Murder, She Wrote: Prescription for Murder (15 page)

“National security,” Seth muttered. “Always a good excuse to not be straightforward.”

Guterez said, “I’ll be direct. The agency insists that you leave Tampa by tomorrow.”

“Is that an order?” Seth asked.

“If you’d prefer to view it that way,” Guterez said, his heretofore pleasant, noncombative demeanor replaced by a steely tone and expression.

We were driven back to where Seth had parked the car a few blocks from the West Tampa Sandwich Shop.

“I assure you that the bureau appreciates your cooperation,” Guterez said.

Seth was furious that he’d been ordered to leave Tampa by the agent, but I didn’t necessarily share his anger. While my mind was swirling with questions—and I knew they would bedevil me for some time to come—I was actually relieved that we’d be leaving.

Cabot Cove had never been so appealing.

“N
ational security my foot,” Seth grumbled as he started the rental car and pulled away from the parking spot.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Agent Guterez and his people know a lot more than we do. Maybe it’s best that we give up trying to make sense out of your friend’s death and go back to what we know and where we’re comfortable.”

“I never thought I’d hear you give up on something, Jessica.”

“I’m not giving up on anything, Seth. We’ve been spinning our wheels trying to find answers. Maybe if it were just a local matter, a homicide without international repercussions, we’d be successful. But that’s not reality.”

His mood was glum and tinged with irritation as we headed back toward the hotel.

“Let’s pack, have a nice dinner at that restaurant I’ve been dying to visit, the Columbia, and get on a plane tomorrow,” I said. “Frankly, I can’t wait.”

“I suppose you’re right, Jessica, but it’s gravel in my craw. I want to go back to Al’s house first. The least I can do is say good-bye. I also think I should level with Xavier about his father’s research notes.”

“Tell him what?”

“Tell him that I’ve read Al’s notes and intend to bring those thumb drives back with me to Maine. Al asked me in his letter to show them to the researchers I know up north, and that’s what I intend to do.”

“But you said that from what you read, he hadn’t made much progress in finding a cure for Alzheimer’s.”

“Ayuh, that’s right. But it’s not up to me to make that decision. As I told you, they may find his mistakes useful, save them from following an unproductive path. Or even suggest a different way to go.”

“But don’t you think that if Xavier knows you have those thumb drives, he’ll want to read his father’s notes?”

“He can get them from the police and Detective Machado. Besides, Al’s laptop has to be someplace. It’s bound to show up one of these days. I’d just feel better being straightforward with Xavier.”

“I hope he’ll appreciate it,” I said.

•   •   •

Xavier answered the door. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” he said.

“We’ve had a change of plans,” Seth said, “and wanted to see your mother one last time before we leave Tampa.”

“She’s resting right now, but she should be up soon. When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow. I’d like to have a few minutes with you, too, Xavier.”

“A problem?”

“No, but there’s something you should know. Can we go to your dad’s study?”

“Sure. Let me get Maritza.”

He returned with his sister, who invited us to have coffee with her on the deck until Ivelisse awakened.

“Dr. Hazlitt and I have something to discuss,” Xavier said.

“Only be a few minutes,” Seth assured her.

I wasn’t certain that what Seth intended to tell Xavier was the right thing to do, but it was, after all, his decision. I walked outside to the deck—not far from where Alvaro had collapsed after smoking the poisoned cigar—and waited for Maritza to bring us small cups of strong Cuban coffee and sugar cookies.

“My mother has become very upset that people are saying that my father was murdered,” she said after we’d settled in comfortable cushioned white chairs at a white round table, a red umbrella providing a bit of shade.

“I can understand that,” I said. “Hopefully the police will do their job and identify who might have done it.”

“That Detective Machado came by earlier,” she said.

“What did he have to say?” I asked.

“He just wanted us to know that he and his department are working on the case.”

“Did he mention anything else?” I asked, thinking of what we’d just been told by Agent Guterez, and that Detective Machado had a set of the thumb drives from Dr. Vasquez’s laptop.

“No,” Maritza said. “Is there something else we
should
know?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “We’ll give him a call before we leave.”

We passed the next fifteen minutes with small talk until Xavier and Seth reappeared. Both men seemed in good spirits. If what Seth had confided in Xavier had upset the young man, it didn’t show.

“Bad news on flights,” Seth said. “All the flights out of Tampa tomorrow are booked solid. There’s a big convention that ends tonight. That’s probably the problem.”

“What about flights from other cities?” I asked.

“That’s the good news,” Xavier said. “I can get you on a flight from Fort Lauderdale to Boston tomorrow afternoon if I book it right away. This is high season in Florida, but the airlines have cut back on the number of flights. If you want, I’ll book the last two remaining seats for you.”

“That’s good of you, Xavier,” I said, “but what about getting from here to Fort Lauderdale? It’s a long drive.”

“Easy,” he said, grinning. “I told you I’m heading for the Keys tomorrow morning. No problem dropping you off in Lauderdale on my way.”

I looked to Seth for his reaction. His initial expression was one of dismay, but it soon morphed into reluctant acceptance.

“Here,” Seth said, handing his credit card to Xavier, “use this to pay for the tickets.”

Xavier returned ten minutes later with our printed boarding passes. “How about we leave at eight in the morning?” he said.

“Sounds fine,” I said.

Ivelisse Vasquez joined us just as we were about to leave. We again expressed our condolences, wished her well, and thanked her for her hospitality.

“You are welcome in my home anytime,” she said.

“I hope we see you again soon,” I told her, though I suspected that we never would.

Once in the car, Seth used his cell phone to call Detective Machado.

“Thought we might have a chance to see you again before we leave Tampa,” Seth said, and went on to tell him of our plans for the next morning.

“I’d enjoy that,” he told Seth. “Free for dinner?”

We were, and Seth arranged to meet him at seven at the famed Columbia Restaurant in Ybor City.

We spent time at the hotel packing and—in my case—napping before heading out for dinner. Knowing that we’d be leaving had siphoned away some of my adrenaline, and I’d felt a wave of fatigue roll over me. I awoke groggy and in need of a shower to wake me up. Refreshed, I met Seth in the lobby.

“How do you feel?” I asked. He’d looked drained, too, when we’d parted a few hours earlier.

“Fair to middlin’,” he said. “I suppose what I’m really feeling is disappointment at having to leave without the answers I wanted about Al’s murder.”

“I understand, Seth, but it’s beyond us. You meant well and tried, but sometimes we have to accept what we can’t change.”

He agreed, and we left the hotel and went to the car.

“Look,” I said, pointing across the small parking lot to where a young man wearing a hoodie stood next to a car, smoking a cigarette. “That’s the same person who was following us before.”

Without saying a word, Seth walked in the young man’s direction.

“Seth,” I called after him.

He ignored me and picked up his pace, actually breaking into a labored trot. The young man saw him, dropped his cigarette, and started to walk away.

“Hey, young fella,” Seth called. “I want to talk to you.”

The man paused before darting out of the lot and up the street.

I came to Seth’s side.

“Just wanted to know who he was and why he’s been following us,” Seth said, out of breath.

“It doesn’t matter now,” I said.

“Matters to me,” he said. “People’ve got no right to be following other people.”

“Forget it,” I said. “Let’s go to dinner. I’ve been looking forward to an evening at the Columbia. Everyone we’ve met has raved about it. Besides, I’m eager to hear what Detective Machado has to say. As far as we know, he didn’t have much to offer when he visited the Vasquez house today. Maybe he’ll open up more to us.”

The Columbia restaurant on East Seventh Avenue takes up a city block in Ybor City, between Sixth and Seventh avenues and Twenty-first and Twenty-second streets. We parked in a lot across the street and stood admiring the elaborate facade, hundreds of Moorish-style tiles in a wild variety of colors. A larger tile sign spelled out the restaurant’s name and included the date it had been established, 1905. An ornate white overhang spanned the entire length of the building, reaching from one corner to the next, where the Columbia Gift Shop was situated.

“Some fancy building,” Seth commented.

“Makes me feel like I’m in Spain,” I said.

“Or Havana,” Seth said. “I read that Cubans founded the restaurant.”

“Does it look like buildings in Havana?” I asked as we crossed the street.

“Like they used to be, I suppose. Everything seems to be falling down there these days.”

•   •   •

A young woman greeted us in the opulent entranceway, also a colorful mosaic of tiles punctuated with heavy chairs and myriad works of art covering the walls.

“We’re meeting Detective Machado,” Seth told her.

“Oh, yes, he’s already here waiting for you in the Café Room. Follow me.”

Machado, dressed in suit and tie, sat at a table in a corner of the handsomely furnished and appointed room, which was both dining room and bar. He kissed me on the cheek like an old friend, shook Seth’s hand, and waved for the waitress. A pitcher of sangria sat in the middle of the table; the glass in front of him was half-consumed.

“Welcome to the Columbia,” he said. “Been here before?”

“No, we haven’t,” said Seth, “but Mrs. Fletcher has been dying to come.”

“Oldest restaurant in Florida, oldest Spanish restaurant in the U.S. This is the original room built in 1905. There’re fifteen rooms now, seats almost eighteen hundred people. What are you drinking?”

“That sangria looks appealing,” I told the waitress, who delivered glasses for Seth and me.

“Best sangria in all of Tampa,” Machado said. With our glasses full, he raised his in a toast. “Here’s to you two,” he said. “Not often I get to have dinner with a famous author.”

“I wish we’d met for a different reason,” I said, touching my glass to his.

“That’s the problem with being a homicide detective,” he said, grinning. “I get to meet interesting people, but only because somebody’s been murdered.”

“I don’t always get to meet people under the best of circumstances either,” Seth said. “Too many times it’s because someone got sick and is dying.”

Their comparison of the grimmer aspects of their professions was interrupted when a man came to the table. “I see that our favorite detective is taking good care of you,” he said. “I’m Richard Gonzmart, manager of the Columbia.”

“It’s a spectacularly beautiful restaurant,” I said.

“Thank you. It’s been in my family for more than a hundred years. Casimiro Hernandez, my great-grandfather, opened the room you’re sitting in back in 1905 to serve fellow immigrants who worked in the cigar factories. He kept adding rooms, including the first air-conditioned dining room in Tampa.”

“Do you have time to join us?” I asked.

“Only for a moment. Carlos told me that he was having dinner with the famous writer Jessica Fletcher. I am honored to have you here this evening. We’ve had many celebrities dine with us,” he said. “We had a strip steak on the menu, ‘The Bambino,’ named after Mr. Babe Ruth, who came here often back in the twenties and thirties.” He laughed. “I’ve been told that he would eat two fourteen-ounce steaks at a single sitting.”

Seth made a face. “Hate to see
his
arteries,” he said.

“So many of your baseball greats made the Columbia their home when in Tampa,” he continued proudly. “Baseball is the Cuban national pastime, just as it is in America. Joe DiMaggio and his wife, the beautiful Marilyn Monroe, also used to come here.” He became conspiratorial. “One night they had quite a row at the table, and Ms. Monroe went to the restroom and confided in the attendant there. Word has it that she returned to the table a much happier woman.”

He went on like that for another ten minutes, telling tales of the famous who’d dined at the Columbia. I was impressed with the obvious pride he demonstrated, not only in the restaurant, but in his family as well.

“Enjoy your dinners,” he said as he stood to leave. “I have reserved a special place for you in the Patio Room. Nalda will show you to your table when you are ready to eat.
¡Buen provecho!
”

“What a charming man,” I said.

“I’ve been coming here for years,” Machado said. “I feel like a member of the family.” He sat back, a satisfied smile on his face. “So, how has your stay in Tampa been so far?”

“Frustrating, to say the least,” Seth answered. “We’re leaving in the morning.”

“So you said when you called. A last-minute decision?”

“Yes,” I replied without elaborating. “We understand that you stopped by the Vasquez house today.”

“That’s right.”

“Maritza Vasquez said that you told her that you were continuing the investigation into her father’s death.”

Machado sighed and slowly shook his head. “It seemed to be the right thing to say,” he said.

Seth and I looked at him quizzically.

“I’ll be honest with you,” Machado said, “because you’ve been honest with me. You didn’t have to bring me that letter the doctor wrote to you, or the flash drives you gave me. To put it simply, the investigation is out of my hands now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Someone new has taken over?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“You might say that,” Machado said.

“The FBI,” Seth said flatly.

“That’s right,” Machado said, shaking his head. “We’re not completely out of the picture,” he added. “Whether they admit it or not, they still need our local expertise. But I’d say there are several more layers of authority above us, and I don’t see wasting the department’s money and the time of our detectives investigating a murder if the federal government is pushing us out of the way.”

Seth looked at me questioningly, and I knew what he was thinking. “We’d like to give you something else we found,” I said in a low voice. “We’re not sure if it’s relevant to Dr. Vasquez’s death, but since we can’t follow up on it, perhaps you’ll find it useful.”