Murder, She Wrote: Prescription For Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “My daughter is studying medicine,” Ivelisse said.

  “You must be very proud of her,” Seth said.

  “What sort of doctor are you?” she asked Seth.

  “General practice.”

  “Alvaro was a respected research scientist,” she said.

  “Yes, I know,” said Seth. “Did he talk to you about his research?”

  “Oh, no, and I didn’t want to know about it. He was trying to find a cure for . . .” She trailed off.

  “For Alzheimer’s disease,” I filled in.

  “That’s right, for Alzheimer’s disease,” she said. “For the brain.”

  “For the brain,” Seth concurred.

  “Alvaro liked women,” she said.

  “Did he?” Seth said. “I do, too.”

  “Do you cheat on your wife?”

  Seth sat back on the couch as though having been shoved. “I’m not married,” he said.

  “You, Mrs. Fletcher? Do you see other men?” she asked.

  “Other than my husband? I’m widowed, Mrs. Vasquez, have been for a number of years. But my husband, Frank, and I had a wonderful marriage. We were devoted to each other.”

  “That’s nice,” she said dreamily. She looked at Seth and her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, but you are?”

  “Dr. Seth Hazlitt, Alvaro’s friend.”

  “Of course, yes, yes, yes, I know that. What do they call it when you get older and forget?”

  “A senior moment?” I suggested, although the term “Alzheimer’s” was at the front of my thoughts. “I have those senior moments myself now and then.”

  She didn’t respond to my comment. She adopted a dreamy expression as she said, “Alvaro was such a handsome man, a Cuban Casanova. He was proud of that. Cuban men are hot-blooded, Mrs. Fletcher. We accept that when we marry them.”

  Seth cleared his throat and asked, “Did Al ever share with you what was on the laptop he brought home with him every night from his laboratory?”

  “No,” she said sharply. “I already told you that. He never told me about his work.”

  “I’m sorry,” Seth said. “You did tell me that.”

  “Where is Maritza?” she asked, swiveling her head left and right.

  Her daughter immediately reappeared as though she’d been poised to be summoned.

  “Is it time?” Ivelisse asked.

  “Yes.”

  Maritza explained to us, “My mother likes the Spanish soap opera La Casa de al Lado. She never misses it.”

  “What does that mean in English?” I asked.

  “‘The house next door,’” she replied. “Please excuse us.”

  After they’d left the room, Xavier returned and took his mother’s place, sitting in the chair she had vacated and pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  “Your mother is a lovely woman,” I said, adding, “and a proud woman.”

  “Yes, she is both of those things, and more.”

  “How is she handling your father’s death?”

  “She is very strong and doesn’t show her emotions easily,” Xavier said, sipping his coffee, “certainly not to strangers.”

  I had thought she was open in expressing her opinions, but I wondered how much her memory problems affected her understanding of the current circumstances.

  “Behind her closed door,” Xavier continued, “my mother is able to express herself to her family. She is very sad, of course. She and my father were married a long time.”

  “There are a lot of questions about your father’s research,” Seth said.

  “Yes. I’ve heard about the missing laptop,” Xavier said flatly.

  “That’s right, his missing laptop. I was told that he brought it home with him every night from the lab, but it doesn’t seem to have shown up. Got to be an answer for that.”

  “You aren’t suggesting that I might have done something with it, are you, Dr. Hazlitt?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Xavier, but it is strange that something as visible—and important—as that laptop would go missing.”

  “Well,” Xavier said mildly, “maybe it’ll show up one of these days.” He turned to me. “So,” he said, “you told me at the party that you have a pilot’s license. I love to fly. I received my license in Cuba.” He laughed. “My father was supportive, but my mother was certain it would mean an early death for me. So far, she’s been wrong.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” I said. “What sort of certificate do you have?”

  “I am instrument rated and have started working on my instructor’s license.”

  “What’s your goal?” Seth injected. “To fly big commercial planes?”

  “Yes, I would like that someday. When I am in my plane, I feel free, more free than at any other time in my life. Do you feel that way, too, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “There’s something liberating about being up there all alone, looking down at the earth, seeing your town from the air. I’m sorry that I’ll never get much further beyond my basic private pilot’s license, although I never intended to.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher doesn’t have a driver’s license,” Seth said, chuckling, “but she can fly a plane.”

  Xavier smiled broadly. “That is funny,” he said.

  I returned his smile. “That’s what all my friends say.”

  “Which includes me,” said Seth. “Frankly, I thought she was crazy when she said she was going to take flying lessons.”

  “I thought for a while that maybe I was crazy,” I said, “but once I started I knew I’d made the right decision.”

  “How about going up for a spin with me, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “That sounds appealing,” I said.

  Seth fixed me with a hard look.

  “Maybe we can do that one of these days,” I said, keeping it vague for Seth’s sake.

  “You know,” Xavier said, changing the subject, “my father surprised everyone when he welcomed your friendship, Dr. Hazlitt. He didn’t have many close friends.”

  “Then I’m proud to have been among the few.”

  “I’m thinking maybe we don’t even need my father’s laptop to know how his research was going.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, it’s just that since you became one of his close confidants, I figure you’d know a lot about his progress.”

  “’Fraid I can’t help you there,” Seth said, slapping his knees and standing. He put a hand out to help me up.

  I thought of the three thumb drives back at the hotel, and that not only did Seth know everything that Vasquez had noted about the research, but I did, too, although without the medical background to truly understand it.

  Xavier said that it was good of us to have stopped by and repeated his invitation for me to go flying with him.

  “Before we go,” Seth said, “I wanted to ask you about Ms. Mendez and Mr. Westerkoch.”

  “What about them?”

  “They were friends of your father’s, too, and I wonder what the basis of the friendship was.”

  Xavier shrugged. “The ‘basis’? He liked them.”

  “I know that Ms. Mendez works for the Cuban American Freedom Foundation here in Tampa,” Seth said. “Was she helpful in your father’s defection and application for asylum?”

  He thought before answering. “Oona Mendez has her own agenda where my father was concerned. Sure, she was involved in those things, but she also had a more personal interest in dear old Dad.”

  Maybe I’d been right when I speculated that Oona might have lost a lover in Dr. Alvaro Vasquez. I also found Xavier’s expression “dear old Dad” to be disparaging. I’d sensed tension between father and son during the party and now wondered about the extent of their animosity toward each other. Ivelisse may have been in mourning, b
ut was Xavier also sad to have lost his father?

  “And Mr. Westerkoch?” Seth asked. “He seems to be—well, he’s demonstrated a keen interest in your father’s research.”

  “Did he?”

  “What does he do?” I asked. “He says he’s a consultant, but he never said what company he consults for.”

  “He’s—look, I really don’t care about Westerkoch.” He flashed me an engaging smile. “Last chance, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m flying to Key West first thing in the morning.”

  “So soon again?”

  “The weather report is good,” he said, ignoring my question, “so it should be nice flying weather. You can get in some flying time, and you can meet my girlfriend. You, too, Dr. Hazlitt. It’s a four-seater, a really nice plane. Game?”

  “Can I think about it and call you later?” I said.

  “Sure. I’ll be around all day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see how my mother is.”

  When Seth and I were alone, he said, “You aren’t really considering going flying with him, are you?”

  “It’s tempting,” I said. “He invited you, too.”

  “It’s not tempting to me.”

  “It would give us a chance to spend some uninterrupted time with him, Seth. I know that you’re not a fan of flying, especially in small planes, but he sounds like a responsible pilot. He has his instrument rating and is going for his instructor’s license. That means he’s a serious pilot. Besides, you’ve flown with Jed back home in his small planes and you made it out alive.”

  He curtailed that topic of conversation by making a show of looking at his watch. “Let’s go get lunch,” he said, “and meet up with Dr. San Martín. I’m eager to find out why he wants to see us.”

  I found Maritza and told her that we were leaving.

  “My mother was happy to see you, Mrs. Fletcher. She admires authors. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay awhile?”

  “I’d love to,” I said, “but we’re meeting someone for lunch at a place called the . . . What is it, Seth?”

  “The West Tampa Sandwich Shop.”

  “Oh,” Maritza said, “everybody raves about the Cuban food there—very authentic, I’m told. Xavier goes there a lot.”

  “I’m ready for some good Cuban food,” Seth said.

  “Enjoy it,” Maritza said, “and please come back anytime.”

  We managed to find the West Tampa Sandwich Shop, a small, nondescript former house on the busy North Armenia Avenue, across from a large church. Seth had to circle the block a few times to find a parking space, and we ended up two blocks from the restaurant.

  “Doesn’t look much like a place to find good food,” Seth said as we approached the building.

  “Looks can be deceiving,” I said. “Time to enjoy real Cuban food.”

  “We’ll see,” he said as we came upon what looked like a run-down carport attached to the house. There were a few tables beneath the canopy, and a group of six older men, dressed in colorfully patterned shirts and Cuban guayaberas, sat at a long table smoking cigars and talking.

  “Is this the entrance?” I asked Seth.

  “Beats me,” he replied.

  Conversation stopped when we entered the sheltered space, but we saw that there was a door leading inside.

  “Hola!” one of the men said to us.

  I returned his greeting as we passed their table and pulled open the door to a small room where a dozen tables were covered in lacy white cloths with clear plastic sheets over them. A short counter with a few backless stools occupied one side of the restaurant opposite a TV set. The white walls were covered with hundreds of photographs collected inside large black frames, presumably pictures of regular customers. Above the collages were individually framed portraits of those I gathered were especially honored guests. Two waitresses, well familiar with the routine, scurried among the tables, all of which were occupied, pushing carts that were transporting diners’ meals. All in all, there was a sense of controlled frenzy.

  Dr. San Martín sat at a table only slightly removed from the next, where five gray-haired men engaged in a loud, friendly argument on the benefits of vitamin supplements. I was surprised to see that the ME was with another man, considerably younger, who looked out of place with his dark suit, shirt, and tie. San Martín saw us and waved.

  “Good to see you,” he said as we joined the table. “Welcome to Tampa’s best-kept secret.”

  I looked around and laughed. “Judging from the business they’re doing,” I said, “I think the secret’s gotten out.”

  “Much to the chagrin of the owners,” said San Martín. “There are so many regular customers, they don’t want to fill the place up with tourists.” He turned to his companion. “Mrs. Jessica Fletcher and Dr. Seth Hazlitt, this is Harry Guterez.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” Guterez said as we shook hands. “I’m certainly aware of your books, Mrs. Fletcher, although I admit I haven’t read one.”

  “We’ll have to rectify that,” I said pleasantly.

  “Are you with the medical examiner’s office?” Seth asked.

  “No,” Guterez replied. “I’m FBI.”

  His simple statement had the effect of silencing Seth and me.

  “Agent Guterez has something he’d like to discuss with you,” San Martín said, “but I suggest that we enjoy a good Cuban lunch before we get into that conversation.”

  I knew that Seth shared my thought at the moment—we’d rather not have to wait to hear what was on his mind. But that wasn’t the way Dr. San Martín had choreographed the meeting. So lunch it was.

  “Everything is good here,” San Martín said, “and the portions are large. They make a superb Cuban sandwich, although it’s misnamed. What people today call a Cuban sandwich was actually born in Tampa in the late eighteen hundreds. Cigar workers, who settled here from many parts of the world, brought their own favorite foods, some of which went into the sandwich. The Spaniards contributed the ham, the Italians the Genoa salami, the Cubans mojo-marinated pork, and the Germans and Jews added the pickles, mustard, and Swiss cheese. Of course, without good Cuban bread, it falls flat. Cuban bread is the best. When you make the sandwich, you butter the outsides of the bread and brown it up in a pan or press, like a grilled-cheese sandwich, only better.” He pressed his fingertips to his lips and blew a kiss into the air.

  “What is mojo?” Seth asked.

  “It’s a Cuban concoction used to marinate pork. When I make it, I use garlic cloves, salt, black peppercorns, oregano, and sour orange juice.”

  “Never heard of sour orange juice,” Seth said.

  “Not easy to find,” said San Martín. “There are lots of sour orange trees in Cuba. You can substitute regular orange juice and add a little lemon or lime.”

  “Sounds like you know your way around the kitchen,” Seth said.

  “I love to cook,” San Martín said. “I did all the cooking when my wife was alive and still find fixing myself supper to be relaxing after spending the day probing dead bodies.”

  I made a face and he apologized for inappropriate table talk.

  I was willing to order anything as long as it came quickly and allowed us to get to what Agent Guterez wanted to say. After San Martín’s enthusiastic description, we all settled on Cuban sandwiches, and he insisted that I try a mango milk shake.

  Guterez didn’t have much to add to the conversation, and once the food came, we all stopped talking anyway. I found myself, as I often do, studying the scene in the restaurant, a habit I imagine a lot of writers—and probably just as many nonwriters—have. Frequent people watching gives me insights into human behavior—at least I hope it does—and many an unwary diner has ended up as a character in one of my novels.

  At the neighboring table, the group’s loud discussion about a variety of health topics paused for a moment while one ma
n told a joke: “So I went to the VA hospital and this nurse at the desk says to me, ‘I already called your name. Didn’t you hear me?’ And I said to her, ‘If I could hear you, I wouldn’t be here.’” The story brought forth hearty laughs from his companions and made me smile, too.

  The men were momentarily distracted by a shapely young blonde who sashayed through the room wearing tight jeans and a low-cut sweater. At the table next to ours, a middle-aged woman with jet-black hair also eyed the new arrival and registered her opinion of the blonde to her tablemate by pushing out her lower lip and rolling her eyes.

  While all of this captured my interest, my main thought was that I wanted lunch to end so we could get to the reason for having gotten together. The sandwich was good, the mango shake sweet, but the combination was too filling. The waitress asked if I’d like to take home the other half of my sandwich and I declined.

  Finally, Dr. San Martín paid the bill and suggested that we leave. Seth and I looked at each other in surprise.

  San Martín caught our exchange and said, “It’s a little too crowded in here for privacy.”

  Once outside, Agent Guterez led us to the church’s parking lot, where a black limousine stood, engine running. A man dressed like Guterez got out on the driver’s side when he saw us approach, and opened the rear door.

  “I thought a little ride after lunch might be in order,” said Guterez.

  “A ride?” Seth said. “We have our car parked a coupla blocks from here.”

  “We’ll bring you back, Dr. Hazlitt; just a short drive for us to talk.”

  Seth and I climbed into the rear of the car and sat on the bench seat. There were two fold-down seats, which Guterez and San Martín took, allowing them to face us. The driver exited the parking lot and drove slowly down North Armenia Avenue, destination unknown to us. Dr. San Martín provided nonstop conversation during the trip, commenting on his love of cooking, the political situation in Tampa and its relationship to what was happening in his native Cuba, and his love of the city’s own national league football team, the Buccaneers. It was almost as though he was attempting to head off any questions we might have about where we were going and why.

  Twenty frustrating minutes later we arrived in a suburban area, its sign announcing that we were in Citrus Park. The driver parked beneath a tree, turned off the ignition, and got out of the car. San Martín and Guterez made no move to leave their seats.