Murder, She Wrote: Prescription For Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  I ventured outside and took some deep breaths. It was a lovely beginning to the day in Tampa, sunny, a clear blue sky, and a refreshing breeze setting the palm trees in motion. I wondered what the weather was like back in Cabot Cove and reminded myself to place a few calls to catch up with friends.

  I had forty-five minutes before I’d need to meet Seth and chose to take a short stroll through a wooded wetland adjacent to the hotel. I found a narrow dirt path leading into the undeveloped land and hesitated. While the wooded area was appealing, I wasn’t sure whether it was wise to venture into unfamiliar territory. Were the paths all marked? How large was this plot of land anyway? Naturally, I thought of alligators—you can’t be in Florida and not think about them. What was the possibility of coming across one? Highly unlikely, I decided. Alligators liked to be around bodies of water, and from what I could see from my vantage point, there didn’t seem to be any ponds or lakes in this densely packed patch of land.

  I progressed slowly, stopping every now and then to admire the variety of palm trees that lined my path, and clumps of flowers that would suddenly appear from behind a tree, vivid splashes of color in what was otherwise a monochromatic landscape. I moved through an area of trees on which someone had affixed a handwritten sign—gumbo limbo—which I assumed was to identify the species of those particular trees, their smooth bark peeling off in broad sheets to reveal red trunks beneath. Beyond was a swath of tall grass that looked like hay. It intruded on both sides of the path, narrowing my passage, and as I walked past it, my bare leg brushed against some of the strands. “Ouch,” I said as I looked down to see a thin red line on my calf. I examined the grass more closely and saw that the strands had sawlike teeth, sharp enough to have broken the skin.

  My leg stung, and a single, tiny drop of blood appeared at the end of the scratch. I considered returning to the hotel but noticed up ahead a clearing in which a wooden bench was situated next to a small pond. Perfect, I thought as I approached the clearing. I sat on the bench and used a tissue from my purse to blot the drop of blood.

  A shaft of sunlight through the palm fronds reached where I sat, and I closed my eyes and tilted my face up to catch the warm rays. I was enjoying this moment of peace when I heard what sounded like muffled footsteps. I opened my eyes and looked back at the path I’d just taken. The sounds stopped. I glanced at the pond, hoping I hadn’t awakened a sleeping alligator. I was wondering if climbing on top of the bench would provide any protection when I heard the sounds again. This time, I stood, straightened my skirt, and tensed. A moment later the source of the footsteps appeared—Karl Westerkoch. I was both surprised to see him and relieved that it was a familiar face.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. Communing with nature this morning?” he said in his pinched, British-tinged voice.

  “I guess I am. The vegetation in Florida is so different from what we have in Maine.”

  “A very different climate.”

  “Yes. I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “Oh? Did you consider this your private domain?”

  The man was seemingly incapable of being pleasant.

  “I wasn’t suggesting that it was,” I said.

  He came to the bench, sat, crossed his long legs, and looked up into the sun coming through the trees. “In the interest of full disclosure,” he said, “I came because I saw you walk in here.”

  “You followed me?”

  “You might say that, although it does sound terribly cloak-and-dagger, doesn’t it?”

  “To you, perhaps.”

  “Come, sit,” he said, patting the bench beside him. “I’m really quite harmless.”

  “Mr. Westerkoch,” I said, “since you’ve admitted to following me into this lovely grove of trees, I’d like to know why.”

  He ran his fingers over the crease in his slacks, moved them to his neck to adjust a tie that wasn’t there, and said, “Please, sit down. I have a crick in my neck this morning and it’s painful to have to look up at you while we talk.”

  My first inclination was to bid him a good day and walk away—he was that disagreeable—but of course I was curious as to what he had to say. I’d suggested to Seth that we take every opportunity to speak with anyone involved in Alvaro Vasquez’s life, and Karl Westerkoch fell into that category, although I had no idea in what way they’d been connected. His name had not appeared on the possible list of investors Seth had copied from Al’s file. I took a seat on the bench, leaving as much space as possible between us, and waited for him to explain his presence. When he did, what he said surprised me.

  “You and your companion, the good Dr. Hazlitt, have ended up involved in a rather nasty business.”

  “‘Nasty business’? I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think that you do, madam. I can’t imagine that someone whose brain is fertile enough to craft murder mysteries—and I understand that you’ve done quite well with your novels—would miss what’s been going on over the past few days.”

  “If you mean Dr. Vasquez’s death, I’m well aware of it. Dr. Hazlitt and I were there when he died, as were you. Remember?”

  “How could I ever forget? But you see, dear lady, there is more to it than his unfortunate passing. There is, as you also know, the fruits of his efforts in the laboratory.”

  Where is he going with this? I wondered, and decided to offer nothing. Let him set the agenda for this unexpected conversation in an equally unexpected setting.

  “You’ve spoken with Oona,” he said flatly, a statement, not a question. He pulled a long, slender cigar from his sport jacket—or is it called a cigarillo?—lit it, blew the smoke up in the air so it curled over my head, and looked at me while waiting for an answer.

  I didn’t provide him with one.

  “And I’m sure that Oona made it clear to you that Dr. Vasquez’s untimely demise has potential ramifications far beyond the death of one individual,” he continued.

  I thought back to my meeting with Oona and tried to recollect what she’d said. “She did indicate that there was interest on the part of the government in seeing that Dr. Vasquez’s research not fall into Cuban hands.”

  “And she was absolutely correct,” he said. “Oona has a way of being direct, much to her credit.”

  “That’s always an admirable trait,” I said, “and I would appreciate it if you would exhibit the same directness.”

  Westerkoch gave me a crooked smile before taking puffs and exhaling the smoke into the air, a satisfied expression on his gaunt face. I checked my watch.

  “Oh, yes,” he said as though his wandering mind had suddenly been brought back to the present moment, “being direct. Frankly, I thought I was.”

  “How about this for a starting point, Mr. Westerkoch? Seth Hazlitt and I have nothing to do with Dr. Vasquez’s research. He and Seth had struck up a friendship, nothing more than that. I was in Florida on a book tour and decided to extend my stay and spend time with Seth here in Tampa. I certainly understand why the government would be interested in where Dr. Vasquez’s research ends up, in whose hands it falls, but that has nothing to do with Dr. Hazlitt or me.”

  “Under ordinary circumstances I would agree with you, Mrs. Fletcher, just a small-town physician and his mystery-writing friend enjoying the good weather here in Tampa. But you see, there is a complication.”

  “I’d like to know what that is,” I said, even though I suspected he was about to bring up Vasquez’s missing laptop.

  He was.

  “Dr. Vasquez’s approach to medical research was unusual at best. He built an outsized reputation in his native Cuba, which traveled with him to Florida, where he established himself as an important citizen, albeit a controversial one.”

  “Controversial? Why?”

  “Because of the way he conducted hi
s research. Don’t you find it strange that he worked in almost total secrecy, only one assistant, with progress reports on his work nonexistent? That’s hardly the protocol one expects from a medical researcher whose work promises—and I stress ‘promises’—such great results.”

  He was right. I had found Vasquez’s methods to be strange, and I had voiced that to Seth. Then again, I could claim to know nothing of how medical research worked, which would have been the truth. Because Seth had become such an unabashed champion of Vasquez’s work, it served to temper any doubts I had, at least initially.

  “Of course,” he said, “his methods aren’t the most important thing.” He cackled. “The mad scientist at work, hey? No, his methods aren’t at issue here, Mrs. Fletcher. What does interest the government is what he managed to achieve in his laboratory.”

  “Again, what does that have to do with Dr. Hazlitt and me?”

  “You asked me to be direct, and I will be. But I expect the same from you. No one seems to know what he achieved through his research, and we would like to know.”

  “Just who is ‘we’?” I responded. “You? The government? I’d like to know what role you play in all of this, Mr. Westerkoch.”

  “Let me just say that I have a vested interest.”

  “A financial interest?” Perhaps that list we’d found was incomplete, I thought.

  “Do I strike you as being that crass, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Protecting one’s financial interests isn’t crass unless the gains are ill-gotten.”

  It was obvious that Vasquez’s missing laptop was at the core of Westerkoch’s interest, and that posed a dilemma for me. As far as I was aware, only Seth and I knew what had been on that laptop. Unless, of course, Detective Machado had attempted to decipher the material on the thumb drives we’d turned over to him. My hunch was that the detective had probably dumped them in an evidence locker until he could find an expert to interpret them. Nevertheless, before releasing them, Seth and I had transferred every word from the drives to my computer and then put them on the three new thumb drives, which now rested in the safe in Seth’s hotel room. Then again, the information was still on the hard drive of the computer in my room, which was sitting out in plain sight. I had a sudden urge to return to the hotel.

  “I have to be getting back,” I said.

  “To meet with your Dr. Hazlitt?”

  “I don’t see how that’s your concern.”

  “Plans for the day?”

  “I would say it was nice to see you again, Mr. Westerkoch, but I’m not sure that’s true,” I said, standing.

  “A word of advice, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “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.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The 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.