Murder, She Wrote: Prescription For Murder Page 17

  “Are we getting out and taking a stroll?” Seth asked, not bothering to mask the annoyance in his voice.

  Guterez smiled as he said, “No, Dr. Hazlitt, but we will have a chat if it’s okay with you and Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Do we have a choice?” I asked.

  “Probably not,” Guterez said. “Why don’t you begin, Dr. San Martín.”

  San Martín came forward on his seat and said, “I know this is confusing, and I must admit that I was against hijacking you this way. But Agent Guterez and his colleagues decided that making it a bit of a social event would be more conducive to accomplishing what it is they wish to accomplish. The truth is that the two of you have placed yourselves in an awkward situation.”

  “Really?” I said. “How so?”

  San Martín crossed his legs and thought before continuing. “Let me start by congratulating you, Mrs. Fletcher, for being astute. I suppose that writing murder mysteries has sharpened your powers of observation.”

  I cocked my head. “I appreciate your kind words, Dr. San Martín, but I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

  “Cigars,” he said.

  “Cigars?”

  “Yes, the one you picked up on the day that Dr. Vasquez died.”

  “I’d forgotten about that,” I said, not entirely truthfully. It simply hadn’t been on my mind that day.

  “I almost did, too,” he said. “You left it in my office and I ignored it for a few days. I’m surprised I didn’t toss it away. At any rate, I was looking at it one day and got to thinking about whether it might shed any light on Vasquez’s death. It had been beaten up a bit and was still a little soggy since I’d left it in the plastic bag, but I ran it through some preliminary tests to see what it contained. The usual chemicals were present; a cigar contains thousands of poisons, like nitrosamines, ammonia, cadmium, hydrogen cyanide, carbon monoxide, and, of course, nicotine. I expected to find those elements along with others, and I did.”

  “Are you suggesting that one of those poisons found in cigars killed Dr. Vasquez?” I asked.

  He smiled like a kindly uncle correcting an honest misunderstanding. “No,” he said, “none of those are capable of killing someone, at least not from one cigar. A lifetime of smoking them might do you in, but none of those poisons are found in sufficient quantity in one cigar to be lethal.”

  “So did you find something else that might have contributed to Dr. Vasquez’s death?” Seth asked.

  “I certainly did,” said San Martín. “The neurotoxin botulin.”

  “Is that related to botulism caused by spoiled foods?” I asked.

  “That’s correct, Mrs. Fletcher. One and the same.”

  “Is it possible he’d eaten something that contained that toxin?”

  “No. As I said, I found it in that cigar you left at my office.”

  “I take it that botulin isn’t usually found in cigars,” Seth said.

  “Not in my experience,” San Martín replied.

  “Now, wait a minute,” Seth said, holding up his hand. “I’ve treated my share of patients who ended up with botulism either through something they ate or an infected wound. I’ve had a few babies who came down with botulism poisoning because of honey their mothers gave them during their first year. I tell every new mother to not give their babies honey until they’re older.”

  “I’m aware of the problem with honey and newborns, too,” San Martín said.

  “But I’ve never lost a patient who had botulism poisoning,” Seth said. “I had one young fella who waited too long to come in to see me and ended up in the hospital on a breathing machine for a few weeks, and I had another patient who worked for a dermatologist who breathed in too much Botox. But as you know, it takes a few days for the symptoms to show up. With Al Vasquez, his death was pretty darn fast, almost instantaneous. Doesn’t figure that inhaling smoke from a single cigar would do him in like that.”

  “You’re right,” San Martín said, “provided that what he’d inhaled was common, run-of-the-mill botulin. It wasn’t!”

  He had our full attention. Alvaro Vasquez had offered his cigar to Seth that night, and when Seth declined, he’d offered it to me. If either of us had accepted—I shuddered at the mental picture it brought up—Seth or I could be dead right now.

  Next to me, I felt Seth stiffen, and I was certain his line of thinking followed mine. Both of us had suspected Vasquez had been murdered, but we never realized how close to our own deaths we might have come.

  San Martín spoke, breaking into my horrified thoughts. “I took it upon myself to personally deliver that soggy cigar to the lab at the Institutes of Health in Washington, D.C., and waited until they’d analyzed it. Didn’t take long. That cigar was full of C. botulinum, one of the most powerful known bacteria to secrete toxins. A single microgram is lethal to humans. It acts by blocking nerve function and leads to respiratory and musculoskeletal paralysis. Still, it would not have killed Dr. Vasquez that quickly.”

  “Then what?” I asked.

  “It had been chemically enhanced, no easy trick. It would take a highly sophisticated lab to accomplish that.”

  Agent Guterez, who’d said nothing during San Martín’s explanation, now entered the conversation.

  “You might wonder why the FBI is now involved,” he said. “Initially this was considered a local matter, something for the Tampa police to handle. But what Dr. San Martín has uncovered changes the landscape. Obviously, someone injected the botulin into the cigar that Alvaro Vasquez was smoking when he died. We believe Dr. Vasquez was the intended victim. Because the toxic substance is, as Dr. San Martín has explained, highly sophisticated, we’re going on the assumption that a government could be involved.”

  Seth and I said in unison, “The Cuban government?”

  “Or someone in our own,” Guterez said grimly.

  Dr. San Martín spent the next ten minutes further explaining what he’d found in the cigar, and the nature of the chemical enhancement that had turned Dr. Vasquez’s favorite pastime into a lethal weapon. When the ME was finished, Seth asked, “This is all fascinating, but what does it have to do with us?”

  “A good question, Doctor,” said Guterez. “The fact is that we feel it would be better if you and Mrs. Fletcher returned to your home in Maine.”

  “Do you mind if I ask why?” I said.

  “I can’t be too specific,” said Guterez. “National security. Just let me say that Dr. Vasquez’s murder and the missing results of his research have spawned a budding problem between our government and that of Cuba. It has the makings of an international incident.”

  “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.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “National 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 kn
ow 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.