Murder, She Wrote: Prescription for Murder (6 page)

T
he two detectives asked everyone to provide their names and contact information before leaving. One guest protested. “This is an intrusion into our privacy,” he proclaimed. “We’re guests at a party where the host was unfortunately struck by lightning and died. You have no right to ask for personal information. You’re treating us as though a crime has been committed.”

Detective Machado politely explained that it was routine to collect information about the people who are present when an unusual death occurs. Although his demeanor was nonthreatening, his steely expression said something else. The man reluctantly gave his name, as well as his phone number, and left. The other guests followed suit.

While Machado’s younger partner went outside to the deck and did a cursory examination of where Vasquez had fallen, Machado returned to where Seth and I still sat at the small bar.

“The ME says he’ll be speaking with you tomorrow,” he told Seth.

“That’s right,” Seth said.

“Maybe you can tell me what you witnessed. It’s
Dr.
Hazlitt, right?”

“That’s right. Mrs. Fletcher here and I are from Maine. I’m here in Tampa visiting Dr. Vasquez, and Mrs. Fletcher decided to join me for a week. She’d been on a tour promoting her latest book.”

“You’re a writer?” he asked, eyeing my white uniform jacket. He must have assumed I was one of the staff serving the party.

“Yes. I write murder mysteries.”

That brought a smile to his face. “You write about murders and I investigate them.”

He and Seth talked for a few more minutes, and I took the time to sum up the homicide detective. I judged him to be in his mid- to late forties. He had a dusky complexion—I guessed that he might have a Hispanic background—and bore the remnants, albeit faint, of boyhood acne. He wasn’t someone that I would term outgoing, but there was an openness that was appealing.

He eventually turned his attention to me. “Did you observe anything strange at the party, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Strange? In what sense?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. However, when someone of Dr. Vasquez’s stature dies suddenly, we need to cover all the bases.”

“Of course,” I said. “No, nothing strange happened at the party.” I wondered whether the unsubstantiated tense feeling that I’d experienced was worth mentioning and decided it wasn’t.

Seth looked past me and said, “Here’s Dr. Vasquez’s son, Xavier.”

“How’s your mother?” Seth asked when the young man reached us.

“Resting,” he said.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said touching his arm.

He looked down at my hand, and I withdrew it immediately.

Detective Machado introduced himself and asked a few questions, which elicited nothing of interest as far as I could tell. When he asked Xavier the same question that he’d asked me—had he noticed anything strange that evening—the son replied, “It’s always strange around here. If you don’t have anything else to ask me, I’d like to get back to my mother.”

“Sure,” Machado said, and handed Xavier his card. He also handed one to Seth and said, “I doubt if I’ll have anything else to ask you, Doctor, but give me a call if you think of something.”

“Ayuh, I’ll do that.”

The departure of the body of Alvaro Vasquez, the EMTs, the ME, and the two detectives created a vacuum of sorts in the large room, like the air had been sucked out of it. Most of the guests had decamped, but Seth and I remained, together with Oona Mendez, Karl Westerkoch, Bernard Peters, and his wife, Frances. The band had finished packing up its instruments and departed. Two waitresses scurried about picking up plates and glasses, tossing anxious looks at the remaining guests as they ferried serving pieces to the kitchen.

Peters sat alone in a red leather wing chair, staring straight ahead, his hands outstretched as though asking for wisdom from an unseen source. His wife, Frances, stood next to him, her hand to her mouth—seemingly stifling a scream or a moan.

I leaned close to Seth and said, “I think we should go.”

He nodded and stood.

We made the rounds of the remaining guests. Oona Mendez and Karl Westerkoch sat together on a couch. She said she hoped to see us again; he said nothing, simply nodded. I approached Bernard and Frances Peters. “This must be a dreadful shock to you,” I said to him.

“Unbelievable,” he said. “How could this have happened?”

I understood why he would be especially shaken by Vasquez’s death. They’d not only been friends of sorts, but Peters and his company, K-Dex, had lost perhaps their only lifeline to solvency, based upon what Seth had told me of the company’s shaky financial status.

“Will you be staying in Tampa?” Frances Peters asked.

“For a little while,” I said.

Seth came up and offered his condolences. His arrival seemed to prompt Peters into a more animated state. He got up and said, “You were extremely close to Alvaro.”

“I wouldn’t say extremely close,” Seth said, “but we did get along. I considered him a friend.”

Peters led Seth a few feet away and said in a low voice, but not so low that I couldn’t hear him, “I would like very much to talk with you.”

“Of course, whenever it’s convenient for you,” Seth replied.

“Tomorrow? At Alvaro’s laboratory?”

Remembering his promise to meet with the medical examiner, Seth said, “I suspect that will be all right, only I might have another appointment. How about you call me at the hotel, and—”

Peters interrupted Seth with, “Dr. Sardina. He’s gone?”

Seth shrugged.

“Have you see Dr. Sardina?” Peters asked me.

“Earlier in the evening,” I said, “with his wife.”

Peters’s expression turned grim.

Seth repeated his suggestion that Peters call him at the hotel, and we went to the foyer, where the two men who’d driven us sat on a bench.

“We’d like to go back to the hotel,” Seth said.

They slowly got up, and one opened the front door.

“Wait just a second,” I said.

“What are you doing, Jessica?” Seth asked.

“Just be a moment,” I said as I went back through the living room, pausing only to grab the plastic bag I’d stashed on the bookshelf. I opened it, checking to see that my blouse and the paper-wrapped cigar were still inside, and retraced my steps in the direction of the foyer, where Seth had observed what I’d done. He looked at me quizzically but said nothing until we were back at the hotel, where after changing into dry clothes, we settled in the lounge. Seth had a beer and I indulged in a glass of sherry. I’d barely touched my daiquiri at the party.

The upset of having just witnessed Dr. Vasquez’s sudden death had set in, and we said little for a while, each of us immersed in our private thoughts. I ached for Seth at that moment. I knew how important his recently forged friendship with Vasquez was to him, and I wondered whether he would give vent to his emotions. Not that I expected it. He has a hard shell that he uses to mask his feelings, although they sometimes manage to slip through the cracks.

“I’d like to visit Ivelisse again while we’re still here in Tampa,” he said.

“I’m sure she’d appreciate that.”

“I can’t begin to imagine what this means for his research.”

“I suppose it depends upon how far along he was and to what extent his assistant can carry on.”

He grunted his agreement, took a sip of his beer, and said, “Hate to be nosy, Jessica, but what did you have in that plastic bag?”

“My wet blouse, for one thing,” I said. “You didn’t seem to have noticed that I was wearing a waitress’s jacket. Tomorrow I should make arrangements to return it to the company.”

“I noticed. Thought it was very clever of you to have found dry clothes. Anything else?”

I laid the paper-wrapped cigar on the table and unfolded it. “I know,” I said, “it doesn’t make sense, but I couldn’t help myself.”

“I’ve heard that from you before. But why? No need for you to go around pickin’ up cigar butts. Happy to buy you a brand-new one.”

“Oh, Seth, you know it’s nothing like that. It’s just that . . . well . . . it was strange that the waitress came outside to retrieve it at Ivelisse’s direction. Plus, it didn’t look like the sort of cigar I’d seen Dr. Vasquez smoke earlier.”

Seth examined it more closely. “Al didn’t get to smoke much of it before he got hit,” he said. “Just a few puffs.”

“Look at the wrapper,” I said. “I remember that you told me he’d given you a Hoyo something or other.”

“Hoyo de Monterrey Double Corona,” Seth said.

“Where did he get Cuban cigars?” I asked. “I thought buying Cuban cigars was illegal here in the States.”

“Ayuh, that it is, but Al told me he had a source.”

“Like knowing a drug dealer.”

“Hardly the same, Jessica, but people who smoke Cuban cigars are very fussy. Know what President Kennedy did during the Cuban missile crisis?”

“No.”

“The president enjoyed a certain brand of Cuban cigar and told his press secretary, Pierre Salinger, to go out and buy up as many of ’em as he could find. Mr. Salinger came back the next day and reported that he’d bought twelve hundred cigars, so Kennedy went ahead and signed the trade embargo with Cuba. He wasn’t about to do that without his favorite stogies. Al always had a big supply of Hoyo de Monterrey Double Coronas on hand.”

“But this one isn’t that type,” I said. “Look at the wrapper.”

Seth took an even closer look. “Macanudo,” he read from the soggy label.

“And it’s not as fat or as black as the ones he usually smoked. At least I don’t think it is.”

“You’re right about that,” he said, “but I don’t see why it would interest you. Must be a cigar that somebody gave Al as a gift.”

“You’re probably right,” I said. “I was curious, that’s all.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” he said. “I suppose you know that.”

“It seems I’ve heard it before from a certain physician friend of mine.”

“Let me ask you a question, Jessica.”

“Go ahead.”

“Did you pick up that cigar butt because you question whether Al was killed by lightning?”

“No, I don’t think so. Well, maybe. It just seems to me that—”

“That it’s unlikely that lightning killed him? The autopsy will determine that, and maybe lightning
did
kill him. Al was in great shape. He’d had a physical just a few weeks ago and was told his heart and everything else about him was A-one. So if lightning
didn’t
kill him, and it wasn’t likely that he had a coronary, then what
did
kill him?”

I
carried that morning’s edition of the
Tampa Tribune
to the dining room, where I met Seth for breakfast.

“Already read it,” he said when I handed it to him. “Not much of a story.”

The article was only three paragraphs long and reported that EMTs had been called to the home of Dr. Alvaro Vasquez, a prominent Cuban American physician and medical researcher who’d defected from Cuba and who lived and worked in Tampa. It gave the cause of death as a possible lightning strike. It went on to say that the thunderstorm that likely killed Vasquez was one of the most violent in memory and that it was unusual for such a storm to develop in the winter months. The piece ended by saying that the Tampa medical examiner had also been called to the scene and that an autopsy would be performed.

“I called Dr. San Martín,” Seth said. “We’re meeting him at ten.”

“We?”

“Ayuh. I told him that we both had witnessed Al’s death and that you had superior powers of observation.”

“You didn’t.”

“Of course I did. As long as you’re here with me in Tampa, you might as well get involved. If you want to, that is. The doctor has already done the autopsy—did it last night. Eat your eggs before they get cold.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Did he say what the autopsy revealed?”

“No. He didn’t say much of anything. He seemed anxious to get together, though.”

As we talked, a tall young woman entered the dining room and came directly to the table. “Dr. Hazlitt?” she said.

Seth nodded.

“Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, Doctor, but the concierge pointed out to me who you were. I’m Peggy Lohman,
Tampa Tribune
.”

“What can I do for you, Ms. Lohman?” Seth asked.

“Mind if I join you?” she said as she slipped onto a vacant chair.

“Seems that you already have.”

She ignored his comment and said, “I’m doing a story on the death yesterday of Dr. Alvaro Vasquez. We ran a small piece in today’s paper. We didn’t have much to go on so we had to keep it short, but we’re putting together a much longer piece today. I tried to get hold of someone in the family, but no one returns my calls. I can understand that they’re upset, but this is a big story considering Dr. Vasquez’s stature in the community, and I need quotes from people. I called the police—they were summoned to the house, which seems strange to me considering he died of a lightning strike—but they had nothing to say, which isn’t unusual for them, at least in my experience. Anyway, I know that you and Dr. Vasquez were close friends and professional colleagues and—”

She spoke rapidly, the words tumbling from her mouth.

“Ms. Lohman,” Seth said, “I know that you’re looking for a story, but—”

The reporter turned to me. “You must be Jessica Fletcher,” she said.

“That’s right.”

“I knew that you were traveling with Dr. Hazlitt.”

“We’re friends,” I said.

“Of course. You were at the house when Dr. Vasquez was hit by lightning.”

I started to respond, but she forged ahead.

“I think it’s fascinating that you write murder mystery novels, and I know that you came to Florida to promote your latest book. I’ve always wanted to write a novel based on some of the cases I’ve covered, really juicy ones. I started a novel a few years ago but never seem to get back to it. Maybe you have some tips for me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any tips,” I said, “but do you have a question for Dr. Hazlitt?”

If she was offended by my answer, she didn’t show it. She said to Seth, “Dr. Vasquez was working on medical research here in Tampa, something to do with Alzheimer’s disease. Right?”

“Ayuh.”

“Pardon?”

“That’s Maine talk for ‘yes,’” I said.

“You are correct,” Seth said. “Al—Dr. Vasquez was doing research on the disease.”

“Hadn’t he been doing the same research in Cuba before he defected?”

“That’s my understanding.”

“How did you meet him?”

To my surprise, Seth settled into a comfortable conversation with her. I’d seen him handle the press before. He’s never been a fan of reporters, although he’s quick to point out that despite the media’s excesses, it’s the only true check and balance on government that we have in our society. What most upsets him is when reporters badger people after someone has died in the hope of coming up with a bit of sensationalism. Ordinarily he would have politely, but firmly, dissuaded the reporter from pressing him with questions. But here he was answering her queries, good-naturedly and even enthusiastically. He seemed to bask in having become close to Dr. Vasquez and wanted the reporter to know that he was. I kept silent during the interview.

When she stood to leave, she said to me, “I really enjoyed meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher. Maybe while you’re here in Tampa we could get together and, you know, talk shop.”

“Talk shop? Oh, about your novel. I’m not sure I’ll have the time—I plan to stay only a few days—but I do wish you all the best.”

“Nice gal,” Seth said after she was gone.

“You were certainly accommodating,” I said.

“Just helping her do her job.”

“I noticed that you couched your answers when she asked about Dr. Vasquez’s research.”

“Wouldn’t be my place to talk about that. I’d better call Bernie Peters. He said he wanted to speak with us today.”

“He wanted to speak with
you
, Seth.”

“Seems it’s up to me whether I bring you along. Course, if you really don’t want to—”

“It’s just that I was thinking of making plans to head back home.”

“I’d really appreciate it if you’d stay a while, Jessica. We were together when Al died, and I figure that we should stay together until his death gets sorted out.”

The truth was that I wanted very much to hear what the medical examiner had to say, and to follow up on what Vasquez’s death meant to Bernard Peters and his company. Call me inherently curious. I don’t mind; I’ve been called worse many times over the years.

“I’ll be happy to stay,” I said.

Seth gave me an “I knew you would” smile. “Good. I’ll call Bernie. Meet you in the lobby in a half hour.”

My emotions were decidedly mixed at that moment. I had no official reason for staying in Tampa. All I’d done was witness someone’s death by lightning. Seth’s question about whether Vasquez had, indeed, died from a lightning strike seemed to me nothing more than idle speculation. Still . . .

As I considered this, I realized that my friendship with Seth had taken a new and interesting turn. I’d had the misfortune of becoming involved in a number of real-life murders over the years—I hate to acknowledge how many—and was usually the one who smelled a rat, as they say, when everyone else was pointing to natural causes in someone’s passing. And it was always Seth who chided me about being overly inquisitive and suspicious.

But here he was, eager to meet with people involved in his friend’s death, and even chatting with a newspaper reporter. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, any more than I knew what had intrigued me about the fact that Vasquez had been smoking a cigar that wasn’t his usual brand that night. But now that I’d determined to go along with Seth, at least in the short term, I would give it my best.

The office of the Hillsborough County medical examiner was located on North Forty-sixth Street. Dr. San Martín’s secretary told us that he was in a meeting but would be free shortly. We read magazines for fifteen minutes, until he came through the door, apologized for keeping us waiting, and ushered us into his large, messy office. There were file folders, magazines, and large envelopes containing X-rays on every surface. Two piles of books leaned precariously in a corner. In another corner, a six-foot-tall classic wooden cigar store Indian cast its angry look over the room.

“I appreciate you finding time for me this morning,” San Martín said as Seth and I settled in chairs across the desk from him.

“Hope I can be of help,” said Seth.

San Martín’s expression questioned my presence.

“I’m just along for the ride,” I said. “Seth didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I don’t, of course, but it is a little disconcerting to have a writer in our midst. I trust you aren’t making notes for one of your novels.”

“I assure you that I’m not,” I said.

“Good, because some of what I say this morning isn’t for public consumption.”

He said it in a way that demanded a response.

“Count on it,” Seth said, and I agreed.

“As I told you on the phone, Dr. Hazlitt, I did the autopsy last night. To be more accurate, I participated in the autopsy with a colleague of mine.”

“Come to any conclusions?” Seth asked.

San Martín paused before replying. “Yes, I did, and my colleague concurs. Based upon a gross examination of the deceased, I do not believe that he was struck by lightning.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Seth.

“Oh?”

“I don’t know a heckuva lot about lightning and what it does when it hits somebody—I’ve only had two patients who were hit by lightning.”

“That’s probably more than most doctors up north see,” San Martín said.

“True. And in my cases, both survived, but one was left in pretty bad shape, had neuropsychiatric, vision, and hearing problems.”

“You know more than you think,” said San Martín.

“Appreciate that,” Seth said. “The thing is, I got close to Dr. Vasquez right after he fell, tried CPR on him. I got a good look at his face and neck. From what little I do know, when someone gets hit by lightning, there’re usually burns on the head and neck. There weren’t any burns on Al—Dr. Vasquez—nothing on his clothing or on any exposed skin. I also remember reading that only twenty percent of folks hit by lightning die on the spot.”

San Martín smiled. “Everything you say is correct, Dr. Hazlitt. The keraunopathologists would be impressed.”

I tried to pronounce what he’d said and failed.

“Keraunopathologists,” he repeated. “Specialists in the pathology of lightning. Not many of them. At any rate, your observations are correct. Usually when someone is struck by lightning, burn marks are visibly evident, especially at the entry and exit points. Most people don’t realize that a lightning strike has about ten times the kilovolts as your typical industrial electrical shock. That sort of power burns a victim pretty bad. It immediately turns the victims’ sweat into steam.” He paused for effect. “There were no burn marks on Dr. Vasquez.”

“So the fact that there was a lightning strike at the moment he died was a coincidence,” I offered.

“I’d say that’s a fair assumption,” San Martín said.

“Your autopsy ruled out lightning as the cause of death,” Seth said, “but did it give you any clue as to
why
he died? He’d told me that he’d had a physical exam a few weeks ago and everything was fine.”

“Do you know who his doctor was?” San Martín asked.

“Can’t say that I do.”

“Easy enough to find out. I’d like his input. To answer your question, his heart looked fine. But there was a marked change in the muscles supplied by his cranial nerves, specifically his breathing muscles. It looks to me as though he died from sudden and total respiratory failure.”

“What could cause that?” Seth asked, his expression skeptical. “Are we back to thinking it
was
lightning?”

“No,” said San Martín. “I can’t say I’m an expert with cases of lightning strikes—” He smiled at me. “Keraunopathy. But I have autopsied my fair share of lightning victims. This, after all, is Tampa. Florida has twice as many fatal lightning strikes as any other state. Even the name ‘Tampa’ is said to stem from a Native American word for ‘sticks,’ which many believe refers to lightning. Nationally, death by lightning is the third leading cause of weather-related deaths.”

“But you don’t believe Dr. Vasquez was struck by lightning,” I said.

“No, I don’t. Lightning can cause severe injury to the cardiopulmonary system, but that isn’t the case with Dr. Vasquez. Something else affected his cranial nerves and respiratory system, and did it with incredible speed. His death was instantaneous. The toxicology report might give us some answers. I’ve put a rush on it. Did either of you notice anything unusual about his behavior that day? I understand he was hosting a party when he died.”

“That’s true,” Seth said. He looked to me. “Did you see anything unusual, Jessica?”

“Since I barely knew the man, I wouldn’t have picked up on changes in his behavior. He seemed healthy and happy, full of life and spirit. I did, however, wonder why he stayed on the deck after the storm hit. I remember him saying when we played golf that when a storm approached, you’d better get to cover fast.”

Seth laughed. “He didn’t want to waste that cigar he was enjoying. Al did love his cigars.”

“Not unusual here in Tampa,” San Martín said. “I personally can’t stand them, but to each his own.”

Seth asked me, “Do you still have that cigar that Al was smoking?”

“Yes, I do.”

“When Al fell, the cigar went flying. Mrs. Fletcher retrieved it after the cleaning staff picked it up,” Seth explained.

“Silly of me, I know,” I said. “He’d mentioned that the cigar was a gift from a friend. Apparently it was different from what he was accustomed to smoking.”

I dug in my purse and pulled out the cigar, which I’d placed in a small plastic bag I’d gotten from the hotel. I handed it to Dr. San Martín, who turned the bag so that he could see the cigar through both sides.

“It’s a little squished,” I said. “It was in a puddle when the waitress picked it up.”

“Tampa used to be the cigar capital of the world,” San Martín said as he dropped the bag on his desk. “That’s how Ybor City came to be. Cigars! There used to be a hundred and fifty cigar manufacturers in that section of Tampa alone.”

“I’m looking forward to visiting Ybor City while I’m here,” I said. “I understand it’s . . . well, that it’s very colorful.”

“That it is,” San Martín said. He stood and stretched. “It was a late night and these old bones are feeling it. Thanks for stopping by and sharing what you know. There’s more to doing an autopsy than examining the body. Everything surrounding a death has to be taken into account.”