Chapter Twenty-two
The flight to Tampa in the vintage Russian-built aircraft was smooth and without incident. It was a strange feeling being in a plane with nothing but empty seats around us—except for those on which we’d piled our luggage—but we used the time to discuss everything that had happened to us over the past twenty-four hours.
“I only hope that Xavier gets what’s coming to him, and not just some bureaucratic reprimand,” Seth said. “His father may not have been the most honest man, but he certainly didn’t deserve to be killed.”
“When he introduced me to Xavier at the party, Al sounded so proud of him,” I said.
“Al told me that their relationship suffered when he and Ivelisse defected, but he was still fond of his son and hoped they could patch things up. Too bad it’s too late.”
“It’s too late for Alvaro Vasquez,” I said, “but it’s not too late for you to give those thumb drives to your research colleagues in Boston.”
“What do you mean? I never got them back from Rodriguez.”
“I know, but I’ve got this.” I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out my laptop. “We copied Al’s files onto my computer before transferring them to the second set of thumb drives,” I said. “All his notes are still in here.”
“Jessica, you’re a marvel!” Seth said, delight on his face. “But I wonder why the Cubans didn’t confiscate your computer when they searched our luggage.”
“I was wondering that myself,” I said, “but I think I’ve figured it out. You’re the one who was so close to Vasquez. They were probably more interested to find out which bag was yours, and when they opened mine and saw women’s clothes, they just closed it up again. Besides, I had this buried in the bottom of the suitcase wrapped inside my robe.”
“Talk about a cover-up,” Seth said, chuckling at his own joke.
The pilot landed smoothly at Tampa airport and taxied to a remote corner of the field, far removed from the terminal and other commercial aircraft. We had naturally speculated about the behind-the-scenes machinations that had transpired before this flight from Cuba to Tampa could be arranged and had hoped that it wouldn’t involve us in any official role. But we were to be disappointed.
I looked out my window and saw a dozen or so people awaiting our arrival. Included in the group were Oona Mendez and Karl Westerkoch. I pointed them out to Seth, who muttered, “I could do without having to see them again.”
The copilot came back and opened the door, and two members of the ground crew pushed a wheeled set of stairs to it.
“Thank you,” I told the copilot.
“My pleasure,” he said, smiling as he lowered our luggage down the stairs to waiting hands. “Buenas tardes, señora.”
Seth preceded me down the staircase. Before going to the door, I poked my head into the cockpit and gave a final good-bye to the pilots, who wished me well. I stepped outside and looked to where Seth now stood speaking with Oona and Westerkoch. I carefully negotiated the narrow metal steps, holding on to the railings, and stepped onto the tarmac with a sense of overall relief. It was good to be back on U.S. soil.
“Come with us,” Oona said and led us through the knot of people into a small hangar reserved for private aircraft. We were ushered into an office with a round wooden table and folding chairs. We’d no sooner been seated when two others arrived who were introduced as representatives of the U.S. State Department.
“We need to debrief you on your recent trip to Cuba,” one said.
“Nothing to tell you,” Seth said grumpily.
“Just a few questions,” the fellow from State said. “We promise we won’t take too much of your time.”
“We’re happy to cooperate,” I said. “We’re just glad to be home.”
Our official debriefing took almost an hour, and I was concerned that Seth’s patience would wear thin and that he would rebel. But he maintained his composure and even made a few witty comments about Cuba and our meeting with Raúl Castro. The State Department officials were especially interested in our evaluation of President Castro’s physical and mental health.
“He looked in good physical shape to me,” Seth said.
“What did he say about his brother Fidel Castro?”
“Just that he was busy,” I said.
“Nothing about his health?”
“No,” I said. “That never came up.”
We were asked about the other people with whom we met, including Dr. Rodriguez and the unnamed representative of the Cuban Ministry of the Interior. We told them everything we could think of, including that Dr. Rodriguez was especially solicitous and that we were treated with respect considering the circumstances.
Naturally, the questioners were also interested in how we were kidnapped by Xavier and his sister and what we knew of their life and connections in Cuba.
“One thing we do know,” Seth said, “is that Xavier Vasquez murdered his father using a poison he’d gotten from someone in the Cuban government. You can find out more about it by talking to Dr. San Martín, the medical examiner here in Tampa.”
“We’ll be sure to do that. You say that Xavier Vasquez murdered his father. Is it your belief that he plans to remain in Cuba?”
“No doubt about that. Practically bragged to me that he was out of the range of our criminal jurisdiction.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Dr. Rodriguez led us to believe that the Ministry of the Interior would deal with him,” I added. “I don’t know whether they’re concerned that he’s a murderer, but he’s obviously upset those he works for.”
“We have ways of keeping track of what happens to him in Cuba,” Westerkoch said.
I’m sure you do, I thought.
“What about the daughter?” we were asked.
“After her father’s death, she was allowed out of Cuba to see her mother,” I said. “She’s still a student, so I imagine that she’ll remain in Cuba, too. It’s so sad.”
“What is?”
“Dr. Vasquez’s widow, Ivelisse. She’s all alone. Aside from not being well, she has a son who murdered her husband and a daughter who may have abetted him. This entire affair defines the word ‘tragedy.’”
The State representatives thanked us for our information and cautioned us to be careful about what we said about our experience.
“Staying in Tampa for a while?” Oona Mendez asked.
Seth was quick to answer. “No,” he said, “we’ll be leaving on the first available plane home.”
Westerkoch chuckled, actually chuckled. “Intrigue not your cup of tea, Doctor?”
“No! It certainly is not,” Seth said.
“There’s a plane leaving for Hartford, Connecticut, in an hour and a half,” Oona said.
“Do they have seats?”
“They have seats,” she replied.
“Then we’ll be on it,” said Seth. “Right, Jessica?”
“Right,” I said.
I called Jed Richardson at the Cabot Cove airport and arranged for him to meet us in Hartford and ferry us home, and Seth called his office and told his distraught nurse—“Where have you been? I’ve been frantic”—to tell her our plans.
We were waiting in the boarding area when the reporter from the Tampa Tribune, Peggy Lohman, breathless and talking as fast as ever, entered the lounge and came to where we sat. “I missed you before,” she said, “but they told me you were leaving for home and—”
“Why don’t you sit down, Ms. Lohman,” Seth suggested, “and slow down.”
“Thank you. I was afraid I’d be too late. Wow, what a twist to the Vasquez story. Is it true that you were hijacked to Cuba by Dr. Vasquez’s son and daughter?”
I checked Seth before responding. “Actually, Ms. Lohman, I think that Dr. Hazlitt and I would prefer not to comment on what happened.”
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She looked horrified. “You can’t say that,” she said. “This is big news. My editor told me to tell you that if you stay in Tampa for a few days, we’ll pick up all your expenses, every one of them, for an exclusive.”
“I understand that you’ve a job to do, Ms. Lohman,” Seth said, “but Mrs. Fletcher and I are anxious to get home and put this behind us.”
“But what about your experiences in Cuba? We have a big Cuban American readership in Tampa. Would you at least comment on that?”
Seth gave me a look that said that I should answer the reporter.
“All we have to say about our experiences in Cuba—and bear in mind they only lasted a day and a night—is that we were treated decently, were not abused in any way, and we found the Cuban people to be warm and friendly. As for the government, Dr. Hazlitt and I fervently wish that the Cuban people will be free one day, and we expect that will eventually happen. Other than that, Ms. Lohman, it was truly a pleasure meeting you. You’ll have to excuse us. They’re boarding our flight.”
Chapter Twenty-three
We arrived in Cabot Cove that evening in Jed Richardson’s twin-engine Cessna. Seth was so grateful to be going home, he refrained from commenting about the size of the plane. Jed kindly dropped us off at Seth’s house before driving himself to town. Seth’s office is in his home, and his nurse and receptionist had left him a sheaf of pink papers detailing calls to be returned. While I rustled up food from Seth’s freezer—we’d never had any lunch—Seth excused himself to retrieve something from his office, returning a few minutes later with a big fat cigar.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Where did you get that?”
“Al gave it to me the first time I was in Cuba,” he said pulling out a chair at his kitchen table.
“You’re going to start smoking cigars?” I asked.
“I might,” he said, sitting back and admiring the cigar he held in his fingers. “That’s between you and me, Jessica. Cuban cigars are illegal here in the States. This is a Hoyo de Monterrey Double Corona, one of the best, robust and full-bodied.”
“You sound like an advertisement,” I said. “If it’s illegal, how did you get it into the country?”
“Slid it in one of my shoes that I packed and crossed my fingers that Customs wouldn’t check my bag. Didn’t want to end up a prisoner in Guantanamo.”
“Or stateside,” I added. “You know that won’t go over big with those patients you’re always urging to quit smoking.”
He came forward in his chair and used the cigar the way Groucho Marx would, twirling it in front of me. “I’ll just have to smoke it sub rosa,” he said, “sneak a puff now and then the way I did as a teenager with cigarettes behind the barn.”
“I never knew that about you, Seth Hazlitt,” I said.
“Lots you don’t know about me, Jessica,” he said with a smirk.
He was joking, of course, about intending to smoke that cigar.
Or was he?
“We toured a cigar factory there,” he said. “Amazing how many steps are needed to create a truly good cigar, a painstaking process. In fact, Castro once said—at least that’s the story—that it’s easier to produce a fine cognac than to produce a good cigar.” He grinned.
“Sounds like a bit of Castro braggadocio to me,” I said. “I’m surprised that a bunch of American physicians would end up visiting a cigar factory.”
“All part of the experience,” he said, his smile fading. “We spent most of the time meeting with Cuban doctors. Amazing, Jessica, how much good research was being conducted in that poor country, first-class medical research. That’s when I met Al.”
I put my hand on Seth’s arm. “He was a good friend, even if he wasn’t all he professed to be.”
“That he was.”
We ate at Seth’s kitchen table. He insisted upon cleaning up since I’d prepared the meal. Afterward, he sat down again to go through the pink notices of all the calls he’d received while he’d been away. Some of them were from media, and one, of course, from Evelyn Philips, editor of the Cabot Cove Gazette. “The last thing I want,” he said, “is to have to deal with another jo-jeezly reporter.”
“I share your feelings,” I said, “but I’m afraid that we won’t have much of a choice. Our little adventure is bound to be big news. After all, it wasn’t a PTA bake sale or a cat rescued from a tree. Maybe it won’t be as bad as we’re anticipating. How about giving me a ride home? I’m ready to fall on my nose.”
As it turned out, it was as bad as we’d anticipated. Once word got out, we were bombarded with calls from media, local, regional, and national. Even the British Broadcasting Corporation got in touch and requested an interview. We turned to a friend, Sanford Teller, who had a public relations agency in town, and he urged us to hold a press conference and get it over with in one fell swoop. It was a standing-room-only event held in our city hall’s meeting room. Seth and I answered the questions as best we could, careful not to stray into editorializing or venturing into the political arena. Everyone seemed satisfied as the room cleared, and Teller congratulated us on putting on a good performance. I didn’t consider that we’d performed; I was just glad that it was over and we could get back to our normal lives. The only positive thing that came out of all the attention was that the sales of my latest book increased dramatically, which pleased my publisher, Vaughan Buckley, and my agent, Matt Miller.
Thankfully, media interest in our Cuban experience soon faded, replaced in newspapers and on television by more pressing issues of the day, which didn’t mean that either Seth or I would ever forget it. What stayed with us most was the exasperation that Xavier Vasquez had murdered his father and was getting away with it by living in Cuba.
I copied Dr. Alvaro Vasquez’s research notes from my laptop to a set of thumb drives, which Seth delivered to a colleague in Boston, who confirmed that Alvaro Vasquez’s research on the mysteries of Alzheimer’s disease hadn’t led to anything medically useful. We both maintained occasional contact with Dr. San Martín, and with Detective Machado, who informed us that Tampa PD had charged Xavier Vasquez with his father’s murder and had listed him as a fugitive. Seth telephoned Ivelisse Vasquez a few times and reported that a full-time caregiver had been hired. Our hearts went out to her. She’d not only seen her husband murdered; she had to live with the knowledge that her son had been his killer. If her advancing disease allowed her to forget, it was a blessing.
I had a few things to remind me of the adventure Seth and I had been on. I used the cigar lighter I’d purchased from the peddler in Ybor City to light kindling in my fireplace, and I’d framed a photo of the Columbia Restaurant and hung it over my desk, along with other photos from past trips. But in time our forced visit to Cuba receded in our memories, replaced by the activities of our day-to-day lives.
Then, six months after we’d returned to Cabot Cove, I received a phone call from Tampa.
“Oona Mendez,” the caller said. “Remember me?”
“Of course. How are you?”
“Doing splendidly. I’m calling with a bit of news. As you know, Xavier Vasquez has been charged with his father’s murder.”
“Dr. Hazlitt and I were pleased to see that those charges had been filed, not that anything will come of it.”
“That’s where you might be wrong.”
“Oh? Tell me more.”
“A remarkable thing has happened. I don’t know if you’re aware that we have an extradition treaty with Cuba.”
“We do? I had assumed the opposite.”
“And for good reason. The original treaty was signed back in 1904 but rescinded in 1926. Then, in 1959, a new extradition treaty was signed. Of course, because of the frayed state of relations between Washington and Havana, that more recent treaty hasn’t been used since it was signed into law. However—”
“Are you saying that it’s about to be
put to use where Xavier Vasquez is concerned?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. It’s been a long, tough process to bring it to this point, a lot of strings being pulled, and a real diplomatic push by the State Department among others, but it looks like it’s worked. The Cuban government has agreed to extradite Xavier to the United States.”
“That’s wonderful! Justice will be served.”
“Believe me, I share your enthusiasm. Yes, justice will be served, but there’s a much larger meaning to all this. Raúl Castro, who now runs the government, is less hard-line than his brother Fidel. We’ve learned through diplomatic channels and intelligence agencies that he’s leaning toward opening up new lines of communication with us. It’s the opinion of those in State and the other agencies that his acceptance of extradition might be a signal that he’s serious about making those changes.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m pleased to hear that. I know that Dr. Hazlitt will be delighted to know that Xavier might soon be facing trial for murder.”
“I knew that you’d be interested,” Oona said. “I get the feeling that your unexpected and unwelcome visit to Cuba might have helped pave the way for this to happen. Maybe you charmed Raúl Castro.”
“I don’t see how,” I said. “I don’t think I said two words to the man, but thank you for sharing this news. I can’t wait to tell Seth.”
Seth and I celebrated that night with friends. Toward the end of the evening, our travel agent, Susan Shevlin, said that she was putting together a State Department–approved person-to-person trip to Havana. “How about you two signing up?” she said.
Seth looked at Susan quizzically and said, “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am,” she said. “How about you, Jessica?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, but I felt doubts creeping in.
What little I’d seen of Cuba had been as a reluctant visitor. Experiencing it as a willing tourist was appealing. I tucked that thought away, but in my heart I knew: One day I would return.
Murder, She Wrote: Prescription For Murder Page 22
