Murder, She Wrote: Prescription For Murder Page 5

  He held up his hand. “I get the point, Jessica, and I won’t argue with you. But Al’s work is historic. It could mean better lives for millions of men and women. That he’s allowed me into his world, considers me a colleague, is . . . How can I put it without sounding shallow? It’s flattering; that’s what it is. To be close to a man who had to escape a brutal dictatorship in order to find the freedom to pursue his passion gives me a sense of . . . a sense of importance.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. I understood what he was saying, and tapped into the emotions behind it, but I was surprised that this dedicated physician who meant so much to so many in our town would feel the need to rub shoulders with someone else to achieve a sense of worth.

  “Sounds silly, right?” he said as he finished off a tiny cream puff and what was left of his tea. “Forget we ever had this conversation. Just a foolish old man talking. This aging sawbones is feeling his age, needs a good nap before the festivities this evening. You’ll excuse me?”

  “Of course. But, Seth, I—”

  My words trailed behind him as he walked slowly from the restaurant and disappeared into the lobby.

  A wave of sadness swept over me. I’d rarely heard him talk that way about his life and unfulfilled aspirations. Yes, he was getting older, as we all were, and age can generate a tendency to look back at what might have been. But Seth was shortchanging himself. He’d had a wonderful, meaningful career—and still did.

  As the sadness abated, a feeling of resentment toward Dr. Vasquez took its place. Why? I couldn’t explain it and willed it from my thoughts. I was reading too much into what Seth had said and the hold that Vasquez seemed to have over him at that point in his life.

  “More tea?” the waitress asked.

  “What? Oh, no, thank you. Please put the charge on my room.”

  As I sat in a red-and-gold wing chair in my suite, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. A sense of foreboding had settled in, and I found myself dreading the dinner party at Vasquez’s home.

  I wished I were back home in Cabot Cove.

  Chapter Five

  Seth had been downbeat when he left the restaurant that afternoon, and I expected his mood not to have changed. But there he was in the lobby, nattily dressed in a blue blazer, white shirt, and red bow tie, and looking every inch like the Seth Hazlitt I knew and loved. He was absolutely ebullient as he greeted me, took my arm, and guided me outside, where we would be picked up. The weather didn’t match his upbeat mood, however. Dark, low-flying clouds heralded the approach of another storm, and I hoped the party wasn’t planned as an outdoor event.

  “You look splendid,” I said.

  “And you, Jessica, will turn every man’s eye at the party. I have one request.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you ignore my maudlin conversation this afternoon. Don’t know what got into me. You’d think I was one of those morose drunks cryin’ in his beer, but all I had was tea.”

  “As you wish, sir,” I said as the black Mercedes pulled up, manned by our usual escorts.

  “Did you get a good nap in?” I asked after we were settled in the back and on our way to the party.

  “Never took one,” he replied. “Perked up the minute I got in the room. Anxious for you to see Al’s house. It’s really nice, backs right onto the water on Davis Island. He’s got his own dock and boat there, gave me a little tour of the bay last time I was in Tampa.”

  “Have you met others who’ll be there tonight?”

  “Ayuh, a few. Oona Mendez and her disagreeable companion will show, I suppose; probably Al’s son, Xavier—nice young chap, doesn’t say much, a bit of a brooder, if you get my drift, like so many young men these days—and Al’s assistant, Dr. Sardina, I imagine. Oh, and Bernie Peters mentioned on the golf course that he and his wife were invited. I should let you know that Al’s wife, Ivelisse, comes off a little strange now and then.”

  “Strange?”

  “Lovely woman, very gracious, but sometimes she can be, well, ‘scattered’ might be the right term.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  Alzheimer’s naturally crossed my mind, although I didn’t ask. Becoming forgetful isn’t necessarily caused by a disease. How many times lately had I forgotten why I went to another room, or drawn a blank on someone’s name, someone I knew well? I believe it’s called “aging.” Still, my writer’s mind almost always creates scenarios even when none exist. Dr. Vasquez was doing research on Alzheimer’s disease. His wife, according to Seth, was forgetful. Did her husband suspect that his wife might be falling prey to the very illness he was trying to conquer?

  Stop it, Jessica! You’re not creating a plot for a book now.

  Seth’s contagious, upbeat mood continued throughout the drive.

  “That’s Al’s home there,” he said enthusiastically as we turned onto a street called Adalia. We approached an imposing two-story white house with a balcony that ran the length of the second level, and a set of large glass doors leading into the first. As we pulled into the circular driveway, the sound of music with a Latin beat could be heard over the crunch of our tires on the gravel. The car’s door was held open for us as we exited, and we went up a short set of concrete steps to where a large man, also dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie, stood. He recognized Seth and greeted him.

  “This is Mrs. Fletcher,” Seth said.

  “Sí,” the man said. “She is on the list. The guest of honor, in fact.” He gestured at the doors. “Please go in.”

  My mind immediately conjured disturbing reasons for why a party would generate a formal guest list, or need someone to be standing guard at the front door, but I forced the thoughts away, and we went inside. Dr. Vasquez, dressed in a white guayabera trimmed with layers of lace, and a woman I assumed was his wife, Ivelisse, stood in a sizable foyer that was decorated with white-and-black tiles on the floor and a series of vividly colored abstract paintings on the walls. A massive modern chandelier constructed of a maze of burnished brass pipes and a hundred small bulbs was suspended from the ceiling by a thin metal tube. I’d hate to be under it if it fell, I thought.

  Vasquez smiled and stretched out his arms. “Ah, my guest of honor,” he said. “Welcome.” He turned to his wife, a stunning woman with closely cropped white hair who was wearing a silver metallic sleeveless top over tight black pants. “My dear, this is Jessica Fletcher, our honored guest for the evening, and you know Dr. Hazlitt.”

  Mrs. Vasquez smiled sweetly and extended her hand. “It is such a pleasure to have you in our home, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “I’m honored to be here,” I said, “and please call me Jessica.” I cocked my head in the direction of the music, which was louder now. “That music is wonderful.”

  Vasquez laughed and moved his feet to the rhythm. “Ah, they play a guaracha. Cuban musicians,” he said, “very good ones. They did as I did—came to America to get away from Castro and his fascist regime, which frowned on the Creole forms of our popular music. Here, they may play what they like—and what we like. Come, the party has already started.” He took my hand and led us from the foyer into a spacious living room, where the festivities were under way. I took note of large French doors leading out onto a long deck landscaped with flowering plants and potted palm trees, and ending in a dock, where a cabin cruiser could be seen bobbing in the water. Inside, most of the furniture in the living room had been pushed back or removed to accommodate the party, but oversized cubist oil paintings added color to the few spaces along the walls that weren’t covered with floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

  The source of the upbeat tunes was a group of five musicians dressed in colorful flowered shirts earnestly playing the composition I’d heard from the foyer. Two dozen other guests were in the room—stylishly dressed women, and men in what might be called business-casual attire. A couple danced, an
d others cheered them on, clapping hands and occasionally shouting “Olé” as though witnessing a bullfight. The atmosphere was captivating, and I felt myself swaying to the infectious rhythm. I don’t consider myself much of a ballroom dancer, although I do enjoy a turn around a dance floor now and then. My late husband, Frank, was a better dancer than I am and gave me the confidence to try new steps, sometimes successfully, sometimes not, but always enjoyable.

  Vasquez pulled me across the room to where an elderly gentleman sat at a small wooden desk, rolling tobacco into cigars. “This is Adelmo, one of the finest cigar makers in Tampa.”

  “How do you do?” I said.

  The old man rapped his knife on the table but didn’t reply.

  “We bring him here both to entertain our guests and to provide a welcome gift.” Vasquez plucked two of the completed cigars from a box on the desk with a smile. “You will excuse me, Jessica, will you not?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Please take one for Seth,” he said and went through the French doors to the deck, where he was immediately joined by his lab assistant, Dr. Sardina.

  I picked up a cigar but then put it back. If Seth wanted to smoke a cigar, he could come get one himself. I would not encourage a new habit.

  Adelmo looked up at me curiously. Not wanting to appear rude, I asked him, “Are you using Cuban tobacco?”

  “No, señora. One cannot bring Cuban tobacco into this country. But this is very fine Dominican tobacco, and the wrappers are from Connecticut. Perhaps you know this state?”

  My eyebrows rose. “Connecticut? I had no idea tobacco was grown in New England.”

  “Shade tobacco,” he replied, “very much like the Cuban leaf.”

  “Ah, yes, shade tobacco,” said a stout gentleman who joined us at the desk. “Grown in a shed to mimic the Cuban tropical climate,” he said to me. “And how are you tonight, Adelmo?”

  Their conversation allowed me to make a graceful exit, and I rejoined Seth, who was standing with Mrs. Vasquez, her arm linked in his.

  “Do you dance, Dr. Hazlitt?” Ivelisse asked.

  “Not one of my talents,” he replied. “I heard a band like this when I was in Havana. Somebody said it was salsa, but I wouldn’t know one sorta music from another. I thought salsa was something to eat.”

  “I think you are too modest,” she said, and turned to me. “Don’t you agree, señora?”

  “That Seth is modest? Yes, I certainly agree with that.”

  As we stood in the group enjoying the dancers, Oona Mendez, whom I’d met at dinner with her companion Karl Westerkoch, joined us. “Wonderful to see you again,” she said.

  “Likewise. We’re enjoying the music and the dancers.”

  “Cuban music,” she said reverentially. “It is so full of spirit, so joyous, so—so sensual.”

  “Does what they’re playing have a name?” I asked.

  “Son. It means ‘sound’ in Spanish. It is the basis for all Cuban music, the danzón, the habanera, the mambo, and of course salsa.”

  “All I know is that it sounds wonderful,” I said. “Is Mr. Westerkoch here this evening?”

  She pointed across the room, where he stood leaning against a bookcase, a drink in hand, his dour expression testifying to his mood, which was decidedly not a party one.

  A uniformed waiter approached carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres—tiny crab and chicken croquettes accompanied by a silver bowl of hot sauce, sweet peppers filled with mushrooms and ham, and lobster meat on small pieces of flatbread drizzled with pepper aioli.

  “I hope you like things spicy,” Oona said, spearing a croquette with a toothpick.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” I said, “as long as it isn’t too hot.” I tried a flatbread with lobster and assorted spices. “Hmmm,” I said, “just right. Delicious.”

  Ivelisse Vasquez excused herself to greet Bernard Peters and his wife in the foyer. They say that people tend to marry those who look somewhat similar, and that theory held up when it came to Mr. and Mrs. Peters. They were both short and round, her ruddy cheeks matched his, and they were dressed in clothing of the same color. Ivelisse escorted them into the main room and I was introduced to Frances Peters. She greeted Seth with a kiss on the cheek; he’d certainly gotten around and met people during his previous stays in Tampa.

  Mrs. Peters was a cheerful lady who punctuated everything she said with a laugh. Her husband had been good-humored, too, on the golf course, but that certainly wasn’t his demeanor this evening. He gave me a cursory hello and headed straight for the bar, behind which a uniformed gentleman plied his craft.

  “Are you ready for a drink Ju—ah, Jan—Señora Fletcher?” Ivelisse asked.

  “Please call me Jessica,” I said.

  “Thank you, Jessica. We’re serving authentic Cuban mojitos and”—she paused and screwed up her face in thought—“oh, yes, authentic daiquiris.”

  “Daiquiris were Ernest Hemingway’s favorite cocktail. Maybe if I have one, it will help me write like him.”

  Alvaro Vasquez, who’d returned inside, caught the end of the conversation. “Another of your American authors, Norman Mailer, once scolded JFK after the Bay of Pigs disaster. He supposedly told your president that the mistake he’d made was invading a country without understanding its music.”

  “I hadn’t heard that,” I said.

  “Or without understanding one of its favorite cocktails. Come. Enjoy a daiquiri.”

  With that he led me by the hand to the bar, where Westerkoch was getting a refill.

  “Good evening,” I said.

  He mumbled something in return, took his glass from the bartender, and walked away.

  What a strange egg, I thought as Vasquez ordered a daiquiri for me. “Make it especially good for our guest of honor,” he instructed.

  I tasted my drink. It was delicious, although I had the feeling that it would go down too easily and reminded myself to nurse it throughout the evening.

  “I want you to meet someone, Jessica,” Vasquez said, leading me to where a handsome young man stood talking to Pedro Sardina and a lady I would learn was his wife, Ofelia, an attractive, slender young woman with an oval face and sad brown eyes.

  Vasquez didn’t wait for a pause. He cut into their conversation and made the introductions. “And this is my son, Xavier,” he said proudly.

  Xavier, a relatively short man compared to his father and mother, frowned at the interruption but managed a smile for me. “My father has told me a lot about you,” he said.

  “I’m afraid our initial meeting wasn’t an ideal place for me to make a good impression,” I said. “I’m not much of a golfer.”

  “Nonsense,” Dr. Vasquez said. “Give her a few days of practice and she’ll win all the tournaments.”

  “I don’t play golf at all,” Xavier said. “It’s a stupid game.”

  I wasn’t sure that I agreed with his assessment, but I didn’t question it. Nor did his father, who forced a smile.

  “I understand that you live in Tampa,” I said, changing the subject.

  “That’s right, when I’m not in Key West.”

  “Oh? You go there often?”

  “Xavier has a lady friend in Key West,” his father said, “conveniently far away from his parents. Fortunately he has a plane that he can fly to see her.”

  Xavier glared at his father.

  “A plane?” I said. “You’re a pilot?”

  “Yes,” he said, never lowering his gaze from his father.

  “What sort of plane do you fly?” I asked, hoping to move the conversation into a neutral area.

  “A Cessna one-seventy-two, a later model, four-seater.”

  “I ask because I have a private pilot’s license,” I said a bit self-consciously, “although I’m afraid I don’t get to fly very much.” I smiled at t
he Sardinas, whom Vasquez had completely ignored.

  “That’s a shame,” Xavier replied, his attention back on me. “You’ll excuse me, please,” he said, bowing slightly and nodding at the Sardinas. “It was a pleasure.”

  He walked away and I saw dismay on his father’s face.

  “What a handsome young man,” I said to break the tension.

  “He takes after his mother,” Vasquez said.

  An awkward silence ensued.

  “I met your husband at the lab today,” I said to Ofelia. “I’m impressed with the work he and Dr. Vasquez are doing to find a cure for Alzheimer’s disease.”

  “Pedro doesn’t talk much about his work,” she said in a voice so soft that I had to lean closer to hear what she’d said.

  Vasquez laughed. “The best kind of assistant,” he said, nodding at Sardina. “Less talk and more research.”

  “The daiquiri is delicious,” I said, taking a small sip.

  “Don Casimiro classic silver rum,” he said. “Only the best.”

  As the band launched into its next tune, Vasquez once again left my side and strode to where Bernard Peters was engaged in conversation with Oona Mendez.

  “C’mon,” Sardina said to his wife. “I want another drink.”

  “A pleasure meeting you,” I said to Ofelia Sardina.

  She smiled and they walked away.

  Left to my own devices, I sipped my daiquiri and glanced around at the other guests. Despite the pulsating, joyous music, the couples dancing, and the tasty canapés, there was a palpable tension in the room, and it was more than the father-son contretemps. My gaze fell on Ivelisse Vasquez, who stood alone in an alcove and seemed to be in a world apart. Her son, Xavier, had disappeared altogether, and I wondered whether he’d decided that the party, like golf, was “stupid.” I watched as our host escorted a frowning Bernard Peters onto the deck.