By Reason of Sanity

By Laurie Ellis

The timeline is post-Castro Cuba and Erica Stevens has just lost her father. She doesn't believe he died of a heart attack. She suspects he'd been murdered.

Erica embarks on a whirlwind journey to find her father's killer. Though she's hindered by a past she can't escape, it's that mysterious past that fuels her determination. Her love/hate relationship with her fears only complicates her dangerous mission.

Erica's life is soon plunged into chaos when she uncovers an illegal black market masterminded by Cuba's Secretary of Health and Human Services, a powerful and dangerous government official whom she vows to bring to justice. Her unflinching resolve may force her to expose her past to the one man she loves but has spent a lifetime pushing away.

By Reason of Sanity combines suspense with juicy characters and plot twists and keeps you on edge right up to the shocking finale.

This is Laurie Ellis's third mystery novel. As in her previous works, she captures the psychological underpinnings that make her characters so believable. Her extensive research and personal contacts provide added interest and historical footnotes to her novels. Among her various writing honors is the Katherine Anne Porter literary award received in 2002.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 29, 2004
• ISBN: 9780595757619

Laurie Ellis

Raised in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, Laurie Ellis moved to Florida as a teenager and graduated from Webber International University where she was editor of the school newspaper. She is an award-winning author who called New Orleans home for over twenty years. She currently lives in San Marcos, Texas with her husband, photographer Ben Ellis.

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Contents

Prologue

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

Three Dagger’s In Liberty’s Heart

About the Author

For

Anne O’Brien

With an abundance of thanks

Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t…

—William Shakespeare

Hamlet

Act 2, Scene 2

Prologue

He laid siege on the palace and the people cheered. Batista, he’d said, was the man to be feared. He promised to free them from their living hell They waved their arms high and welcomed Fidel.

But bad went to worse and the betrayal was in; Fidel waged a war only he could win. He ruled with fear and torture and hate And the people knew he had sealed their fate.

On Peter Pan’s wings, they sent their children away For a much better life in the USA. Others would follow, many scared, many brave, Many claimed the sea as their watery grave.

Brothers in planes shot down from the sky. As the world cried, Shame! he turned a blind eye. Such was the case for the man with the beard. Loyal to himself; justice long disappeared.

In nineteen fifty-nine, he’d seized control And for decades he played the dictator’s role. But in two thousand six with no wish to atone, From the Devil’s Lair, he was summoned home.

Thousands had suffered; thousands had died But Fidel’s life ended with not soul by his side. No shots fired; no revolution; no coup. In the blink of an eye, his dictatorship through.

Raul Castro and the powers that be Assumed control of the island country. The students marched and demanded a say. They met resistance but would not go away.

The people insisted the system be purged Then out from the shadows Ramirez emerged. As Fidel’s confidante, he had his say: Work from within; we will seize the day.

With subtle steps and a quiet voice He gave the people a hopeful choice. At three thirty-three on March twenty-third, In Havana, Cuba, freedom bells were heard.

Machado, Batista and Castro all gone; A new life; a new peace; a new day has dawned. Some say Cuba’s number has always been three Still true, they say, even now that she’s free.

ONE

Daddy didn’t look dead.

I brushed his skin with my fingertips. It felt like weathered suede and not as cold as I’d assumed it would be, but I was glad I made that connection one last time.

I’d decided on his navy suit and white shirt, hanky in the pocket. Dignified and proper. Right as rain.

He looked okay, sleeping not dead, but something about him just didn’t look right and that odd suspicion gripped my insides again. I bent forward for a closer look. I glanced back at my husband, Jack. He gave me a what is it now? kind of look.

I don’t know, Jack, but something’s wrong. I kept my eyes on him hoping for some sort of mutual understanding, but none came.

Never mind, Jack.

I turned back to Daddy and straightened the lapel of his coat. I felt something in the pocket and pulled out his glasses case. I ran my fingers over it thankful for the comfort it gave me.

I took the glasses out of the case. A piece of paper fluttered through the air and landed on the shiny, cream-colored material that Daddy rested on. I put the glasses on him and without much thought picked up the little piece of paper. I flipped it over and through my fingers as I admired him. I smiled, satisfied that Daddy would be able to see in the hereafter then tucked the paper back into the case.

I joined the others and slipped my hand in Jack’s.

Better? Jack asked.

Not really, I said with a hint of anger.

He patted my hand. Be a good girl now. I know what you mean.

Sure you do, I said.

I do, Erica, he insisted.

I don’t mean that he’s dead, Jack. The whole thing doesn’t make sense. He…oh, never mind, I said.

The lighting in the room gave it a feeling of warmth but I felt cold as icicles. I wanted to scream. Solemn faces chatted in soft voices. Coffee cups were lifted from their china nests and raised to unappreciative lips. Who the hell wanted coffee on a hot August day anyway? And who were all these bodies anyway? I did recognize a couple of people like Cuba’s Chairman of Health and Human Services, Blair Blackstone, looking neat and tidy in a rumpled sort of way. His sandy-colored hair didn’t seem to have a style to it, yet it was combed to perfection. His cute baby face was giving way to subtle crow’s feet and laugh lines. He fidgeted a lot as if anxious to get back to some piece of business.

I didn’t care for the man, although the reason for that is sort of fuzzy in my mind. Maybe it’s because I blame him for convincing my parents to move to Cuba. Then again, Mom always did have a fascination with the island. She swore it would be the in place for baby boomers once Castro was gone. She was always so insightful.

Blair met my eyes then turned away quickly. What was that all about? I shrugged, oh well.

I thought back to conversations Daddy told me he’d had with Blair. They’d met in New Orleans when Mom had gone into the hospital for chemotherapy after her hysterectomy. Daddy sat in the cafeteria sipping a cup of coffee when Blair approached him.

Do you mind if I sit here? It seems all the tables are taken, Blair said.

Not at all, Daddy said.

They’d introduced themselves and after some small talk, Daddy mentioned that his grandson needed a transplant. He said Blair’s eyes lit up, which seemed an odd thing.

How ironic, Blair said. I’m assembling a top-notch transplant team to work in Havana.

Why Havana? Daddy asked.

Well, for one thing, I live there now. Plus, the climate is very business friendly.

Madelyn has always wanted to visit Cuba and she does love the ocean. Maybe I’ll plan a trip. She certainly deserves it.

Blair leaned in close. She’ll never want to leave. Then he flopped back in his chair. Beautiful beaches, warm breezes, bustling economy. His voice rose and fell with excitement and his hands flew all over the place. There’s an excitement in the air. It’s like living on adrenalin all day. He rocked forward. It’s a burgeoning democracy and the people are hyped. He chuckled. It’s the only way to describe the feeling of euphoria there.

Euphoria?

Blair stabbed his finger in the air towards Daddy. That’s exactly the word. He laughed again. I promise you you’ll never leave.

I stared at Blair across the room. Jack asked if I wanted anything to drink. No, thanks, I said.

You’re staring, he said.

I gave my head a shake and tried to smile. Sorry, I said and spied a handsome man in the corner by the coffee urn.

President Javier Ramirez had slipped into power after Castro died. He’d been the dictator’s friend for decades and the Cuban people were understandably leery of him. But his friendship was a sham meant only to advance his agenda. But that too troubled the people. Just what was his agenda?

In the beginning, he’d been chummy with the remaining regime, which only served to underline the world’s apprehension. But Ramirez had a charisma and quiet strength that gave the people hope; maybe he would be different, they’d said.

Then one by one the old cronies faded away into the background. Some even disappeared. People still have sightings of Castro’s brother, Raul. I read that the latest one was in Puerto Rico.

Jack leaned into me. This place is loaded with some serious people.

I know. Daddy met them all through Blair and that woman over there.

The Attorney General? She’s the President’s cousin.

I know. Shhh, here she comes.

Carmen Ramirez put her glass down and walked toward us. Her tailored suit hugged her curves giving her a sexy yet professional aura. A sliver of jealousy snaked up my spine. I brushed the annoying emotion away and concentrated on her streaked hair and dark nail polish. I wondered if those nails were real. A couple of them sported gold stars.

I’m so sorry, Mrs. Stevens, she said and eased her hand in mine.

Thank you, I said.

Both Eric and your mother were wonderful people. I admired them both for their courage to make the move to Cuba so late in their lives. But they both loved it here and we loved having them. I smiled but must have had a confused look on my face. She continued. As you know, Madelyn taught at the elementary school and the children adored her. She was tireless in her advocacy of both cancer awareness and organ donor programs. And Eric’s engineering and medical backgrounds helped not only in restoring our historic buildings but in establishing a premier hospital facility. She patted my arm. You look just like your father.

Thank you, I said.

How is your son?

He’ll be having his surgery this evening.

Everything is so rushed in these situations, isn’t it?

Yes, it is.

Your father couldn’t have loved anyone more than he loved you and that grandson of his. All he ever talked about was little Joey this and little Joey that. He carried around that photo of him. The one where he’s wearing the baseball outfit and the big grin. I always mentioned to Eric that Joey’s blue eyes matched his blue shirt. She looked at Jack. He has your eyes.

Jack held my hand. Joey always wanted to play baseball. Eric gave him that outfit. I only wish he could have seen him swing that bat.

I understand. Again, my sympathies. I hope you’ll both consider staying in Cuba once your son has his operation.

Jack put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. Perhaps, he said. At least we know he’s going to have the best of care.

That he will, she said and left.

I glanced at Daddy’s casket just in case someone had taken it away when I’d been preoccupied.

I thought about Mom’s funeral years ago. Except for the fact that my little Joey wasn’t here, I wouldn’t have known the difference between the two. Daddy lay dead and my son lay in the hospital. Life could be so unfair sometimes.

I massaged my temples. It seemed like I’d been vacillating between right and wrong, good and bad, happy and sad lately. My emotions swung from crazy to rational. Half the time my head didn’t feel like a part of my body. It just didn’t seem possible that I’d never see Daddy again.

The nice man in the black suit approached me. He had a fixed, droopy look on his face. He exuded a fake sadness. He clasped my arm and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Go away!

It’s time, Mrs. Stevens, he said.

Tears puddled in my eyes until one finally fell. Of course, I sniffed to the man.

I let go of Jack’s hand and walked back to Daddy’s coffin. I kissed my fingers and pressed them to his flaccid cheek.

Bye, Daddy.

I felt the distant comfort of Jack’s arm slip around my waist. Come on, honey.

The crowd moved into the adjoining room and settled into the folding chairs.

…in the valley of the shadow of death…

The man’s monotone irritated me no end. He droned the words as though he’d done this very thing too many times. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and wondered if they had the air conditioning off for some spiteful reason.

I had a moment of anxiety. Had I remembered to order Daddy’s name to be etched on the granite marker next to Mom’s? I pictured the wall at the cemetery where those who’d been cremated were memorialized. I saw it in my mind’s eye clear as day:

Madelyn Ann Gilford Morrison May 25, 1954–June 28, 2008

Eric Joseph Morrison August 11, 1951–August 1, 2009

Daddy was only fifty-eight.

Jack thinks I’m crazy, but I don’t believe what they’d told me happened to Daddy.

He was healthy as an ox, Jack, I’d said. I find it very difficult to believe he died of a heart attack.

What are you suggesting, Erica? That he was murdered?

Well, it’s a distinct possibility.

Distinct possibility? Who on earth would murder your father?

I have no idea. Maybe he was being blackmailed or something.

Why exactly do you think he was murdered?

Because he was in perfect health. He’d just had a check-up and the doctor gave him an excellent report. He swam, played tennis, ate all the right foods and he had no stress. That doesn’t sound like a heart attack in the works.

No it doesn’t but I’m sure it happens a lot.

That may be, but something in my gut tells me otherwise.

Someone coughed. A bead of sweat trickled down between my breasts. I nonchalantly tried to stop its further descent as the man muttered on.

At least when Mom died, I knew what happened. I didn’t like it but I understood it. Cancer is the devil’s handiwork.

Amen, the minister said and smiled at me with sad eyes.

I didn’t want it to end and almost asked him to start over again.

Don’t take him away yet!

Jack pulled me close and I wept as he swept his hands in circles over my back.

Oh, Jack, I cried.

Go ahead and cry. You deserve it, Erica.

I did deserve it and took full advantage of his kindness. But as he held me, the word murder kept popping in and out of my head. Jack said I just wanted to blame someone for taking my father away from me.

I wondered. Could that be it? Was I just looking for a scapegoat? Maybe I should take Jack’s advice and accept the fact that Daddy had died of a heart attack.

In the end, though, I had trouble going with that. I simply couldn’t let go of this intuition, this strange feeling in my gut that something bad had happened to him. Where that emotion came from and why I had it, I couldn’t begin to explain. I just knew it kept at me and wouldn’t go away.

In time, I’d decided Jack’s feelings about it were unimportant. I just wanted to find out the truth surrounding my father’s death. Even if it meant that he had been murdered.

And if he had, I intended to find out who did it.

TWO

Jack and I sat in the hospitality room of the hospital, waiting on pins and needles for our seven-year-old son, Joey, to undergo a double organ transplant. The soft yellow room felt warm and comfortable. Paintings of landscape scenes in wooden frames hung on the walls. One other couple sat in the corner at a table for two. Pastel coffee mugs rested on the table untouched. The woman couldn’t stop sniffing; surely that box of tissues was just about out by now. The man would run his fingers through his hair. He’d lean forward and hold the woman’s hands then flop back against the chair.

Jack had brought his laptop. I had several things to read. We both found concentrating difficult. We’d take turns pacing and fidgeting and going for drinks.

Jack hunkered down to some piece of business. His fingers clicked on the keys in a hunt-and-peck rhythm. I’d settled on