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

demeanor was nonthreatening, his steely expression said something else. The man reluctantly gave his name, as well as his phone number, and left. The other guests followed suit.
    While Machado’s younger partner went outside to the deck and did a cursory examination of where Vasquez had fallen, Machado returned to where Seth and I still sat at the small bar.
    “The ME says he’ll be speaking with you tomorrow,” he told Seth.
    “That’s right,” Seth said.
    “Maybe you can tell me what you witnessed. It’s
Dr.
Hazlitt, right?”
    “That’s right. Mrs. Fletcher here and I are from Maine. I’m here in Tampa visiting Dr. Vasquez, and Mrs. Fletcher decided to join me for a week. She’d been on a tour promoting her latest book.”
    “You’re a writer?” he asked, eyeing my white uniform jacket. He must have assumed I was one of the staff serving the party.
    “Yes. I write murder mysteries.”
    That brought a smile to his face. “You write about murders and I investigate them.”
    He and Seth talked for a few more minutes, and I took the time to sum up the homicide detective. I judged him to be in his mid- to late forties. He had a dusky complexion—I guessed that he might have a Hispanic background—and bore the remnants, albeit faint, of boyhood acne. He wasn’t someone that I would term outgoing, but there was an openness that was appealing.
    He eventually turned his attention to me. “Did you observe anything strange at the party, Mrs. Fletcher?”
    “Strange? In what sense?”
    “I’m not suggesting anything. However, when someone of Dr. Vasquez’s stature dies suddenly, we need to cover all the bases.”
    “Of course,” I said. “No, nothing strange happened at the party.” I wondered whether the unsubstantiated tense feeling that I’d experienced was worth mentioning and decided it wasn’t.
    Seth looked past me and said, “Here’s Dr. Vasquez’s son, Xavier.”
    “How’s your mother?” Seth asked when the young man reached us.
    “Resting,” he said.
    “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said touching his arm.
    He looked down at my hand, and I withdrew it immediately.
    Detective Machado introduced himself and asked a few questions, which elicited nothing of interest as far as I could tell. When he asked Xavier the same question that he’d asked me—had he noticed anything strange that evening—the son replied, “It’s always strange around here. If you don’t have anything else to ask me, I’d like to get back to my mother.”
    “Sure,” Machado said, and handed Xavier his card. He also handed one to Seth and said, “I doubt if I’ll have anything else to ask you, Doctor, but give me a call if you think of something.”
    “Ayuh, I’ll do that.”
    The departure of the body of Alvaro Vasquez, the EMTs, the ME, and the two detectives created a vacuum of sorts in the large room, like the air had been sucked out of it. Most of the guests had decamped, but Seth and I remained, together with Oona Mendez, Karl Westerkoch, Bernard Peters, and his wife, Frances. The band had finished packing up its instruments and departed. Two waitresses scurried about picking up plates and glasses, tossing anxious looks at the remaining guests as they ferried serving pieces to the kitchen.
    Peters sat alone in a red leather wing chair, staring straight ahead, his hands outstretched as though asking for wisdom from an unseen source. His wife, Frances, stood next to him, her hand to her mouth—seemingly stifling a scream or a moan.
    I leaned close to Seth and said, “I think we should go.”
    He nodded and stood.
    We made the rounds of the remaining guests. Oona Mendez and Karl Westerkoch sat together on a couch. She said she hoped to see us again; he said nothing, simply nodded. I approached Bernard and Frances Peters. “This must be a dreadful shock to you,” I said to him.
    “Unbelievable,” he said. “How could this have happened?”
    I understood why he would be especially shaken by