, wishing that my initial meeting with Dr. Vasquez took place at his house party rather than on a golf course.

After showering and dressing the following morning, I spent a few minutes in front of a full-length mirror swinging an imaginary golf club at an imaginary golf ball. I tried to remember the few tips Sam Watson had given me during my earlier foray on the golf course but came up blank. Keep my left arm straight? Or was it my right arm? Keep my eye on the ball, or focus on where I wanted it to go? It was a hopeless exercise, and I abandoned it to go down to the restaurant where Seth was to meet me for an early breakfast. As usual he was there before me.

“Al is sending his driver for us at eight,” he told me as we perused the buffet.

“Your friend Al obviously has plenty of money,” I said as I scooped scrambled eggs on my plate and used tongs to pick up a single strip of bacon.

“Let’s just say that he lives comfortably,” Seth said.

“You told me that this fellow who heads a pharmaceutical company is bankrolling him.”

“Ayuh.”

“He must have great faith in Dr. Vasquez and his research.”

“It appears that he does. You’ll get to meet him at dinner tonight. In the meantime, I assume that you’ve been practicing your golf swing.” There was mirth in his voice.

“Yes,” I said in the same light tone. “I played eighteen holes before breakfast. You do realize, Seth, that I’ll be embarrassing you.”

He looked at me quizzically.

“Playing golf for real,” I explained.

“Nonsense, Jessica. Nobody expects you to write bestselling novels
and
be a pro golfer. Al loves the game, but to be honest he isn’t all that good at it. He’s new to it, of course, and he can’t seem to get enough of it. He’s that sort of personality, throws himself totally into everything he does. Anyway, you might even beat him.”

I laughed away that suggestion and looked out the window. It was an overcast day with low-hanging gray clouds. A stiff breeze sent palm trees into motion and kicked up dust in the parking lot.

“Looks like rain,” I said idly.

“Wishful thinking, Jessica,” said Seth. “You’d like our golf date to be washed out, called on account of rain like a baseball game.”

He’d read my mind.

We waited in front of the hotel until precisely eight, when a long black Mercedes with tinted windows pulled up and a man emerged from the rear.

“Hello, Al,” Seth said as the man closed the gap between us, shook Seth’s hand, and took one of my hands in both of his.

“And you, of course, are the famous Jessica Fletcher,” he said through a dazzling smile.

I’d envisioned Dr. Vasquez to be a smaller, older man than the person standing in front of me; the one photo I’d seen of him in the newspaper after he’d defected had been blurry, and he’d been in the background. Instead he was tall and movie-star handsome, his dusky complexion a perfect scrim against which very white teeth and deep brown eyes sparkled. Black hair streaked with silver lay close to his temples, not a strand out of place. A thin black mustache curved perfectly over his upper lip. He wore white slacks, a teal polo shirt, white sneakers, and a tan sweater casually draped over his shoulders, the sleeves tied on his chest. I could see him as a tennis pro with whom his female students fell madly in love, or a luxury cruise ship captain holding forth at the dinner table reserved for special passengers. He was, as my friend Mara back in Cabot Cove would say, “a hunk.” The famous, and infamous, actor Errol Flynn came to mind.

“It’s a pleasure,” I said. “Seth speaks of you so often.”

“Positively, I hope.”

“Of course.”

He turned to Seth and slapped him on the shoulder. “The good Dr. Hazlitt here keeps me honest.”

Seth’s laugh sounded a tad uncomfortable to my ears. “But not on the golf course. Al shaves a stroke or two off his score now and then.”

Vasquez adopted a shocked expression. “Nothing is sacred with your straight-talking doctor friend,” he said. He looked up into the menacing sky. “Shall we? I’ve reserved an eight thirty tee time. From the looks of things, we’ll be lucky to get in only nine holes.”

I kept my smile to myself.

I noticed as we prepared to enter the car that there was a second man in the front seat next to the driver. Neither man paid us any attention, looking straight ahead as we got in. I sat between Dr. Vasquez and Seth. The air-conditioning was running full blast despite it being a chilly morning; it felt like entering an igloo. The driver pulled away from the hotel without instruction from his boss and we joined the flow of traffic.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“My club,” Vasquez replied. “Hunter’s Green Country Club. Excellent course, one of the best in the area.”

“You’ve played them all, I assume?” Seth teased.

“When I’ve had time, which never seems to be the case.” Vasquez’s words were tinged with his Cuban heritage. “Life was more leisurely in Cuba,” he said somewhat wistfully. “Not as good as here in the United States, of course, but more—leisurely.”

“Did you get to play much golf in Cuba?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, no. We have a splendid course, the Varadero, built on property once owned by your du Pont family, but I never had the chance to use it. Their mansion, Xanadu, is now the clubhouse.”

“Is Fidel Castro a golfer?” I asked.

Vasquez’s smile was wide. “Hardly. He considers it a wasteful pastime of the rich, which I suppose it is for some.” He laughed gently. “For me it is a way to escape the laboratory and to try to conquer something that is easier than finding a cure for Alzheimer’s.”

He sounded melancholy, and I wondered if his transplanted research program was not proceeding as successfully in the U.S. as he had expected.

“I wouldn’t say becoming good at golf is easier than
anything
,” Seth said.

“Sometimes I think you are right, my friend,” Vasquez said. “But I keep trying.”

I decided to go on the record before we arrived that golf was not something that I knew anything about, and that I would likely slow down everyone’s game.

Vasquez patted my hand, then squeezed it. “Nonsense, Mrs. Fletcher. I have a feeling that you are being too modest. Surely hitting a tiny white ball is considerably easier than writing a bestselling mystery novel. You must tell me how you do that. I’m afraid that if anyone asked me to write a book, I would be at a complete loss.”

“Now who’s being too modest?” Seth said as the driver pulled into the entrance to the golf club. “When you finally come up with a cure for Alzheimer’s disease, publishers will be clamoring for a book from you.”

Vasquez laughed. “If that is so, perhaps Mrs. Fletcher will collaborate with me.”

“But only if you call me Jessica,” I said.

“And I am Al. Very American, yes?”

A security guard examined the ID card the driver presented and waved us through. Now that we’d arrived, I felt my heart racing a little faster. It had never occurred to me when I agreed to spend a week in Tampa with Seth that it would involve playing golf. If he had suggested a fishing expedition, I would have enthusiastically agreed. I do a fair amount of trout and salmon fishing back home. I enjoy tying a fly to my line and wading into the myriad cold, crystal clear streams and rivers that are within minutes of downtown. Even if angling in Tampa meant deep-sea fishing, it would be something with which I was familiar.

But golf?

As we entered the clubhouse, Vasquez stopped a young woman, introduced me and Seth to her, and said, “These fine people are my guests today. Mrs. Fletcher will need a proper pair of golf shoes. I’ll take care of Dr. Hazlitt.”

She escorted me to the women’s locker room, where I was fitted for a pair of splendid-looking white shoes and assigned a locker. A few minutes later she took me to a covered area near the first tee. Vasquez and Seth were standing there waiting for me, along with a short, rotund, pink-cheeked man decked out in golf attire.

“Jessica,” said Vasquez, “may I introduce you to my good friend Bernard Peters.”

I recognized the name; Seth had told me Peters was the CEO of K-Dex, the pharmaceutical firm that was financially supporting Dr. Vasquez’s research. I hadn’t expected to meet him until that evening.

“A real pleasure,” Peters said. “My wife’s a big fan of your books.”

“I’m delighted to hear that.”

“I think she has every one of them. She has a standing order at our local bookstore for your books when they’re released.”

“What every writer needs,” I said.

Vasquez motioned for a middle-aged man sitting in a golf cart to pull up to us.

“This is Harry, the best caddie at Hunter’s Green,” Vasquez said. “Let’s get started. Jessica, you and I will team up against these two old duffers.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Why don’t you and Mr. Peters be partners? I’d rather drive Seth crazy with my ineptitude.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” said Vasquez. “I’m sure you’ll do me proud.”

I tried my best to justify his optimism. I completely missed the ball on my first swing, but hit it on my second, sending it in a fairly straight line that traveled about thirty yards. After many other swings—some successful, some not—we reached the first hole, and to my amazement my first putt went in, which brought forth a round of applause from the others. Buoyed with that success, I proudly moved on to the second hole and the third, my confidence waxing and waning depending on the accuracy—or lack thereof—of my shots. Bernard Peters, who certainly didn’t appear to be athletic, proved to be an excellent golfer, as well as a good sport with the slow pace I set. He didn’t say much but had a ready smile and encouraged me each time it was my turn to play.

As we progressed, a certain tension developed with Seth. I know him well enough to pick up on subtle clues when he’s annoyed, and it happened on the second hole. Vasquez took it upon himself to give me a golf lesson as I prepared to putt. He came around behind me and placed his hands on mine as they clutched the shaft of my club. Having him press into me from behind was discomforting, and I glanced over at Seth, whose expression was disapproving.

“I think I’ve got it,” I said, creating space between me and Vasquez.

“Yes, I agree,” he said. “You certainly do have it, Jessica, in more ways than one.”

He did the same at the third hole, but my body language and unwillingness to allow him to get that close sent a message that he obviously received. Seth’s displeased expression was gone, and we continued with the game.

Despite my early better-than-expected performance, I kept my eye on the heavens and my fingers mentally crossed. I must admit that having the match canceled due to rain was a pleasant contemplation. The sky appeared to cooperate, turning increasingly dark, almost black at times, and the chilly wind seemed to swell with every step we took. I was about to putt on the fourth hole when jagged flashes of bright white lightning lit up the horizon, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. I looked around at my companions. Peters frowned up at the sky, but Vasquez waved off the weather. “It’ll clear up,” he said. “These things don’t last very long. Go ahead, Jessica. Just don’t let the noise throw you off.”

I’d experienced plenty of thunderstorms before, but nothing like the heavenly show that was about to take place. The cloud-to-ground brilliant white streaks came in rapid succession, followed by thunder that shook the earth around us. The lightning illuminated the dark sky as though it were created by a mad theatrical producer pulling switches. All was black; then the next bolt came, and the next.

“Let’s go,” Harry, the caddie, said. “This looks like a bad one.”

“We can wait it out,” insisted Vasquez. “Look! It’s clearing up over there.”

“C’mon, Al,” Peters said, shoving his club into his golf bag. “It’s not like this is the last game you’re ever going to play.”

The caddie collected the remaining clubs, and no sooner had we squeezed into the golf cart than the rain came pouring down, set in motion by the increasing winds. The light plastic poncho that the caddie handed each of us offered minimum protection. The cart jounced along the track that skirted the course. Each rumble of thunder caused me to wince, and I gripped the sides of my seat to keep from sliding off when we hit a bump on the path. I was greatly relieved when we reached safety beneath the clubhouse’s overhang, where other golfers and their caddies had also sought cover.

“My apologies for not providing better weather,” Vasquez said as we shed our makeshift rain gear and went inside.