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Authors: Jessica Fletcher
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an ambulance?” I asked Xavier.
He ran back inside the house.
One of the waitstaff who’d passed hors d’oeuvres came to where Seth labored over the still lifeless body. She popped open a large black umbrella, which provided some protection from the elements, and passed it to me.
“Is he dead?” I asked Seth.
“I can’t get a pulse, but I’m going to keep trying.” Seth’s face was red from the exertion, but he refused to stop his lifesaving efforts, even when another guest offered to take over.
“Come on, Al, breathe,” Seth exhorted. “You can’t die. You have too much important work to do. The world needs you. Ivelisse needs you. Xavier needs you. Pedro Sardina can’t do it alone. Breathe, man, breathe.”
“Another umbrella,” I shouted at those standing at the French doors.
One of the security men heeded the call and brought a second one; between the two of us, we managed to shield Seth and the still unresponsive Vasquez from becoming further drenched.
Seth looked up at me. “Get inside, Jessica. No point in you getting soaked, too. Nothing you can do here. Where is that ambulance?”
I glanced behind me. The party guests were grouped around the glass panels watching the drama on the deck. Then Ivelisse prodded one of the waitstaff, who pushed opened a door. The waitress took a tentative step on the wet deck and then darted forward to retrieve the cigar Vasquez had tossed aside when he’d been struck down. She placed the cigar butt on a plate and returned inside.
A moment later, the second security man emerged from inside. “The ambulance is on its way.”
“Thank goodness,” I said, handing him my umbrella. “Please keep them as dry as possible,” I said.
Someone opened a door for me and I entered the house, sopping wet and shivering against the clammy feeling of my clothes on my skin. People moved back away from the doors and gathered in small knots, speaking in low tones. I looked around for Ivelisse but didn’t see her.
“What happened, Mrs. Fletcher?” a guest asked.
“I’m not certain, but he may have been hit by lightning.”
“Is he—?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. Dr. Hazlitt is doing everything he can. Tell me, do you know which way the kitchen is?”
He pointed and I followed his direction down a short hallway until I reached an ultramodern kitchen with a wall of identical cabinets with invisible pulls. A large marble-topped island dominated the center of the room, and I spotted the plate with the cigar butt sitting next to a stack of dishes waiting to be washed. Several of the waitstaff—those who weren’t still in the living room—huddled around the island, apparently not sure what they should be doing. One fellow, seeing my doused state, jumped forward with a roll of paper towels. “Can I get you something else, madam?”
“Not unless you have a spare uniform I can put on in place of these wet clothes,” I said.
“I’m sure we can find something for you,” he said. “Beatriz,” he called to a waitress, who hurried to a large case left on the side of the room.
I tore off two of the paper towels, wiped my face, and when no one was looking, swiftly folded the sheets over the cigar, wrapping it up carefully.
Beatriz offered me a white jacket, apologizing profusely that they didn’t have a complete uniform to provide, but I was grateful for anything that was going to allow me to shed my wet blouse. I changed swiftly in an adjacent bathroom, dabbing myself dry with paper towels. I deposited my shirt, the remaining towels, and the paper-wrapped cigar in a plastic bag Beatriz had provided.
I thanked the kitchen staff and returned to the party room, wandering among the guests, searching for a familiar face. No one paid any attention to me, and I realized I was now partially incognito in my uniform jacket. I folded the plastic bag and tucked it on a lower shelf of a bookcase.
Xavier had returned to the party from a different part of the house. He
He ran back inside the house.
One of the waitstaff who’d passed hors d’oeuvres came to where Seth labored over the still lifeless body. She popped open a large black umbrella, which provided some protection from the elements, and passed it to me.
“Is he dead?” I asked Seth.
“I can’t get a pulse, but I’m going to keep trying.” Seth’s face was red from the exertion, but he refused to stop his lifesaving efforts, even when another guest offered to take over.
“Come on, Al, breathe,” Seth exhorted. “You can’t die. You have too much important work to do. The world needs you. Ivelisse needs you. Xavier needs you. Pedro Sardina can’t do it alone. Breathe, man, breathe.”
“Another umbrella,” I shouted at those standing at the French doors.
One of the security men heeded the call and brought a second one; between the two of us, we managed to shield Seth and the still unresponsive Vasquez from becoming further drenched.
Seth looked up at me. “Get inside, Jessica. No point in you getting soaked, too. Nothing you can do here. Where is that ambulance?”
I glanced behind me. The party guests were grouped around the glass panels watching the drama on the deck. Then Ivelisse prodded one of the waitstaff, who pushed opened a door. The waitress took a tentative step on the wet deck and then darted forward to retrieve the cigar Vasquez had tossed aside when he’d been struck down. She placed the cigar butt on a plate and returned inside.
A moment later, the second security man emerged from inside. “The ambulance is on its way.”
“Thank goodness,” I said, handing him my umbrella. “Please keep them as dry as possible,” I said.
Someone opened a door for me and I entered the house, sopping wet and shivering against the clammy feeling of my clothes on my skin. People moved back away from the doors and gathered in small knots, speaking in low tones. I looked around for Ivelisse but didn’t see her.
“What happened, Mrs. Fletcher?” a guest asked.
“I’m not certain, but he may have been hit by lightning.”
“Is he—?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. Dr. Hazlitt is doing everything he can. Tell me, do you know which way the kitchen is?”
He pointed and I followed his direction down a short hallway until I reached an ultramodern kitchen with a wall of identical cabinets with invisible pulls. A large marble-topped island dominated the center of the room, and I spotted the plate with the cigar butt sitting next to a stack of dishes waiting to be washed. Several of the waitstaff—those who weren’t still in the living room—huddled around the island, apparently not sure what they should be doing. One fellow, seeing my doused state, jumped forward with a roll of paper towels. “Can I get you something else, madam?”
“Not unless you have a spare uniform I can put on in place of these wet clothes,” I said.
“I’m sure we can find something for you,” he said. “Beatriz,” he called to a waitress, who hurried to a large case left on the side of the room.
I tore off two of the paper towels, wiped my face, and when no one was looking, swiftly folded the sheets over the cigar, wrapping it up carefully.
Beatriz offered me a white jacket, apologizing profusely that they didn’t have a complete uniform to provide, but I was grateful for anything that was going to allow me to shed my wet blouse. I changed swiftly in an adjacent bathroom, dabbing myself dry with paper towels. I deposited my shirt, the remaining towels, and the paper-wrapped cigar in a plastic bag Beatriz had provided.
I thanked the kitchen staff and returned to the party room, wandering among the guests, searching for a familiar face. No one paid any attention to me, and I realized I was now partially incognito in my uniform jacket. I folded the plastic bag and tucked it on a lower shelf of a bookcase.
Xavier had returned to the party from a different part of the house. He
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