Murder, She Wrote: Prescription For Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “The police?” Xavier said. “You never mentioned them.”

  “That’s right,” said Seth, “the same police who’ll see that you pay for your father’s murder.”

  Xavier’s smile grew wide. “Don’t count on it, Dr. Hazlitt. Your police don’t have jurisdiction here in Havana.”

  Rodriguez had picked up the thumb drives and held them as though weighing their contents. “You say that Alvaro’s research led to nothing?” he said.

  “That’s right, Doctor. As much as I hate to admit it, Dr. Vasquez’s work didn’t cast any new light on Alzheimer’s disease. I wish it weren’t so.”

  “Don’t believe him,” Xavier said. “I bet that when you see what’s on those thumb drives, you’ll know that he’s lying.”

  Rodriguez said to the Ministry of the Interior’s representative, “I’ll look at what these devices contain overnight, sir, and report to you in the morning.”

  “What about us?” I asked.

  The ministry official answered, “You must remain overnight until Dr. Rodriguez completes his examination.”

  “In that case, I need to make some calls back home,” I said.

  “That will not be possible,” the ministry official said in a voice that warned arguing with him would be a waste of time.

  Nevertheless, I tried. “There are people who are expecting us to arrive home today,” I said. “They’ll be worried when we don’t show up.”

  “Depending upon what Dr. Rodriguez reports, you may be allowed to use your phone tomorrow. For now, this meeting is ended.” He stood and picked up his briefcase from the floor. “I will expect to hear from you, Dr. Rodriguez, no later than eight o’clock in the morning.”

  Rodriguez was visibly relieved to see the ministry official leave. There was little doubt who was in charge, and I had the sense that the doctor was feeling pressure to come up with something that would please the taciturn government bigwig. “Well,” he said, “there is nothing more to do here except to see that you have a satisfactory dinner and a good night’s sleep.”

  When the limousine pulled up in front of the cabin on the beach, a small white panel truck was also there. A young man wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and smoking a big cigar hopped out and came to where Seth and I stood with Dr. Rodriguez and our military escorts.

  “Your dinner is here,” Rodriguez said. “I took the liberty of ordering for you.”

  The young man removed an insulated box from the truck.

  Rodriguez spoke to him in Spanish, and the driver carried our dinner into the cabin.

  “A hot meal and a bed,” I said with a laugh. “I suppose we should be grateful we’re not in a jail cell.”

  “You have a water view, too,” Rodriguez said, smiling. “I trust the accommodations are satisfactory.”

  “And if they weren’t?” I said half seriously. “Would we be given suites in your best hotel?”

  “I am afraid not,” he replied. “Please, go inside and enjoy your dinner before it gets cold.”

  Seth, who by this time had calmed down, trudged to the cabin.

  “I assume, Mrs. Fletcher, that I needn’t underscore the importance of you and Dr. Hazlitt remaining here for the night,” Rodriguez said. “We will not take it well if you decide to go for a stroll on the beach.”

  He needn’t have bothered to remind me. I was hardly going to plan an escape, not with the armed soldiers in attendance. Even if we had been able to evade their notice, where would we go? We had no access to a vehicle by land, sea, or air. And while we knew we were close to Havana, the nearest American refuge was all the way on the other side of Cuba at the Guantanamo Bay Naval Base.

  “Good night, Dr. Rodriguez,” I said.

  He leaned close to my ear and said, “Believe me, Mrs. Fletcher, this is not how I would have arranged for your visit. Have a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow the sun will shine. It always does in Cuba.”

  Seth had his suitcase open on the bed when I came into the cabin. He grunted. “Nothing seems to be missing.” He turned to me. “Pretty clever of me to keep the thumb drives in my pocket, don’t you think?”

  “I do,” I said. “Thank goodness, too, because they’re our only proof of what took place in Dr. Vasquez’s laboratory. Without them, the Cubans wouldn’t have believed you. I’m sorry to say, though, I doubt if the man from the Ministry of the Interior will let Dr. Rodriguez return them to you after he’s examined them.”

  Seth heaved a great sigh. “You’re probably right. Shame I can’t follow up with my plan to give them to the researchers in Boston. At least Al’s work might have saved someone else from following a wrong turn in the future.”

  I set our dinner out on the desk—slices of pork in a marinade, served over black beans and white rice, lettuce drenched in a tart dressing, and two loaves of bread with olive butter. Also in the box were two slices of key lime pie, and napkins and utensils. The big surprise was a bottle of red wine and two plastic glasses.

  “I suppose we should count our blessings for little things,” I said. “It’s a nice meal.”

  “The least they could do for us.”

  I uncorked the wine, filled the glasses, and held mine up in a toast. “Here’s to our visit to the People’s Republic of Cuba,” I said.

  “Not funny, Jessica.”

  “Better than wallowing in the situation we’re in,” I said. “Come eat. The pork looks good.”

  After dinner I settled in the easy chair and got back to a novel I’d started in Tampa. I’d resolved to try to maintain a sense of humor and to keep things in perspective. There was nothing we could do about our situation, at least not until morning, and that wonderful Serenity Prayer popular with members of sobriety groups came to mind: “Grant me the strength to accept things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

  Seth had moved outside to sit on the porch. When my eyes started to close, I dog-eared the page I was on in the book and joined him. “I’m going to bed,” I said.

  “Seems like a sensible decision,” he said. Then he started laughing.

  “What’s so funny, Seth?”

  He waved his arm at the door. “Here we are about to share a cozy little cabin in Cuba. Can you imagine what those nosey parkers back in Cabot Cove would have to say about that? Mara’s Luncheonette would be buzzing.”

  “It would certainly give them something to gossip about.”

  “Don’t want to give ’em any ammunition. I’ll sleep out here on the porch if you’d like.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “We both need a good night’s sleep. Let’s just not tell them about this part of our adventure. I’ll go inside and wash up, change, climb into bed.”

  “And I’ll be along shortly.”

  I was almost asleep when I heard him come in, use the bathroom, and get into his bed, and I realized how fortunate I was to be in this predicament with someone like Seth Hazlitt. That was my final thought as I drifted off.

  • • •

  To my surprise, I awoke refreshed, having slept solidly. I’d heard Seth get up and shower, and he was on the porch when I emerged dressed and ready for what the day would bring.

  “Good sleep?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact, yes. You?”

  “Not bad, not bad. Wonder what kind of sleep they had.” He tipped his head toward the guards who were sitting on the ground under a tree. “When do you think they’ll be by to get us?”

  “I have no idea.” My watch said eight thirty.

  “Could use some breakfast,” he said, patting his stomach.

  “Blueberry pancakes at Mara’s?”

  “Don’t be cruel, Jessica.”

  The limousine came up the road and pulled to a stop.

  “You both look rested,” Dr. Rodriguez said.

/>   “Dinner was good,” I said.

  “Speaking of that, how about breakfast?” Seth said. “Expect breakfast at a five-star resort like this.”

  “I don’t blame you for being irritable,” Rodriguez said. “Please pack your suitcases and come with me. We have a stop to make, and then we will make sure you don’t go hungry.”

  Seth and I looked at each other. Did packing our bags mean we would be leaving Cuba?

  I asked.

  “Yes, but we have things to do before you go.”

  Since we’d never really unpacked, we were back on the porch within ten minutes. Two soldiers took our luggage and put it in the limo’s trunk as Seth and I got in the back along with Rodriguez. A solitary armed soldier shared the front with the driver.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “To an interview.”

  Interview? I hoped it wasn’t an interrogation.

  “Could we roll down these darkened windows?” I asked.

  “Yes, but why?”

  “So I can at least see something of Havana.”

  “Of course,” he said, and the rear windows were lowered halfway.

  As we drove slowly through the streets, Havana came alive to me. I saw the island’s fabled vintage American automobiles, kept running by ingenious Cuban mechanics; stall after stall of vegetables, fruits, and cigars; uniformed police directing traffic with a flourish; horns blowing in a cacophony of sounds; men, women, and children walking with purpose; street musicians performing for donations; and fascinating buildings, most in desperate need of repair but painted in gaudy island colors, augmented by the strings of laundry drying on the balconies. I was filled with a sense of what a wonderful island this used to be before it fell to Fidel Castro and his Communist leanings. But even though its present-day plight was evident, the spirit of its people was palpable. I wanted to return of my own volition and soak it in.

  Seth, too, responded to the vivid scenes outside our windows. “The Cubans are lovely, warm, and gracious people,” he said. “They couldn’t have been nicer to me and the other physicians that last time I was here. Mind you, I’m not talking about the officials we spent most of our time with, our so-called ‘handlers.’” He glanced at Rodriguez. “No offense,” he said.

  “None taken,” Rodriguez replied.

  “I had a chance to mingle with some of the common folk on the island,” Seth continued. “Despite the lousy situation they’re in thanks to Mr. Castro, they’re filled with pride and optimism that it’ll change one day.”

  Rodriguez cleared his throat.

  “No sense in contradictin’ me,” Seth told him. “That’s what I believe, and you’re not going to convince me otherwise.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Rodriguez said, “but I would suggest perhaps that you refrain from expressing such thoughts at our next meeting.”

  We pulled up in front of the building in the Plaza de la Revolución where we’d been taken the day before. The limousine doors were opened by soldiers, and we stepped out into the bright sunshine. Rodriguez led the way into the building, where we were met in the lobby by a half dozen people, including armed guards in different uniforms from those the soldiers wore, and the same somber representative from the interior ministry we’d met the day before. We were greeted in Spanish and led to a section of the building where security was especially tight; we had to pass through a gauntlet of armed men as we entered a spacious anteroom.

  “Please wait,” the interior ministry official said as he disappeared through a door. A minute later he reappeared and motioned for us to enter.

  The office was huge. Seated behind a massive desk was a man wearing a white suit, white shirt, and white tie with narrow blue stripes. He’d been looking down at papers on his desk through half-glasses. We came to a halt in front of the desk. He looked up, removed his glasses, stood and said, “Buenos días.”

  Rodriguez said, “Dr. Hazlitt and Mrs. Fletcher, may I present to you Señor Raúl Castro, president of the Council of the State of Cuba, and first secretary of the Communist Party.”

  Seth and I were momentarily speechless. President Castro smiled and shook our hands.

  “I have asked that I be allowed to meet you,” he said through an interpreter, “and to address a mistake that has been made. My brother would also be here, but he is busy with other matters.”

  Or too ill to be here, I thought. News of Fidel Castro’s failing health was widely reported, which had led to his brother Raúl taking over the reins of government.

  “Please accept my apology for the inconvenience you have suffered,” the interpreter said after waiting for the president to finish his speech in Spanish. “Sometimes such mistakes are made even when the motivation is pure. I trust that when you return to your United States, you will not look back with too much resentment at what has occurred.” He sat down at his desk again. Our interview was over.

  Seth and I were hurried out of the office and taken downstairs. Once we were back in the limo, Dr. Rodriguez told the driver, “The airport.”

  We stopped in front of Terminal 2, and Rodriguez escorted us inside the cavernous building, where he was greeted by two men in suits. After conferring for a few minutes, Rodriguez and the men led the way to a restaurant with a table far removed from others.

  “Time for your breakfast, Dr. Hazlitt,” Rodriguez said. “My apologies that you had to wait.”

  “You folks sure do things different here in Cuba,” Seth told Rodriguez as he finished up a platter of eggs, bacon, and Cuban bread, which I’d grown to love. “You kidnap us, then you bring us to meet your leader and buy us a big breakfast.”

  “It is the least we can do,” he said. “But as President Castro said, sometimes mistakes are made even with the best of intentions.”

  “That doesn’t excuse the fact that—”

  I nudged Seth under the table. This was no time to get into an argument.

  Rodriguez gave us back our cell phones. “You are scheduled to leave in one hour,” he said. “We have a plane reserved only for you, and all clearances have been obtained from your government and air traffic control to fly to Tampa.”

  “I hope it’s bigger than that puddle jumper we flew in to get here,” Seth grumbled.

  “It is.” Rodriguez’s smile faded. “Before you go, I must take a moment to explain something to you. While I was charged with the assignment of learning what progress Dr. Alvaro Vasquez had made in his research, I never once considered that he would be killed. Xavier Vasquez is employed by the Ministry of the Interior, and I was told to use him as a means of determining the status of his father’s work. Unfortunately, the young man had his own agenda. He had access to scientists in the interior ministry and was able to obtain the lethal poison he used to murder his father. He and Dr. Sardina conspired to steal his father’s laptop, which, as you know, contained nothing.”

  “Al must have suspected something was up when he stripped the hard drive from his computer,” Seth said.

  “That’s probably when he wrote you the letter saying where the thumb drives could be found,” I put in.

  “When you informed Xavier about the drives, he decided to bring the two of you to Havana at gunpoint,” Rodriguez said. “He is a foolish, brash young man who does not represent me or the Cuban government. He took for granted that bringing you here would make him heroic in our eyes, that he was doing something good for the Cuban people. Instead, he has embarrassed me and all my people. Believe me, President Castro does not often apologize—to anyone!”

  “Xavier is a murderer,” Seth said. “He has to pay for his crime.”

  “I’m sure the Ministry of the Interior will have something to say to him.”

  “That’s not enough!”

  “What about his sister, Maritza?” I asked.

  “I don’t know who will undertake to discipline M
aritza Vasquez.” He looked at Seth. “You know she is a very talented medical student.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Seth replied.

  Rodriguez shook his head regretfully. “Her place in the university was in jeopardy when her parents defected. I often wondered if they realized the pressure put upon their children by their decision to leave.”

  “Is she still in medical school?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. She managed to convince the authorities that her loyalty lay with Cuba, not with her mother and father. I believe it is she who introduced her brother to the idea of using a powerful poison to take their father’s life.”

  “What a calamity for the Vasquez family,” I said. “The children conspire to kill their father and leave a mother struggling with the disease he was trying to cure. Poor woman.”

  “Perhaps Ivelisse will be fortunate enough not to comprehend all that has taken place,” Rodriguez said. “But come. Your plane home is waiting.”

  The plane that would take us back to Tampa and the United States was, as Rodriguez had promised, larger than Xavier Vasquez’s Cessna 172. It was a vintage Russian-built twin-engine piston-prop Ilyushin 11-14 that had probably been built in the 1950s to replace America’s workhorse DC-3. A pilot and copilot greeted us from the cockpit as we boarded and took two of the eighteen vacant seats.

  “You sure this thing will fly?” Seth asked Rodriguez.

  He laughed. “It hasn’t crashed yet,” he replied. As he shook our hands, he said, “One last favor.”

  “Yes?”

  “You will undoubtedly be asked by many about your unexpected stay here in Cuba. All I ask is that you report that you were treated with dignity while here as our accidental guests.”

  “Accidental?” Seth said. “I’d hardly call being kidnapped and threatened an ‘accident.’”

  I quickly said, “We will report that considering the circumstances, you did all you could to provide for us.”

  “Buen viaje,” he said. “Spanish for have a good trip.”

  “Gracias,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said, “please remember me to Ivelisse Vasquez. A lovely woman. I am afraid that her deteriorating condition was very much behind Alvaro’s interest in Alzheimer’s disease, and perhaps why he felt he needed to leave Cuba to continue his research in the United States. Adiós, my new amigos.”