Murder, She Wrote: Prescription For Murder Read online

  “Yes,” I said in the same light tone. “I played eighteen holes before breakfast. You do realize, Seth, that I’ll be embarrassing you.”

  He looked at me quizzically.

  “Playing golf for real,” I explained.

  “Nonsense, Jessica. Nobody expects you to write bestselling novels and be a pro golfer. Al loves the game, but to be honest he isn’t all that good at it. He’s new to it, of course, and he can’t seem to get enough of it. He’s that sort of personality, throws himself totally into everything he does. Anyway, you might even beat him.”

  I laughed away that suggestion and looked out the window. It was an overcast day with low-hanging gray clouds. A stiff breeze sent palm trees into motion and kicked up dust in the parking lot.

  “Looks like rain,” I said idly.

  “Wishful thinking, Jessica,” said Seth. “You’d like our golf date to be washed out, called on account of rain like a baseball game.”

  He’d read my mind.

  We waited in front of the hotel until precisely eight, when a long black Mercedes with tinted windows pulled up and a man emerged from the rear.

  “Hello, Al,” Seth said as the man closed the gap between us, shook Seth’s hand, and took one of my hands in both of his.

  “And you, of course, are the famous Jessica Fletcher,” he said through a dazzling smile.

  I’d envisioned Dr. Vasquez to be a smaller, older man than the person standing in front of me; the one photo I’d seen of him in the newspaper after he’d defected had been blurry, and he’d been in the background. Instead he was tall and movie-star handsome, his dusky complexion a perfect scrim against which very white teeth and deep brown eyes sparkled. Black hair streaked with silver lay close to his temples, not a strand out of place. A thin black mustache curved perfectly over his upper lip. He wore white slacks, a teal polo shirt, white sneakers, and a tan sweater casually draped over his shoulders, the sleeves tied on his chest. I could see him as a tennis pro with whom his female students fell madly in love, or a luxury cruise ship captain holding forth at the dinner table reserved for special passengers. He was, as my friend Mara back in Cabot Cove would say, “a hunk.” The famous, and infamous, actor Errol Flynn came to mind.

  “It’s a pleasure,” I said. “Seth speaks of you so often.”

  “Positively, I hope.”

  “Of course.”

  He turned to Seth and slapped him on the shoulder. “The good Dr. Hazlitt here keeps me honest.”

  Seth’s laugh sounded a tad uncomfortable to my ears. “But not on the golf course. Al shaves a stroke or two off his score now and then.”

  Vasquez adopted a shocked expression. “Nothing is sacred with your straight-talking doctor friend,” he said. He looked up into the menacing sky. “Shall we? I’ve reserved an eight thirty tee time. From the looks of things, we’ll be lucky to get in only nine holes.”

  I kept my smile to myself.

  I noticed as we prepared to enter the car that there was a second man in the front seat next to the driver. Neither man paid us any attention, looking straight ahead as we got in. I sat between Dr. Vasquez and Seth. The air-conditioning was running full blast despite it being a chilly morning; it felt like entering an igloo. The driver pulled away from the hotel without instruction from his boss and we joined the flow of traffic.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “My club,” Vasquez replied. “Hunter’s Green Country Club. Excellent course, one of the best in the area.”

  “You’ve played them all, I assume?” Seth teased.

  “When I’ve had time, which never seems to be the case.” Vasquez’s words were tinged with his Cuban heritage. “Life was more leisurely in Cuba,” he said somewhat wistfully. “Not as good as here in the United States, of course, but more—leisurely.”

  “Did you get to play much golf in Cuba?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately, no. We have a splendid course, the Varadero, built on property once owned by your du Pont family, but I never had the chance to use it. Their mansion, Xanadu, is now the clubhouse.”

  “Is Fidel Castro a golfer?” I asked.

  Vasquez’s smile was wide. “Hardly. He considers it a wasteful pastime of the rich, which I suppose it is for some.” He laughed gently. “For me it is a way to escape the laboratory and to try to conquer something that is easier than finding a cure for Alzheimer’s.”

  He sounded melancholy, and I wondered if his transplanted research program was not proceeding as successfully in the U.S. as he had expected.

  “I wouldn’t say becoming good at golf is easier than anything,” Seth said.

  “Sometimes I think you are right, my friend,” Vasquez said. “But I keep trying.”

  I decided to go on the record before we arrived that golf was not something that I knew anything about, and that I would likely slow down everyone’s game.

  Vasquez patted my hand, then squeezed it. “Nonsense, Mrs. Fletcher. I have a feeling that you are being too modest. Surely hitting a tiny white ball is considerably easier than writing a bestselling mystery novel. You must tell me how you do that. I’m afraid that if anyone asked me to write a book, I would be at a complete loss.”

  “Now who’s being too modest?” Seth said as the driver pulled into the entrance to the golf club. “When you finally come up with a cure for Alzheimer’s disease, publishers will be clamoring for a book from you.”

  Vasquez laughed. “If that is so, perhaps Mrs. Fletcher will collaborate with me.”

  “But only if you call me Jessica,” I said.

  “And I am Al. Very American, yes?”

  A security guard examined the ID card the driver presented and waved us through. Now that we’d arrived, I felt my heart racing a little faster. It had never occurred to me when I agreed to spend a week in Tampa with Seth that it would involve playing golf. If he had suggested a fishing expedition, I would have enthusiastically agreed. I do a fair amount of trout and salmon fishing back home. I enjoy tying a fly to my line and wading into the myriad cold, crystal clear streams and rivers that are within minutes of downtown. Even if angling in Tampa meant deep-sea fishing, it would be something with which I was familiar.

  But golf?

  As we entered the clubhouse, Vasquez stopped a young woman, introduced me and Seth to her, and said, “These fine people are my guests today. Mrs. Fletcher will need a proper pair of golf shoes. I’ll take care of Dr. Hazlitt.”

  She escorted me to the women’s locker room, where I was fitted for a pair of splendid-looking white shoes and assigned a locker. A few minutes later she took me to a covered area near the first tee. Vasquez and Seth were standing there waiting for me, along with a short, rotund, pink-cheeked man decked out in golf attire.

  “Jessica,” said Vasquez, “may I introduce you to my good friend Bernard Peters.”

  I recognized the name; Seth had told me Peters was the CEO of K-Dex, the pharmaceutical firm that was financially supporting Dr. Vasquez’s research. I hadn’t expected to meet him until that evening.

  “A real pleasure,” Peters said. “My wife’s a big fan of your books.”

  “I’m delighted to hear that.”

  “I think she has every one of them. She has a standing order at our local bookstore for your books when they’re released.”

  “What every writer needs,” I said.

  Vasquez motioned for a middle-aged man sitting in a golf cart to pull up to us.

  “This is Harry, the best caddie at Hunter’s Green,” Vasquez said. “Let’s get started. Jessica, you and I will team up against these two old duffers.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Why don’t you and Mr. Peters be partners? I’d rather drive Seth crazy with my ineptitude.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” said Vasquez. “I’m sure you’ll do me proud.”

  I tried my best to
justify his optimism. I completely missed the ball on my first swing, but hit it on my second, sending it in a fairly straight line that traveled about thirty yards. After many other swings—some successful, some not—we reached the first hole, and to my amazement my first putt went in, which brought forth a round of applause from the others. Buoyed with that success, I proudly moved on to the second hole and the third, my confidence waxing and waning depending on the accuracy—or lack thereof—of my shots. Bernard Peters, who certainly didn’t appear to be athletic, proved to be an excellent golfer, as well as a good sport with the slow pace I set. He didn’t say much but had a ready smile and encouraged me each time it was my turn to play.

  As we progressed, a certain tension developed with Seth. I know him well enough to pick up on subtle clues when he’s annoyed, and it happened on the second hole. Vasquez took it upon himself to give me a golf lesson as I prepared to putt. He came around behind me and placed his hands on mine as they clutched the shaft of my club. Having him press into me from behind was discomforting, and I glanced over at Seth, whose expression was disapproving.

  “I think I’ve got it,” I said, creating space between me and Vasquez.

  “Yes, I agree,” he said. “You certainly do have it, Jessica, in more ways than one.”

  He did the same at the third hole, but my body language and unwillingness to allow him to get that close sent a message that he obviously received. Seth’s displeased expression was gone, and we continued with the game.

  Despite my early better-than-expected performance, I kept my eye on the heavens and my fingers mentally crossed. I must admit that having the match canceled due to rain was a pleasant contemplation. The sky appeared to cooperate, turning increasingly dark, almost black at times, and the chilly wind seemed to swell with every step we took. I was about to putt on the fourth hole when jagged flashes of bright white lightning lit up the horizon, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. I looked around at my companions. Peters frowned up at the sky, but Vasquez waved off the weather. “It’ll clear up,” he said. “These things don’t last very long. Go ahead, Jessica. Just don’t let the noise throw you off.”

  I’d experienced plenty of thunderstorms before, but nothing like the heavenly show that was about to take place. The cloud-to-ground brilliant white streaks came in rapid succession, followed by thunder that shook the earth around us. The lightning illuminated the dark sky as though it were created by a mad theatrical producer pulling switches. All was black; then the next bolt came, and the next.

  “Let’s go,” Harry, the caddie, said. “This looks like a bad one.”

  “We can wait it out,” insisted Vasquez. “Look! It’s clearing up over there.”

  “C’mon, Al,” Peters said, shoving his club into his golf bag. “It’s not like this is the last game you’re ever going to play.”

  The caddie collected the remaining clubs, and no sooner had we squeezed into the golf cart than the rain came pouring down, set in motion by the increasing winds. The light plastic poncho that the caddie handed each of us offered minimum protection. The cart jounced along the track that skirted the course. Each rumble of thunder caused me to wince, and I gripped the sides of my seat to keep from sliding off when we hit a bump on the path. I was greatly relieved when we reached safety beneath the clubhouse’s overhang, where other golfers and their caddies had also sought cover.

  “My apologies for not providing better weather,” Vasquez said as we shed our makeshift rain gear and went inside.

  “Saved by the bell,” I murmured to Seth, “or in this case, Mother Nature.” Aloud to the group, I said, “I’m afraid that golf will never be my game.”

  “You did splendidly,” Vasquez said, and Seth, bless him, reinforced the compliment.

  “Quite a storm,” Seth commented as we filed into the clubhouse restaurant. Vasquez insisted that we join him for breakfast even though it was a second one for both of us.

  Peters begged off: “I have a meeting to get ready for,” he said. “See you all tonight. A pleasure to meet you, Jessica.”

  “What a nice fellow,” I said as the maître d’ held my chair.

  “Peters? Yes, he’s a fine fellow,” Vasquez agreed, but there was something in his expression and tone that butted heads with his words. I glanced at Seth, but he didn’t seem to have picked up on the contradiction.

  Our table afforded us a panoramic view of the golf course, and we watched the theatrical majesty of the storm play out as a waitress took our order. After the bouncy ride to the clubhouse, I didn’t think my system would stomach anything stronger than an English muffin and a cup of tea, but my male companions seemed to be energized by the squall and ordered accordingly.

  “I’ve never seen a storm quite this violent,” I said. “Does it happen often in Tampa?”

  “Tampa’s the lightning capital of the world,” Seth answered. “I’ve read that as many as fifty people are struck here every year.”

  “True,” said Vasquez. “I’ve learned since coming to Tampa that when a lightning storm erupts, it’s best to seek cover—immediately. Storms here are not to be taken lightly.”

  I thought that we’d moved rather slowly to leave the course once the storm hit, but didn’t express it.

  “Look,” I said. “The sun is out.”

  Although it continued to rain, sunlight cut through, creating a pretty pattern on the ground outside.

  “I told you they don’t last long. Typical of the weather here,” Vasquez said. “It can change by the hour. Time for my morning cigar. Join me?”

  I looked to Seth, who seemed ambivalent.

  “Your doctor friend still hasn’t adopted the habit of a good cigar after a meal,” Vasquez said, “but I’m working on him.”

  “Too early for me,” Seth said, as though discussing an alcoholic drink.

  We accompanied Vasquez outside, where he lit up a very long black cigar, using a lighter that was more of a small blowtorch to ignite the cigar’s tip.

  “A Hoyo de Monterrey Double Corona,” Seth said.

  “I believe I gave you one, Seth.”

  “Ayuh, that you did, Al. I’m saving it for a special occasion.”

  “Every occasion is a special one for a fine cigar,” Vasquez said as he sat back in a webbed chair under the overhang, drew deeply on the cigar, slowly blew its blue smoke into the air, and sighed with contentment. He turned to me and said, “I suppose you find it strange that a medical doctor would indulge in such an unhealthy habit.”

  “It crossed my mind,” I said.

  He laughed. “Everything in moderation,” he said. “Right, Seth?”

  “That’s my creed,” Seth said.

  Fortunately the breeze, which had died down along with the storm, blew in a direction that carried the smoke away from me.

  After twenty minutes of watching Vasquez indulge his love affair with his cigar, we returned to the car, where the driver and his front-seat companion awaited our arrival. They were beefy men in black suits, white shirts, and skinny black ties, bodyguards right out of central casting.

  “I enjoyed our little round of golf even though it was abbreviated,” Vasquez said, displaying his wide smile, as the car pulled in front of our hotel.

  “And I enjoyed it, although I was sure I wouldn’t,” I said, not adding that I’d been silently gleeful when the rain came.

  “I have a special musical treat for my guests tonight,” said Vasquez, helping me from the car. “And authentic Cuban food.”

  “Seth has been raving about the food ever since he came back from Cuba,” I said.

  “And for good reason. It will be a pleasure to introduce you to the delights of my native country. But before the party, I would like you, and Seth of course, to be my guests this afternoon at my laboratory. I will give you a personal tour.”

  “I’d like that very much,” I said.<
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  “Good. The car will pick you up here at two. There isn’t that much to see, just the usual laboratory paraphernalia, but I think you might find it of interest.”

  “I know I did,” Seth said. He nodded in my direction. “You know, Al doesn’t allow many people into his inner sanctum, Jessica. This is quite an honor for you.”

  “Then I’m grateful to be among the chosen,” I said.

  “Splendid!” Vasquez said, taking my hand. “I look forward to seeing you. Until then . . .” He raised my hand to his lips, kissed my fingers, and got back into the car.

  “Charming fellow, isn’t he?” Seth said as the car pulled away and we walked into the hotel.

  “Hmm,” I said, not exactly agreeing.

  Charming certainly would be an apt description of Dr. Alvaro Vasquez, although there was a certain slickness that accompanied that adjective for me, which I kept to myself. It represented an unfair judgment, I knew, based on such a preliminary meeting, but initial impressions are often the most lasting ones.

  I told Seth that I needed a little break to freshen up before we went to the lab. “You go rest for a bit,” he said. “Meet you in the restaurant at twelve thirty for lunch.”

  Lunch! Hadn’t we just had two breakfasts?

  My friend of many years walked to the elevators and disappeared into one. It struck me that he’d fallen under the spell of Dr. Vasquez, which in itself was certainly understandable. Although Seth was a general practitioner back home—a family doctor who practiced medicine in the broadest of senses—he’d always been keenly interested in the more esoteric disciplines of medicine, which stood him in good stead when having to refer patients to specialists. Seth kept up on the latest in medical research, constantly reading and attending conferences when time permitted. That he was vitally interested in Alzheimer’s disease didn’t surprise me, not only from an intellectual standpoint but because he had patients who’d fallen victim to the progressive, debilitating illness.

  But he seemed to be unusually deferential to Vasquez, a side of Seth that I’d seldom seen in our many years of friendship.