Free Murder, She Wrote: Prescription for Murder by Jessica Fletcher

know whether any individual has left the party?”
    Nervous looks were cast among the guests.
    Seth spoke up. “I think we’re all confused why the police have been summoned,” he said. “I’m a physician. Mrs. Fletcher and I were—”
    “Who’s Mrs. Fletcher?”
    “I am,” I said. “Dr. Hazlitt and I saw what happened to Dr. Alvaro. He was—”
    “I’d like you two to wait over there,” the detective said, pointing to the bar area.
    “I don’t understand why—”
    I cut Seth off and urged him to accompany me to where the detective had indicated.
    We sat on the two barstools and watched and listened as the detectives obtained the guest list from the security guard and began asking questions of the others. They were interrupted by the arrival of an elderly man.
    “Hi, Doc,” one of the detectives greeted the new arrival, who ignored the detective and went to the side of the gurney, pulled back the tarp to reveal Vasquez’s face, grunted, and covered him again. He waved his hand and the EMTs wheeled the body of Dr. Alvaro Vasquez outside.
    The heavy detective guided the man called “Doc” to where Seth and I waited.
    “I understand you’re a physician,” the older officer said to Seth.
    “That’s right. Seth Hazlitt, MD, of Cabot Cove, Maine. And this is Jessica Fletcher, the mystery writer. We—she and I—witnessed what happened to Dr. Vasquez. And I administered CPR, unsuccessfully, as you see, until the ambulance arrived. And you are?”
    The police officer answered. “Detective Machado, Tampa PD. This is Dr. San Martín, Hillsborough County ME. We got the call that there was an emergency at Dr. Vasquez’s home.”
    I suppose my puzzled expression asked the question,
Why would the police be called?
    Machado picked up on it and answered. “Dr. Vasquez is a well-known person in Tampa. We’re always called in on cases like this.”
    Now I understood. The police aren’t routinely called to the scene of what appears to be a death by natural causes or an act of nature. But when a leading citizen, particularly one who is newsworthy and perhaps controversial, is involved, the police naturally take an interest. So does the local medical examiner.
    “We’ll do an autopsy, of course,” Dr. San Martín said. “Is the victim’s wife here?”
    “I believe that one of the household help took her away, probably to her bedroom,” I said. “She was in shock, as you can imagine.”
    “His son, Xavier, is here,” Seth added. He scanned the room. “But I don’t see him at the moment. He’s probably with his mother.”
    Dr. San Martín pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to Seth. “I’m leaving with the body, but I would like to speak with you about what you saw. Will you be staying in Tampa?”
    “Ayuh, at least for a few days.”
    “Maybe you’d be good enough to call me in the morning so that we can arrange a time to get together.”
    “I’ll do that,” Seth said.
    The doctor started to leave, turned, and said to Seth, “One of the EMTs told me that you said the victim had been struck by lightning.”
    “Just an assumption on my part,” Seth said. “We saw the bolt of lightning. It appeared that he had been hit, but I’m sure your autopsy will confirm or deny it.”
    “Yes, I’m sure it will,” San Martín said. “Another lightning victim,” he muttered more to himself than to us. “Welcome to Florida.”

Chapter Seven
     
    T he two detectives asked everyone to provide their names and contact information before leaving. One guest protested. “This is an intrusion into our privacy,” he proclaimed. “We’re guests at a party where the host was unfortunately struck by lightning and died. You have no right to ask for personal information. You’re treating us as though a crime has been committed.”
    Detective Machado politely explained that it was routine to collect information about the people who are present when an unusual death occurs. Although his