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

Vasquez’s death. They’d not only been friends of sorts, but Peters and his company, K-Dex, had lost perhaps their only lifeline to solvency, based upon what Seth had told me of the company’s shaky financial status.
    “Will you be staying in Tampa?” Frances Peters asked.
    “For a little while,” I said.
    Seth came up and offered his condolences. His arrival seemed to prompt Peters into a more animated state. He got up and said, “You were extremely close to Alvaro.”
    “I wouldn’t say extremely close,” Seth said, “but we did get along. I considered him a friend.”
    Peters led Seth a few feet away and said in a low voice, but not so low that I couldn’t hear him, “I would like very much to talk with you.”
    “Of course, whenever it’s convenient for you,” Seth replied.
    “Tomorrow? At Alvaro’s laboratory?”
    Remembering his promise to meet with the medical examiner, Seth said, “I suspect that will be all right, only I might have another appointment. How about you call me at the hotel, and—”
    Peters interrupted Seth with, “Dr. Sardina. He’s gone?”
    Seth shrugged.
    “Have you see Dr. Sardina?” Peters asked me.
    “Earlier in the evening,” I said, “with his wife.”
    Peters’s expression turned grim.
    Seth repeated his suggestion that Peters call him at the hotel, and we went to the foyer, where the two men who’d driven us sat on a bench.
    “We’d like to go back to the hotel,” Seth said.
    They slowly got up, and one opened the front door.
    “Wait just a second,” I said.
    “What are you doing, Jessica?” Seth asked.
    “Just be a moment,” I said as I went back through the living room, pausing only to grab the plastic bag I’d stashed on the bookshelf. I opened it, checking to see that my blouse and the paper-wrapped cigar were still inside, and retraced my steps in the direction of the foyer, where Seth had observed what I’d done. He looked at me quizzically but said nothing until we were back at the hotel, where after changing into dry clothes, we settled in the lounge. Seth had a beer and I indulged in a glass of sherry. I’d barely touched my daiquiri at the party.
    The upset of having just witnessed Dr. Vasquez’s sudden death had set in, and we said little for a while, each of us immersed in our private thoughts. I ached for Seth at that moment. I knew how important his recently forged friendship with Vasquez was to him, and I wondered whether he would give vent to his emotions. Not that I expected it. He has a hard shell that he uses to mask his feelings, although they sometimes manage to slip through the cracks.
    “I’d like to visit Ivelisse again while we’re still here in Tampa,” he said.
    “I’m sure she’d appreciate that.”
    “I can’t begin to imagine what this means for his research.”
    “I suppose it depends upon how far along he was and to what extent his assistant can carry on.”
    He grunted his agreement, took a sip of his beer, and said, “Hate to be nosy, Jessica, but what did you have in that plastic bag?”
    “My wet blouse, for one thing,” I said. “You didn’t seem to have noticed that I was wearing a waitress’s jacket. Tomorrow I should make arrangements to return it to the company.”
    “I noticed. Thought it was very clever of you to have found dry clothes. Anything else?”
    I laid the paper-wrapped cigar on the table and unfolded it. “I know,” I said, “it doesn’t make sense, but I couldn’t help myself.”
    “I’ve heard that from you before. But why? No need for you to go around pickin’ up cigar butts. Happy to buy you a brand-new one.”
    “Oh, Seth, you know it’s nothing like that. It’s just that . . . well . . . it was strange that the waitress came outside to retrieve it at Ivelisse’s direction. Plus, it didn’t look like the sort of cigar I’d seen Dr. Vasquez smoke earlier.”
    Seth examined it more closely. “Al didn’t get to smoke much of it before he got hit,” he