Murder, She Wrote: Prescription For Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  I pondered that as I made my way to the covered patio off the restaurant, took a table, and ordered an iced tea. It had turned into a lovely morning, the sun bright, the gentle breeze bracing. The deck was on a canal in which a number of expensive yachts were secured to floating docks, and I enjoyed watching the passing of a variety of small crafts as I sipped my tea.

  Reflections on our golf outing soon gave way to thoughts of Dr. Vasquez and Seth’s involvement with him, and I found myself becoming a little uncomfortable. Don’t ask me to explain my feelings, because I’d be unable to point to anything tangible. Maybe it was Vasquez’s defection from his homeland that added an unusual dimension to the situation. I also wondered about the relationship between Vasquez and Bernard Peters, CEO of K-Dex, the company financing Vasquez’s research. The amount of money being put up was obviously substantial. Of course medical research is expensive, and probably as speculative as the stock market for those investing in it. But clearly Vasquez was living the high life, presumably on Mr. Peters’s dime, as the saying goes, and I’d detected a certain disdain on Vasquez’s part when referring to his benefactor.

  Stop questioning everything, Jessica, I chided myself. You’re in Tampa for a week of relaxation, a peaceful respite before returning to Cabot Cove and the hectic pace of the holiday season.

  Relax!

  Stop looking for intrigue.

  Just sit back and enjoy this trouble-free week.

  Chapter Four

  The same two gentlemen in black suits picked us up in the limo to deliver us to Dr. Vasquez’s laboratory. As in the morning, they said nothing, simply nodded as we approached the car, held open the door, closed it, and drove off. While they weren’t what you would call discourteous, their demeanor was disconcerting, and I wondered what their role in Vasquez’s life was. Were they simply from a service hired for the occasion of Seth’s and my visit? Or were they employees of our host or of his benefactor, on permanent duty at the disposal of Dr. Vasquez? The few words I’d heard them speak were in Spanish. It would be interesting if their lineage was Cuban, since they worked for a Cuban American physician. But there were many Hispanic citizens in Tampa, from an array of countries. And why would it be significant if they were Cuban? I asked myself.

  My musings were interrupted by our arrival at the laboratory, a nondescript pale blue one-story building not far from an airport (the sounds of planes taking off and landing confirmed that). While one of the limo drivers opened the car door for us, the other went to the building and punched a code into a box next to the heavy white metal door. A male voice was heard through a tiny speaker. The man in black responded in Spanish. Moments later the sound of some sort of security bars being disengaged could be heard before the door opened and a young man wearing a white lab coat over street clothes stood in the entryway.

  “Hello,” he said as we approached. He looked at Seth and said, “Welcome back, Dr. Hazlitt.”

  “Hello, Dr. Sardina,” Seth said.

  “And you are Mrs. Fletcher,” the young man said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Pedro Sardina, Dr. Vasquez’s assistant. He’s waiting for you.” Pedro Sardina looked as if he’d spent all of his life inside the laboratory. Of medium height, with a pale complexion, he had prematurely thinning black hair and wore large, thick glasses. The pockets of his lab coat were bulging with items he’d stuffed there and probably forgotten. And a plastic protector in his breast pocket appeared to have been an afterthought, since faint ink stains were visible along the bottom seam.

  Once we were inside, Dr. Sardina secured heavy metal bars across the door and reactivated the security system by coding in numbers on a panel.

  I said the first thing that came to mind: “It certainly is well protected here.”

  Sardina smirked. “Security is important,” he said as he indicated that we were to follow him down a short corridor. The hum of a motor grew louder as we approached the door at the end of the hallway, where he again entered a code.

  “Pedro?” Vasquez’s voice asked through the speaker.

  “Yes.”

  The now familiar sound of a bar being raised was heard, and the door opened.

  “Ah, I am so pleased you’ve arrived,” Vasquez said, beaming. He, too, wore a white lab coat, over a blue shirt and tie and gray slacks. “Come in, come in.”

  I don’t know what it was that I expected, but somehow the lab didn’t match my vision. It was modern, certainly, but rather small. On one wall, white cabinetry was topped with a long green glass counter on which sat a few machines, their functions unknown to me. Above, a stainless-steel shelf held colorful bottles of fluids, which I assumed were chemicals; they were unlabeled. Also on the shelf were boxes of latex gloves, cotton face masks, and containers of antibacterial wipes. On the opposite wall, a bank of three computers, each on a rolling stand, sat next to another cart holding an elaborate maze of interconnected wires snaking out from what looked like an oversized microwave oven. A sanitary hood—at least that’s what I think it’s called—was tucked in a corner. The hum we’d heard in the hall, which must have been some kind of ventilation system, was close to a roar in the lab. Since there were no windows or skylights—no natural light at all—overhead fixtures gave the room an eerie glow. Could a cure for Alzheimer’s disease actually come out of this modest facility? Evidently Vasquez and his backers at K-Dex thought it could.

  Sardina closed the door and lowered the bar behind us, its clang jarring in the confined space.

  “Like Fort Knox,” Seth said with a chuckle.

  “A necessary precaution,” said Vasquez.

  “Why is so much security necessary?” I asked.

  “Jessica,” Seth said in a disapproving tone. Clearly he didn’t want me to challenge Dr. Vasquez in any way.

  “No, no, my friend,” Vasquez said to Seth. “She may ask whatever questions she likes, although”—he wagged a finger at me—“I may not always answer.” He led us around a large table to where Dr. Sardina had settled on a high stool and was peering into a powerful microscope.

  “Security is necessary because I have, unfortunately, made enemies in my defection from Cuba, enemies who would like nothing more than to discredit my research and to find a way to contaminate my results. By restricting access to the lab, we know who has been here and we can account for their time and actions. I am assuming my work is safe in your hands, señora, is it not?”

  “Absolutely!” Seth inserted.

  “Of course,” I said, smiling. I cocked my head at his assistant. “What is Dr. Sardina looking at?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t being unduly intrusive.

  “The latest result of an experiment we’ve been conducting for the past month,” Vasquez responded. “Tell me, Jessica, what crops do you immediately think of when I mention Cuba?”

  I hadn’t expected to be quizzed, and I laughed. “Well,” I said, “since Seth has visited Cuba, I think of cigars. Tobacco. And . . . well, sugar, I suppose.”

  “Excelente,” Vasquez said, reverting to his native language. “Yes, sugar, Cuba’s most famous and lucrative crop. Sugar thrives in Cuba as in no other place in the world. Its soil is limestone and goes deep into the ground, as deep as seven meters, ideal for growing sugar; as much as eight million tons are produced each year. The sugar harvest, the zafra, from November through June, is a cause for celebration in Cuba. The macheteros, the harvesters with their machetes, work round the clock to feed the world’s love affair with sweetness. Of course, tobacco, as you point out, is also important to my country’s well-being. Enough tobacco to make eighty million cigars is harvested each year. Impressive, yes?”

  “I suppose so,” I said, “but what do sugar and tobacco have to do with your research on Alzheimer’s disease?”

  Vasquez looked to Seth and said, “Your lovely friend asks many good questions.”

  “Ayuh, that she does,” Seth
concurred happily.

  “Sugar,” Vasquez said as though pondering the meaning of it. “Glucose. I don’t wish to bore you with a lot of big medical words, Jessica, but glucose—sugar—plays a vital part in not only our entire body, but is especially important to the brain. It is widely known that people with diabetes have a greater propensity to develop Alzheimer’s. It is also known that the brain is the primary consumer of glucose—as much as two-thirds of all glucose circulating in the body goes to the brain. Glucose is the major fuel for our cells, including those in the brain. As our bodies ingest glucose from the foods we eat, insulin must be released from the pancreas to keep the glucose level in check. But many, including diabetics, become what is called ‘insulin resistant,’ which means, of course, that the glucose is allowed to build up. The result? Diabetes. And, I am convinced, Alzheimer’s disease.” He laughed. “Am I becoming too technical for you?”

  “Not at all,” I said, “although I’m sure your research delves into the subject at far greater depth.”

  “Yes, of course. There is much more to it. Let me just say that the role that glucose plays in how brain cells use sugar and produce energy might well be at the root of Alzheimer’s, especially in how it enables the development of beta-amyloid peptides, and protein strands called ‘tau,’ or tangles that are common with Alzheimer’s patients.”

  “Now you’ve lost me,” I said.

  Vasquez turned to Seth and tapped him on the shoulder. “My colleague here knows what I am talking about.”

  Seth nodded. “Course, I’m not nearly as knowledgeable as Al is, but I do understand the underlying theory of what he’s trying to accomplish. If he can establish a direct link between glucose—simple sugar—and the development of plaque in the brain that’s synonymous with Alzheimer’s disease, and can come up with a way to counter insulin resistance, it could lead to a cure.”

  I asked the obvious next question. “How close are you to accomplishing those things?”

  “That, my dear lady, must remain a secret known only to me until I am ready to announce it to the world.”

  I immediately thought of Bernard Peters of K-Dex, the man and the company investing in Vasquez’s work. Did Vasquez keep from Peters the progress he’d made—or hadn’t made?

  As I debated asking that question, Vasquez said, “My dear friend Bernie Peters is always asking me for an update on how the research is going, but he knew from the first day that I would not provide him or anyone else with regular progress reports. He expresses his unhappiness with this arrangement, but . . . Well, let me just say that he must live with it.”

  I thought to myself that were I Peters, I, too, would be unhappy being deprived of regular progress reports. How much was Vasquez’s research costing Peters and K-Dex? It had to be in the millions. It was also obvious that K-Dex’s money was not only going to supporting the lab and the research; it was fueling a lavish lifestyle for the researcher.

  Vasquez commented while laughing, “Of course, I give Bernie an update now and then just to keep him happy and to keep the funds coming.”

  Sardina looked up from the microscope and winced, an expression that clearly said that he did not share in Vasquez’s humor.

  Vasquez took us on a tour of two other rooms in the laboratory complex. In one, an empty animal cage sat on the counter.

  “We are anticipating a delivery of SCID mice—mice specially bred for medical research,” he said.

  I said nothing, but privately I thought, I’m glad they’re not here now. There was no way I would get into a debate on the merits of animal research—I had neither the experience nor the expertise to take up the cudgels in that argument—but personally I hated to see any animal, specially bred or not, made to suffer even if humankind benefited as a whole. Seth would disagree, I knew, but I couldn’t help my feelings.

  “Are you the only tenant of this building?” I asked.

  “Yes. Bernie leased it in its entirety for me. I insisted that be the case when I agreed to continue my research here in the States. It’s a small building, as you can see, but it is adequate to the task. Once we are to the level that demands a larger, more sophisticated space, we’ll deal with it then.”

  We ended our tour in a small office at the rear of the building permeated by the odor of cigar smoke.

  “Join me?” Vasquez asked as he removed one of his large black cigars from an elaborately decorated case he drew from his shirt pocket. He cocked his head and said, “It is not unheard of for ladies to partake in cigars, you know.”

  Seth, bless him, sensed my unease and said, “I think we’d better be getting back, Al.”

  “As you wish. The evening is shaping up nicely at the house. Ivelisse has things under control, although she has plenty of help.”

  Sardina showed us out, and we were driven back to the hotel, where a tea service was under way. “I’d love a cup,” I said with a sigh as I sank into an upholstered wing chair near a window overlooking a tropical garden.

  “Well, Jessica. You’ve been keeping me guessing. What did you think?” Seth asked as we were served tiny tea sandwiches, pastries, and a steaming pot of tea.

  “About Dr. Vasquez?”

  “Of course about Dr. Vasquez. Who have we been spending the last few hours with?”

  “And most of the day,” I murmured to myself, taking a sip of my tea.

  “C’mon, woman. What are you dillying about?”

  “Well,” I said, “I find him to be charming, dynamic, and good-looking, but maybe a little too much of each.”

  Seth’s expression mirrored his surprise at my comment.

  “He’s too good-looking? Never heard anyone complain about that.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I said. “He’s a perfectly wonderful host, and I certainly admire the work he’s doing. If he succeeds in helping conquer Alzheimer’s disease, it will be a monumentally important gift to mankind, and womankind, too. He’ll probably receive a Nobel Prize.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Seth, popping a salmon sandwich into his mouth. “I feel privileged to have been taken into his confidence.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “You share his obvious love of medicine and medical research, and as he says, you level with him.”

  “Try to.”

  “So let me ask you, is he as far along in his research as he wants others to believe? I’m referring specifically to Mr. Peters at K-Dex.”

  “You sound suspicious, Jessica.”

  “Nothing of the sort. It’s just that I have trouble getting my head around his extreme secrecy, especially with the man who is making it all possible by funding the research.”

  Seth shrugged, bit down on a tiny cucumber sandwich, and took a sip of tea before responding. “He told you why he needs the security. You know it must be very embarrassing to the Castro regime to have lost such a shining light in medical research to the U.S. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if they made efforts to break into the lab and steal his work,” he said. “As for K-Dex, I understand the company was struggling before hooking up with Al. It had a series of setbacks, promising drugs failing to pass FDA muster, the sort of situations that plague all pharmaceuticals. From what I’ve been able to glean, Al’s work generated a fresh influx of investors and could make the difference between K-Dex surviving or going under.”

  “And so Mr. Peters is desperate enough to allow Dr. Vasquez to proceed on his own terms.”

  Seth hesitated before saying, “I suppose you could put it that way.”

  “From what you’ve told me, Dr. Vasquez’s work in Cuba was pretty far along.”

  “Call him Al. He prefers it. I’d say that your assessment of his work in Cuba is accurate, at least based upon what he’s shared with me.”

  I chose a salmon sandwich.

  “I was surprised at how small the lab is and that Al has only on
e assistant,” I said. “It seems to me that research on something as daunting as Alzheimer’s would—well, would demand a much larger lab and staff.”

  “It’s the size of the man’s brain, Jessica, not the size of his laboratory that counts,” Seth said rather sharply.

  I fell silent for a time and concentrated on what was left of the sandwiches and pastries.

  “Something bothering you?” Seth asked.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “I guess I’m accustomed to you being more skeptical. It’s one of your curmudgeonly traits I most admire. But here you seem to have what might be termed blind faith in what Al is doing, the way Mr. Peters must or seems to.”

  I checked his face for a sign of annoyance. Instead, he appeared to be hurt. I quickly added, “I don’t mean to disparage your belief in him, Seth, but—well, it’s not like you to accept on the surface whatever someone tells you.”

  Which was true. For as long as I’ve known Seth Hazlitt, he’s been a man who seldom takes others at face value. Not that he’s unduly suspicious or dismissive of what others say, but he’s quick to cast a critical eye on claims without confirming backup.

  He sat back and gazed out the window, as though peering into another world that only he could see. When he finally turned back to me he asked, “Have you ever wanted to be someone else, Jessica?”

  I pondered the question. “I don’t think so,” I said. “There are plenty of people that I admire, but wanting to be them? No, I can’t think of anyone at the moment.”

  “I admire that,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because it means you’re supremely contented with who you are and what you’ve done with your life.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I believe I am.” I paused before adding, “Aren’t you?”

  “I suppose I am for the most part, but when I was a young man coming out of medical school, I had visions of making a big breakthrough in science, dreamt of coming up with a cure for cancer or heart disease, doing something monumental to benefit society.”

  “And that’s exactly what you do,” I said. “How many people in Cabot Cove owe their lives to you? How many mothers have healthy children because Dr. Seth Hazlitt was there to deliver their babies and see them through illness?”