Murder, She Wrote: Prescription for Murder (5 page)

Vasquez laughed. “The best kind of assistant,” he said, nodding at Sardina. “Less talk and more research.”

“The daiquiri is delicious,” I said, taking a small sip.

“Don Casimiro classic silver rum,” he said. “Only the best.”

As the band launched into its next tune, Vasquez once again left my side and strode to where Bernard Peters was engaged in conversation with Oona Mendez.

“C’mon,” Sardina said to his wife. “I want another drink.”

“A pleasure meeting you,” I said to Ofelia Sardina.

She smiled and they walked away.

Left to my own devices, I sipped my daiquiri and glanced around at the other guests. Despite the pulsating, joyous music, the couples dancing, and the tasty canapés, there was a palpable tension in the room, and it was more than the father-son contretemps. My gaze fell on Ivelisse Vasquez, who stood alone in an alcove and seemed to be in a world apart. Her son, Xavier, had disappeared altogether, and I wondered whether he’d decided that the party, like golf, was “stupid.” I watched as our host escorted a frowning Bernard Peters onto the deck.

The hors d’oeuvres became more plentiful, enough so that it was necessary to balance plates and glasses while using utensils that were passed with the food. Westerkoch had commandeered a small, tall glass-topped table on which to rest his plate, and I placed my plate there, too.

“Lovely party,” I said.

“Like other parties the doctor hosts. Frankly, I don’t care for the music. It’s too loud, and there’s a tribal aspect to it, people jumping up and down like savages.”

“I, ah . . . Are you involved in medical research, Mr. Westerkoch?” I asked.

“No.”

“I just thought that—”

“I’m a consultant.”

A friend once told me that when someone says he or she is a consultant, it means they’re out of work, but of course I didn’t verbalize that cynicism. Instead I asked, “What sort of consulting do you do?”

“Government basically. You ask a lot of questions, Mrs. Fletcher.”

I didn’t take his comment as a challenge and laughed. “I suppose that’s because I’m a writer.”

“How convenient. I understand that you and your doctor friend visited Vasquez’s lab this afternoon.”

“That’s right. I was pleased to be invited.”

“Your friend seems to have successfully invaded Vasquez’s inner circle.”

“Has he? Invaded? That’s rather an odd way to put it. All I know is that he feels a camaraderie with Dr. Vasquez.”

“I get the feeling that it’s more than that. What does your friend tell you about Vasquez’s research?”

“Very little. Dr. Vasquez explained it to me in the simplest of terms. You and he are obviously acquainted. What has he told
you
about his research?”

“As little as possible.” He turned toward the French doors, through which threatening weather could be seen in the distance. “I need some fresh air before the sky opens up.”

I seem to be repelling all comers,
I thought as Westerkoch abandoned the table we shared. But the next half hour gave the lie to that thought. Guests to whom I hadn’t been introduced invited me into their conversational circles, and I began to thoroughly enjoy myself. Seth, who’d spent much of the night with others, eventually wandered to where I was listening to a joke told by the gentleman I’d encountered at Adelmo’s cigar-rolling desk. Carlos Cespedes owned a cigar shop and factory in Ybor City, the Cuban section of Tampa. “. . . and so Fidel Castro, he has trouble sleeping and goes to his doctor. ‘I have insomnia,’ he says. ‘What should I do?’ And the doctor says, ‘Try reading some of your speeches.’”

We all laughed at this dig at Castro’s famous, impossibly long speeches. Cespedes was about to launch into another tale when Seth guided me away from the group and toward the French doors, through which Vasquez and Bernard Peters could be seen on the deck. From their body language and the movement of their arms and hands, it seemed an argument was in progress.

“Is there a problem?” I asked Seth.

“Appears that way, doesn’t it?”

We had only a few seconds to witness the confrontation; then Peters threw up his hands, came through the doors, and stomped across the room in the direction of his wife. On the deck, Vasquez pulled a cigar from his elaborately decorated case and held it up to his nose, inhaling the scent of the tobacco leaves.

“Let’s keep him company,” I said.

When Vasquez saw us, he substituted his gregarious side for the upset he’d just experienced and said, “Good, good, I need someone to share a good smoke with. Please,” he said, offering Seth his cigar. “It was a gift from someone special. It’s Cuban.”

“Not for me, Al, but thanks.”

Vasquez raised his eyebrows questioningly at me.

“No, thank you, sir,” I said. “I just thought some fresh air would be nice.”

“You can’t blame my cigars for the stuffy air inside, Jessica. Ivelisse and I have an understanding. I can smoke to my heart’s content, but only outside, or in my office at the other end of the house. I had a professional air cleaner installed in it, like ones in restaurants. I am an agreeable husband, yes?”

“It certainly sounds that way.”

He fired up his lighter and went through the elaborate ritual of lighting his cigar, blowing a stream of smoke into the air with a satisfied smile. “Come. Let me show you my latest gadget on the boat,” Vasquez said. “Jessica, you haven’t seen my new toy.”

“Uh-oh,” I said as a drop of rain landed on my nose. I looked up into the black sky. “Better get back inside,” I said.

“Nonsense,” said Vasquez, “just a few raindrops. I can’t waste this good cigar.” He drew deeply on it and watched the blue smoke curl up into the air.

“Sorry,” I said, “but I don’t have a cigar to save.” With that I made for the French doors and stepped inside. I looked back to where Seth and Vasquez continued to stand together, Vasquez smoking, Seth saying something that I couldn’t hear. As I watched them, shadows emerged from behind a shed farther along on the deck. I squinted until I could make out Westerkoch and Oona Mendez. They approached Seth and Vasquez, stopped for a moment to say something, and came inside.

“A storm’s brewing,” Oona said.

“So I see,” I said.

A sudden shaft of lightning illuminated where the two men stood, followed by a low rumble of thunder.

“They should come in,” I said. “They told me that lightning here in Tampa is particularly dangerous.”

Seth slapped Vasquez on his back and headed inside.

“Why is he staying outside?” I asked.

“He wants to finish that cigar,” Seth replied with a laugh, brushing a few raindrops from the sleeve of his jacket.

More lightning bolts turned the deck brilliantly white, as if giant klieg lights had been turned on. The light show drew others to the French doors, Westerkoch, Oona, and Ivelisse Vasquez.

“Hello,” Ivelisse said, smiling at me. “I’m Ivelisse Vasquez. Have we met?”

Her comment startled me, as much as a clap of thunder that made me jump.

Outside, Vasquez looked up as though surveying the heavens. He took another deep drag on his cigar and raised it, seemingly offering it to the gods. As he did, the brightest and most menacing of lightning bolts carved a jagged path from the sky to where the deck met the water. In its harsh light Vasquez looked like a Shakespearean thespian portraying Hamlet, a spotlight establishing his stage presence. Then, as we watched in horror, Dr. Alvaro Vasquez doubled over and dropped to his knees, the cigar flying from his hand. He pitched forward and lay still as the sky opened up and the rain came down in sheets.

O
ona Mendez shrieked.

Karl Westerkoch said, “Damn,” and pushed the door open a crack, allowing the sound of the pelting rain to reach inside.

Ivelisse Vasquez stood motionless, her face blank.

Seth wrenched open the door and ran out into the downpour. I followed.

He knelt over Vasquez and placed his fingertips against his neck. “Get an ambulance,” he shouted to no one in particular. “Call nine-one-one!” With that, he straddled Vasquez and began administering CPR.

I looked back in the hope that someone would bring an umbrella, but no one moved until Xavier appeared carrying a tan raincoat. Seth climbed off, and Xavier spread the coat over his father, including his face. Seth pulled it back and again tried to discern a pulse in the neck. He shook his head and continued pressing on Vasquez’s chest with rhythmic thumps. “Come on, Al. Don’t give up,” he told his patient. “Where’s the ambulance?” he called out.

“Did you call for an ambulance?” I asked Xavier.

He ran back inside the house.

One of the waitstaff who’d passed hors d’oeuvres came to where Seth labored over the still lifeless body. She popped open a large black umbrella, which provided some protection from the elements, and passed it to me.

“Is he dead?” I asked Seth.

“I can’t get a pulse, but I’m going to keep trying.” Seth’s face was red from the exertion, but he refused to stop his lifesaving efforts, even when another guest offered to take over.

“Come on, Al, breathe,” Seth exhorted. “You can’t die. You have too much important work to do. The world needs you. Ivelisse needs you. Xavier needs you. Pedro Sardina can’t do it alone. Breathe, man, breathe.”

“Another umbrella,” I shouted at those standing at the French doors.

One of the security men heeded the call and brought a second one; between the two of us, we managed to shield Seth and the still unresponsive Vasquez from becoming further drenched.

Seth looked up at me. “Get inside, Jessica. No point in you getting soaked, too. Nothing you can do here. Where is that ambulance?”

I glanced behind me. The party guests were grouped around the glass panels watching the drama on the deck. Then Ivelisse prodded one of the waitstaff, who pushed opened a door. The waitress took a tentative step on the wet deck and then darted forward to retrieve the cigar Vasquez had tossed aside when he’d been struck down. She placed the cigar butt on a plate and returned inside.

A moment later, the second security man emerged from inside. “The ambulance is on its way.”

“Thank goodness,” I said, handing him my umbrella. “Please keep them as dry as possible,” I said.

Someone opened a door for me and I entered the house, sopping wet and shivering against the clammy feeling of my clothes on my skin. People moved back away from the doors and gathered in small knots, speaking in low tones. I looked around for Ivelisse but didn’t see her.

“What happened, Mrs. Fletcher?” a guest asked.

“I’m not certain, but he may have been hit by lightning.”

“Is he—?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know. Dr. Hazlitt is doing everything he can. Tell me, do you know which way the kitchen is?”

He pointed and I followed his direction down a short hallway until I reached an ultramodern kitchen with a wall of identical cabinets with invisible pulls. A large marble-topped island dominated the center of the room, and I spotted the plate with the cigar butt sitting next to a stack of dishes waiting to be washed. Several of the waitstaff—those who weren’t still in the living room—huddled around the island, apparently not sure what they should be doing. One fellow, seeing my doused state, jumped forward with a roll of paper towels. “Can I get you something else, madam?”

“Not unless you have a spare uniform I can put on in place of these wet clothes,” I said.

“I’m sure we can find something for you,” he said. “Beatriz,” he called to a waitress, who hurried to a large case left on the side of the room.

I tore off two of the paper towels, wiped my face, and when no one was looking, swiftly folded the sheets over the cigar, wrapping it up carefully.

Beatriz offered me a white jacket, apologizing profusely that they didn’t have a complete uniform to provide, but I was grateful for anything that was going to allow me to shed my wet blouse. I changed swiftly in an adjacent bathroom, dabbing myself dry with paper towels. I deposited my shirt, the remaining towels, and the paper-wrapped cigar in a plastic bag Beatriz had provided.

I thanked the kitchen staff and returned to the party room, wandering among the guests, searching for a familiar face. No one paid any attention to me, and I realized I was now partially incognito in my uniform jacket. I folded the plastic bag and tucked it on a lower shelf of a bookcase.

Xavier had returned to the party from a different part of the house. He was accompanied by a middle-aged woman wearing an apron. Ivelisse had retreated to her alcove but by this time seemed to have regained a sense of the moment and had started to cry. The woman in the apron put her arms about Ivelisse and gently led her from the room.

“She’s the housekeeper,” I overheard Oona say to Westerkoch.

“Does she even know what’s going on?” he muttered.

“Who? The housekeeper?”

“No! His wife.”

“Who can tell?”

“I heard that’s why he stole the formula from Havana,” Westerkoch said, “to speed up the process to find a treatment. It doesn’t look like he succeeded.”

“Shush! Someone will overhear you.”

“Who cares?”

The band members had stopped playing and were packing up their instruments. Adelmo, the cigar roller, had left his desk. Another blinding lightning strike followed by a crash of thunder drew an audible gasp from the guests. It was succeeded by the sound of sirens coming from the front of the house. The security man who’d been at the door when we’d arrived opened it, and two uniformed EMTs rushed in.

“Where?” one of them asked.

I stepped forward and said, “Follow me.” I led them out to the deck. Despite the recent celestial fireworks, the rain had stopped as suddenly as it had started. The EMTs knelt next to Seth and relieved him of his task. One of them used a stethoscope on Vasquez and attempted to find signs of life.

“You see what happened?” the other EMT asked Seth, helping him to his feet.

“There was a bolt of lightning,” Seth said, breathing heavily, “but I’m not sure if it hit him.”

“Are you okay, mister? Do you need to sit down?”

“Just winded,” Seth managed to get out, sinking into a chair someone pulled over for him. “I’m a doctor, been trying to revive him. Too late, I’m afraid.”

“Looks that way, Doc. I’m sorry, but there’s no pulse,” the other EMT said.

“Are you all right, Seth?” I asked, kneeling at his side. I looked into his ravaged face. His jacket was soaked through and he was exhausted. I couldn’t tell if the drops of water on his cheeks were from the rain or tears.

“I couldn’t save him, Jessica,” he said hoarsely, raising his trembling hands and wiping his eyes.

“If you couldn’t, no one could,” I said. “You were right there when it happened, Seth. You’ve been working on him all this time. There wasn’t anything more you could do.”

Seth shook his head sadly. “What a loss for humanity.”

And what a loss for you, my dear friend,
I thought.

The EMTs left, returning a few minutes later with a gurney. Seth and I watched them carefully lift Vasquez from the deck, place him on the gurney, cover him with a lightweight blue tarp, and roll him into the house, where everyone stepped back to give them a path to the front door. As one of the EMTs opened the door, two men wearing raincoats came through it. One of them put up his hand to stop the EMTs; the second man showed them a badge.

“What’s going on here?” a guest demanded, his eyes on the gurney. “The man is dead. Let them through.”

One of the newly arrived men, a heavyset fellow whose sparse hair had been plastered to his head by the rain, announced, “Police.” He asked the crowd, “Who’s in charge here?”

When no one stepped forward, Seth did. “The deceased is Dr. Alvaro Vasquez. This is his house. He was hosting a party, and—”

“We know who the deceased is,” the portly detective said. “Are you a friend?”

“Yes, I am,” Seth replied.

The second detective, a considerably younger man, asked everyone to sit. He turned to Seth and asked, “Has anyone left the party?”

Seth was obviously taken aback at being asked the question. He looked at me in bewilderment.

“We wouldn’t know,” I said. “We’re from out of town. We don’t know everyone who was invited, but a man at the door had a guest list.”

His partner surveyed the others in the room. “Does anyone know whether any individual has left the party?”

Nervous looks were cast among the guests.

Seth spoke up. “I think we’re all confused why the police have been summoned,” he said. “I’m a physician. Mrs. Fletcher and I were—”

“Who’s Mrs. Fletcher?”

“I am,” I said. “Dr. Hazlitt and I saw what happened to Dr. Alvaro. He was—”

“I’d like you two to wait over there,” the detective said, pointing to the bar area.

“I don’t understand why—”

I cut Seth off and urged him to accompany me to where the detective had indicated.

We sat on the two barstools and watched and listened as the detectives obtained the guest list from the security guard and began asking questions of the others. They were interrupted by the arrival of an elderly man.

“Hi, Doc,” one of the detectives greeted the new arrival, who ignored the detective and went to the side of the gurney, pulled back the tarp to reveal Vasquez’s face, grunted, and covered him again. He waved his hand and the EMTs wheeled the body of Dr. Alvaro Vasquez outside.

The heavy detective guided the man called “Doc” to where Seth and I waited.

“I understand you’re a physician,” the older officer said to Seth.

“That’s right. Seth Hazlitt, MD, of Cabot Cove, Maine. And this is Jessica Fletcher, the mystery writer. We—she and I—witnessed what happened to Dr. Vasquez. And I administered CPR, unsuccessfully, as you see, until the ambulance arrived. And you are?”

The police officer answered. “Detective Machado, Tampa PD. This is Dr. San Martín, Hillsborough County ME. We got the call that there was an emergency at Dr. Vasquez’s home.”

I suppose my puzzled expression asked the question,
Why would the police be called?

Machado picked up on it and answered. “Dr. Vasquez is a well-known person in Tampa. We’re always called in on cases like this.”

Now I understood. The police aren’t routinely called to the scene of what appears to be a death by natural causes or an act of nature. But when a leading citizen, particularly one who is newsworthy and perhaps controversial, is involved, the police naturally take an interest. So does the local medical examiner.

“We’ll do an autopsy, of course,” Dr. San Martín said. “Is the victim’s wife here?”

“I believe that one of the household help took her away, probably to her bedroom,” I said. “She was in shock, as you can imagine.”

“His son, Xavier, is here,” Seth added. He scanned the room. “But I don’t see him at the moment. He’s probably with his mother.”

Dr. San Martín pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to Seth. “I’m leaving with the body, but I would like to speak with you about what you saw. Will you be staying in Tampa?”

“Ayuh, at least for a few days.”

“Maybe you’d be good enough to call me in the morning so that we can arrange a time to get together.”

“I’ll do that,” Seth said.

The doctor started to leave, turned, and said to Seth, “One of the EMTs told me that you said the victim had been struck by lightning.”

“Just an assumption on my part,” Seth said. “We saw the bolt of lightning. It appeared that he had been hit, but I’m sure your autopsy will confirm or deny it.”

“Yes, I’m sure it will,” San Martín said. “Another lightning victim,” he muttered more to himself than to us. “Welcome to Florida.”