Murder on the Equator Box Set Read online

  Murder on the Equator: 1-3

  Becca Bloom

  “Murder on the Equator: 1-3”

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without permission in writing from its publisher, Becca Bloom.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Becca Bloom

  Facebook: BeccaBloom

  Twitter: @BeccaBloomWrite

  Email: [email protected]

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  Copyright © 2019 Becca Bloom

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-944795-23-8

  Contents

  Cabs, Cakes, and Corpses

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Rum Raisin Revenge

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Cold Case Crumble

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Thank you!

  Seco de Pollo

  Mammy’s Goofballs

  Baked Beef Empanadas

  Banana Crumb Muffins

  Beef Quinoa Soup

  Banana Coffee Cupcakes

  About the Author

  Other Books by Becca Bloom

  Chapter 1

  “You have got to be kidding me!” I exclaimed. “I’m certain I can identify my own bag.” For goodness’ sake, I’d had the same leather-bottomed, JanSport backpack with the Kermit the Frog key chain dangling from the zipper of the front pocket since my freshman year of high school. I was not about to let some gum-smacking kleptomaniac with an annoyingly perfect topknot purloin my favorite backpack. Especially when it still had my e-reader inside. I would not survive a month in the jungle without my books.

  The airport security agent, clearly bored, could not have cared less about my predicament. He extended his pudgy hand out to the thief, who hugged my bag closer to her. It probably reeked of her cheap perfume by now.

  “This woman is crazy. The bag is mine. See? I even have a tattoo of Kermit.” The heister unbuttoned her jeans and pulled them down far enough to reveal the lovable green frog sitting on top of her hip bone in the exact pose on my key chain. “See?” she insisted.

  Seriously, what were the odds?

  The agent dropped his hand, clearly taking the reprobate’s side, after which she gladly handed the bag over, knowing she’d get it back. Just another tragedy in my growing list of reasons why I never want to travel on an airplane again. Ever.

  I glared at the gloating delinquent before me. My self-respect would not allow me to go down without a fight. Pushing the handle of my carry-on down with a resounding click I wished was much louder than it was, I crossed my arms and lifted my chin. “Can she itemize every item in my bag?” Pulling out from my pocket the numbered list Jessenia had made me write, I waved it in front of the man.

  The bored agent scoffed because, you know, he must have had way more important things to do than deal with me and the crazy scamp who had branded a cheap imitation of my key chain on her hip. Fortunately for me, my voice carried through the square, windowless, gray room in the special part of the Miami airport reserved for confrontational customers.

  A big guy who looked like he belonged on a football field came over, taking the list I offered from my hands. His name badge identified him as a supervisor. Thank goodness! Maybe he’d be more reasonable than the balding, rotund agent still staring at the vexing villain’s exposed hip. As if the little thief had conveniently forgotten how to zip her pants up.

  “What’s going on here?” the giant said in a booming voice, perusing the paper in his hand.

  The security agent jutted his thumb at me. “This woman claims that this nice lady attempted to steal her backpack.”

  What? All of a sudden I’m the criminal spouting false charges against sweet, innocent travelers?

  Smacking the gum with her mouth open like a cow, the “nice lady” rolled her eyes and said, “Can I have my bag back now? This is so annoying and such a waste of time.”

  She was annoyed? It took effort, but I was polite. “Please, I just want my stuff back. This has been the worst trip ever and I’m too close to my destination to give up now. I’ve been randomly selected for additional screening in front of onlooking passengers for flights that were later canceled. I’ve been waiting almost twenty-four hours in this airport because of thunderstorms. I’m tired, and I run the risk of losing my final flight unless I can get back to my gate in…” I pulled the cell phone out of the pocket of my wrinkled 501s and checked the time. “… Great. I have ten minutes before I miss my flight and so help me, if I have to get on that airplane without the doctor prescribed panic pills in my backpack, I just might do something desperate.”

  Now, normally, I’m a “go-with-the-flow” kind of person with a severe allergy to confrontation, but adrenaline had taken over my body and I even scared myself. I must have scared the security agent too. He took a step away from me and toward his supervisor. Wimp.

  Big Guy had the audacity to smile. I wasn’t joking. He must have known it too. He had my list.

  He asked me one question. “What are you reading on your Kindle?”

  “I’m forty-eight percent through War and Peace.” Appropriate, huh?

  “D
o I have your permission to get the Kindle out of your bag for confirmation?”

  The pilferer crossed her arms and looked up into the corner of the room. I could smell her gum with each smack of her open mouth. Cinnamon. It better not be a stick of my Big Red from the front pocket of my backpack which had been my pillow for the past day of restless naps in the uncomfortable airport chairs. As if I wouldn’t notice when someone yanked it out from under my head.

  I nodded my consent. If I missed this last flight, that was it. I had endured public humiliation when a TSA officer had selected me out of a line of hundreds for a public pat down. I had then waited an hour as they scanned my carry-on and backpack five times only to discover that the suspicious article they saw in my bag was my reading glasses.

  Miami had been no kinder to me. What was supposed to be a two-hour layover had turned into a twenty-two-hour holdup … one from which I was about to free myself when the ingrate with designer sunglasses on decided she liked my Kermit the Frog key chain.

  I glared at the nefarious nuisance, wishing my eyes had lasers.

  The supervisor flipped the screen of my Kindle around for both of us to see. There it was. War and Peace.

  Dumping my Kindle back in my bag, he said, “You’d better run, Miss James. I’ll radio your gate, but your flight has been delayed so long, it’d cause a mutiny to ask the other passengers to wait any longer.”

  Looping my arm through my bag and hefting it onto my back, I took his advice and ran. I hoped they threw whoever that skinny tart was into airport jail or something. Or maybe they could seal her in a room with one cramped bathroom that was always busy and give her nothing but bags of salty pretzels and one half-filled glass of water to drink. Oh wait, that was me on my last flight.

  My carry-on bumped into the backs of my Converse a few times, but I didn’t stop to nurse my injured feet. There was no time.

  Sweat trickled down my face and back as I ran the length of Concourse D, weaving through travelers standing in the middle of the wide walkway. My legs and lungs screamed at me, but I saw the bag checker holding the door open, looking around before she would close it.

  “Wait! I’m here!”

  She smiled at me with her perfectly ironed uniform and smooth French roll, reminding me of how I hadn’t had a shower in almost two days. I felt gross, and I’m sure I looked it too.

  “Are you Jessica James?” she asked politely.

  “Yes. Is the plane still here?”

  “It is, but it’s a completely booked flight and the overhead bin space is full. You’ll have to check your carry-on.”

  “Is there time for that?”

  She went to the desk opposite us and pushed a button. A long baggage ticket printed off and she stuck it around the handle of my bag in a matter of seconds.

  “It’ll get to Quito when I do?” I asked. I only had the one bag. My laptop, a month’s worth of clothes, toiletries, malaria pills, snacks, and sunscreen to protect my pasty white skin was inside. If it got lost … well, I guess if it got lost, it would be an appropriate ending to this nightmare of a trip my family had so kindly insisted I take. Some gift!

  “I’ll send it down right now.” She waved me through the door and down the ramp to the plane taking me closer to my final destination. Baños, Ecuador. That’s right. I was going to spend a month in a place named after a toilet. My dad assured me it’s a lovely place, but after the torture I’d been through to get this far, he’d have to forgive me for being skeptical and a touch snarky. I needed a cupcake and a strong cup of coffee.

  The flight attendants hustled me down the narrow row, pushing past elbows and wide shoulders. I felt hundreds of eyes glowering at me, and my cheeks burned from their unspoken criticism and my sheer exhaustion. All I wanted to do was sleep. Finally, we reached the second to last row and the only vacant seat on the entire plane.

  I fumbled for my boarding pass, hoping there was some mistake.

  The flight attendant, another immaculately groomed woman who was losing patience with me, bared her white teeth in a pinched smile. “Please take your seat so we can depart.”

  The cologne-drenched guy with the slicked back hair in the aisle seat leaned back an eighth of an inch to make my crawl over him all the more enjoyable. The large man in the window seat, who leaned over my middle space, didn’t even bother to shift his weight. I practically had to sit on his shoulder to shimmy into my seat. I could feel his breath on my ear. Clutching my backpack to me, I debated if I should offer him a stick of gum or not.

  The uptight attendant, her voice strained through her fake smile, said, “Ma'am, please place your carry-on item under the seat in front of you for takeoff.”

  There was no room to move, and I didn’t much like being called “ma’am.” Goodness’ sake alive, I was only twenty-three. No older than the flight attendant appeared to be. Sliding my bag between my legs and down to the floor, I pushed it under the seat in front of me gently with my foot, trying to keep my shoe on the strap so I could attempt to retrieve it again.

  I closed my eyes, imagined myself reading by a cozy fire in my dream cottage by the sea, and began counting my breaths. The plane shook and my stomach dropped to the floor as we took off.

  “Hey, lady, you okay?” asked Cologne Man to my right, with a thick Latino accent.

  I cracked my eyes open.

  He pulled a bag up from down by his feet with an ease which made me a bit jealous. The clinking of glass inside the large, plastic bag from the duty free store gave me an image of giant bottles of perfume. My guess was close.

  “You want a drink?” he asked, pulling the plastic down so I could see the full-sized bottles of Johnny Walker whiskey, Smirnoff vodka, and Antioqueño aguardiente.

  I looked back up at him. Was he joking?

  “No, thank you.”

  He seemed disappointed, so I added. “It was nice of you to offer, though.”

  That earned a toothy smile and he extended his hand out for me to shake. “My name is José Guzmán.”

  I shook his hand. “I’m Jessica.” I kept it short and polite in the hopes he wouldn’t turn out to be the chatty sort who wouldn’t let me read or nap.

  “I visit my family in Miami. You know Miami?” he asked.

  “I’ve never been.” Okay, that’s enough chat.

  “I am from Baños. Is beautiful place. Many tourist go there. You visit Baños?” José gently wrapped a roll of bubble wrap around the bottles and put them back under the seat.

  I wasn’t about to tell all my travel plans to a stranger. “I’m sure I’ll make it there.”

  “Okay. I look for you! I show you good bars.”

  I was spared from having to give an answer when the seatbelt light turned off. He pulled out one of those round wrap-around neck rests, the latest iPhone, placed Skullcandy headphones over his ears, and reclined his seat.

  The guy on my left still leaned over my space, but José’s cologne was giving me a headache and I needed to distance myself. I nestled into my cramped spot as well as I could and felt my body relax and drift off into delicious slumber… until something slammed against the back of my seat, hurling me forward. Big guy felt it too and moved his weight over to the window.

  Turning around, I saw a little blonde girl with a sticky face and a juice box in her hands. She met my eyes and, with a diabolical giggle, kicked my seat again. I looked over to her mother who frantically rocked her screaming infant in a desperate attempt to shush him. She reached over to stop her daughter from kicking my seat again and looked at me apologetically. “I’m so sorry. They should sleep soon.”

  They didn’t sleep. Not for even one minute of the four-hour flight.

  Chapter 2

  Why was I traveling by myself to a foreign country in South America where I knew nobody and couldn’t speak the language? To be fair, I could be polite, order a beer, and ask where the bathroom was (kind of pointless in a town named Baños), but that was pretty much it. So, why? Really, really good question
and one I had ample time to ponder during the long, sleepless flight.

  Short answer: My family conspired against me. They staged an intervention where they pointed out what they thought was a big issue, namely, that they had all celebrated grand success in their dream lives recently and were moving on to new and exciting things. Being the caring, lovable bunch they are, they felt bad for leaving me behind in Portland, Oregon with my secure, but drab, job.

  My oldest sister, Jessenia, was pregnant with her second child. She was moving up to Washington to support her husband’s construction company while single-handedly managing her own booming online organization business and teaching her first son, Jayden, how to read at the age of two. I wished she would stick to organizing other peoples’ lives and leave me alone sometimes, but what were older sisters for if not to boss their younger sisters around?