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

other questions on my mind at that moment, all of them pertaining to why a businessman like Bernard Peters would enter into such a loose and problematic business arrangement with Vasquez. Of course, there undoubtedly were legal documents cementing Peters’s interest in Vasquez’s work. At least I hoped there were, for his sake.
    “Have you gone to the house to see if the laptop is there?” I asked.
    “I called and spoke to Al’s daughter, Maritza.”
    “She’s here?” Seth said.
    “She just arrived from Cuba.”
    It had been in the back of my mind that the Vasquezes’ daughter had not accompanied her parents to Tampa. I remembered a conversation Seth and I had had shortly after we’d learned that Al had asked the United States for asylum.
    “The newspaper said that both he and his wife defected,” I’d said. “Do they have any children?”
    “Oh, they do,” Seth had replied, “a son and a daughter. I met them when I was in Cuba.”
    “They didn’t defect?”
    Seth had hesitated before answering, and I’d wondered why.
    “It’s a bone of contention with Al and his wife,” he’d finally said. “Really none of my business. His son came to the States more than a year ago, which didn’t sit well with his folks. The daughter is in medical school and refused to leave Havana. You know how families can be. Kids have minds of their own.”
    “Where does his son live?” I’d asked.
    “In Tampa. He’d gone to Miami from Cuba, according to Al, but moved to Tampa not long after he arrived in the States. I imagine that played a role in Al’s decision to settle there.”
    “So the parents and son are reunited,” I’d said.
    “Seems so,” Seth had said. “I’m sure that pleases Al and his wife.”
    “I would imagine it does,” I had replied at the time.
    But the prickly relationship between father and son that I had witnessed at the party made me wonder whether Al had regretted moving to live near his offspring. Perhaps the decision had been made because Ivelisse was close to her son, but choosing to live near one child came at a cost. Her daughter had remained in Cuba. The Vasquezes had never returned to their homeland. How long had it been since they’d seen Maritza?
    “What did you say to Maritza?” I asked Peters.
    “I expressed my condolences, of course, and I asked whether I could come to examine some of Al’s belongings but didn’t get anywhere. She said that her mother was in no condition to have visitors and that I should call back in a day or two.”
    Peters was obviously distraught, and I wasn’t sure we should go through with plans to have lunch with him, but he settled it when he said, “Look, I have to cancel our lunch plans. I’m meeting with my attorneys to see if they can come up with a way to untangle this mess. If we can’t, the company stands to go under. We’ll do it another time.”
    “Of course,” Seth said.
    Peters went to his car and drove off, leaving us to decide what to do next.
    “I suppose we should go back inside and talk to Dr. Sardina,” I suggested.
    Sardina was still at the computer when we walked in.
    “Hope we’re not disturbing anything important,” Seth said.
    Sardina looked up and shook his head.
    “Mr. Peters has left,” I said.
    “Good,” was Sardina’s reply.
    “We were talking about Dr. Vasquez’s laptop computer, the one he used to keep track of progress,” I said. “Did you help him input lab results?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
    A rare laugh came from him. “Me? I think he would have chopped off my arm if he’d seen me go near that laptop.”
    “He let me take a look a few times,” Seth offered.
    “I know,” Sardina said. “He evidently trusted you more than he trusted me.”
    His bitterness was palpable.
    “I’m sure he trusted you,” I said. “After all, you worked side by side with him every day.”
    “Need to know,” Sardina said. “That was his favorite saying, need to know. He told me just enough