by Becca Bloom
“Oh, the guy with the machine gun. Is that necessary?” I asked, genuinely stumped as to why he needed to pack such heavy artillery in the small, peaceful town.
Agent Vasquez didn’t answer my question. “Why did you go to Señora Guzmán’s home?”
“She left before I could get my backpack out of the trunk. Maybe you saw it? It’s green and—”
“There was no backpack in the trunk or anywhere else in the car when we searched the vehicle.”
“But, I left it there. Maybe it got mixed in with their stuff when they unloaded the car and it’s inside their house? Are you sure it wasn’t in the trunk?”
He cast me a long-suffering glance. “The trunk was completely empty. Now, if you will allow me to ask the questions, I have a murder case to solve.”
Feeling like a scolded child, I shoved my hands under my thighs and waited for him to speak.
“Did Señora Guzmán take any calls during the trip or speak to anyone besides you or Señor Guzmán?”
“She hardly spoke to me at all. She was too busy fighting with her husband.” I wondered if José was the main suspect. “Oh, and when we got here, she got into a yelling match with another taxi driver — a guy named Martin and his friend, Christian.”
He nodded his head. “That’s consistent with what Señor Guzmán told me. Is there anything else you remember? Any impressions or details which struck you as out of place during your drive from Quito to here?”
Only one memory surfaced. “It probably means nothing, but when José came out of the airport, he had some bottles of liquor with him.”
Agent Vasquez looked up abruptly. “Bottles? How many?”
“Three. One whiskey, one vodka, and one aguardiente.”
He scribbled in his notepad. “Interesting. Anything else?”
“Well, it just struck me as unusual that Maria seemed much more excited to see the liquor than she did her husband. You don’t think that could have anything to do with her murder, do you? Would someone kill for something so common?”
“You would be surprised, Miss James. Right now, I have to follow every lead and possibility. The information you shared may provide us with a motive and lead us to our killer. Is there anything else you remember? Anything else that seemed unusual?”
Like Fernanda’s gruesome comments about her aunt’s murder? I wasn’t about to sic a detective on the girl. If he was any good at his job, and I suspected he was, he’d figure that out right away without me pointing it out to him. And then, there was Dario Vega. He was a smooth customer. “It seemed odd to me that Dario Vega was the one to find Maria. Why was he there?”
“Allow me to reassure you that Señor Vega’s alibi checks out. I hope this experience won’t affect your visit more than it needs to. It would be a pity.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. "This is my phone number. If you remember anything at all, please give me a call. Everything is important and no detail is too small for my consideration." He looked at me so intently, I felt I had to answer.
"I'll call you if I remember anything."
"Okay, I'll let you go for now. You're staying here?"
"Yes."
"Don’t venture too far. You were one of the last people to see her alive, and you may have seen and understood more than you give yourself credit for."
Sylvia came out with the glasses of juice she had promised. Agent Vasquez downed his in a couple giant gulps, thanked us, and left.
As soon as he was out of sight, Abuelita and Tia Rosa came into the dining room. Their eyes darted around.
“He leave?” asked Abuelita.
Sylvia sighed. “You’re safe now, Mom. You too, Tia. I doubt he came here to arrest you for whatever it was you did back in the seventies.”
I chuckled, teasing them, “You’ve been on the wrong side of the law? Why is that not surprising?”
The sisters looked at each other, but said nothing.
“You don’t know the half of it. Now, I’m going back to the kitchen,” Sylvia said, sweeping the empty glasses from the table and taking Adi with her through the swinging doors. Tia Rosa followed, turning every so often to stare with her owlish eyes at Abuelita and jerk her head in my direction. It made me nervous.
"You not lose money in backpack?" Abuelita asked in a low tone as soon as they were gone.
What were they up to? "No…” I answered cautiously. “Why?”
“We split cost. You pay ten dollar. I pay ten dollar. Rosa pay ten dollar.”
“Dare I ask what for?”
She blinked like I was an idiot.
“Fine. My money belt has taken a hit today anyway. What’s ten dollars more?"
Abuelita blew a raspberry. "I see tourist wear money belt outside the pants. I ask you: What does that do? Tell thief, "Here my money! I have so much money, I put it in special cloth belt you cut with knife and steal? Is estúpido."
"Tell me how you really feel," I mumbled.
"Is how I feel. Is estúpido," she answered. I would have to be careful with her. She understood way more English than she let on. I bet she even knew how to use verbs properly, but chose not to do it to put people like me at a disadvantage.
She looked up and smiled at me, and I just knew she could read my mind.
Deciding that openness was the best option with someone as unpredictable as her, I said, "I can see that I'm going to have to keep my eye on you."
She reached a hand up to her heart. "Me? You think I trouble?"
"I'm certain of it."
She chuckled. "I not too bad trouble. You come at eleven o’clock with me and Rosa?"
Everything in her expression, her arched eyebrows and her widened eyes, which narrowed the longer I took to answer, told me she was about to get me into more trouble than I had ever known.
Chapter 8
At eleven o’clock sharp, just as I’d finished giving Lady a bath, Abuelita and Tia Rosa ushered me out of the restaurant.
Tia Rosa asked, "You drive?"
"I have a driver’s license, but I haven’t driven a car in two years." After my third fender-bender in a year, I had decided it was high time for me to take advantage of the excellent bike paths and public transportation system offered in Portland. It was cheaper than paying insurance.
"No problem. We still go," said Abuelita.
She crossed the street and turned down the block before I could ask where we were going. Then again, with Abuelita, the less I knew the better.
Tia Rosa tugged on my arm. "Let's go." She charged down the street after her sister enthusiastically .
Turning up a side street, we soon came to a corner with bicycles piled outside shop doors. I loved riding bikes and the sight of them calmed my nerves. Maybe they simply wanted to go for a nice bike ride. I had noticed they both wore slacks, long-sleeved linen shirts, and sturdy shoes instead of their normal knee-length skirts, short sleeved blouses, and black leather heels.
Continuing down the street, my nerves gathered into a ball in my stomach when the bicycles thinned out and gave way to three-wheelers, dirt bikes, and quads. My palms started sweating when Abuelita and Tia Rosa entered a shop with four yellow dune buggies parked outside.
I followed them, afraid of what I’d hear but not wanting to miss a word.
Inside, a woman nursed her baby behind the cash register. Now, I have nothing against mothers feeding their babies in the way nature intended. However, most of the women I had seen breastfeeding in public wrapped a blanket or cover around them. This woman had nothing. I riveted my eyes to her face to keep from looking down — like a prude.
The woman greeted Abuelita and Tia Rosa by name, nodding at me and making another remark. Not having a clue what she was saying, I smiled and nodded politely as Tia Rosa patted my shoulder and said what I can only guess were nice things.
Thankfully, Tia Rosa didn’t take long to translate. Nodding toward the woman I was still trying hard not to look at, she said, "She Miriam Proaño. She welcome you to Ecuador. Nice
, eh?"
Smiling at Miriam, I said, "Gracias."
That seemed to be the correct thing to say, but it released a torrent of rapidly spoken words I could not even begin to try to comprehend. So I smiled and nodded some more. At least, I did until Abuelita smacked me across my midsection.
"Stop that. You look like tourist."
"I am a tourist," I retorted.
She huffed at me before resuming her amiable conversation with Miriam. She was the picture of charm, obviously wanting something. If the dune buggies were what she had in mind, she would have a rude awakening. I didn’t know how to drive a stick shift. Not that I hadn’t tried. My dad’s attempt to teach me had ended in a series of visits to the chiropractor to align his neck.
Putting her hand out, Abuelita collected ten dollars from Tia Rosa, then motioned to me. “You have money? I pay for two hours. Is thirty dollar.”
“Only if I don’t have to drive that thing.”
She didn’t take me seriously. “Is easy. Little child drive buggy.”
“Good, then you can do it.” I knew I fought a losing battle, but she really had no idea what she asked of me.
Abuelita tossed the key at me and I fumbled to catch it. Perhaps if I had told her that I was quite possibly the world's worst driver — and that was saying a lot after Maria’s white-knuckle ride from Quito — she wouldn't trust me with such a flimsy vehicle. It was no more than a roll cage with a motor!
"Can we get Jake to drive? Or Adi?" I begged.
"Jake work at office and Adi cook at restaurant. You drive us.” Tia Rosa taped the bottom of her trousers and handed the roll over to Abuelita.
“Wait, this only seats two people. We won’t fit. I’ll stay here while you go wherever it is you’re planning to go.” It was the perfect solution.
Abuelita climbed into the passenger side. Tia Rosa did the same and, while they couldn’t be comfortable sharing a seat like they were, they managed to buckle the seatbelt.
“We small,” Tia Rosa said, squishing her sister to tap the steering wheel.
“I small. You fat,” said Abuelita, shoving her shoulder over with her free hand.
"I don't know how to drive a dune buggy," I insisted.
"You drive car, you drive buggy. Come on. Is easy.” Abuelita was losing patience with me.
"You don't understand. I'm a very bad driver."
She threw her arms up into the air. "No problem. Ecuador have many bad drivers. You with good company."
She had a point there.
All of my excuses spent, I ended with my most sincere argument, preparing myself for her cutting remark. "I'm scared." I clasped my hands in front of me, letting the key dangle from my fingers.
"Is because we no give you reason for brave." Tia Rosa’s voice was apologetic, so when she tapped the driver seat beside her, I sat.
Placing her hand on top of mine, she continued, "I help you get bag."
Abuelita grunted. “We help you get bag. This my idea.”
Perplexed, I asked, "What does this have to do with my backpack? As far as I know, my stuff is somewhere inside José’s house. I ought to just go over there and ask him to return it."
“No! We no trust José. He bad man,” Tia Rosa said.
“Then, I’ll wait until the murder is solved and get my stuff from the police.”
Abuelita scoffed. "You trust police solve murder? I no trust them. We solve murder, they return backpack."
She had a point. However, I wasn't eager to meddle in an investigation either. She still wasn't telling me everything.
"Where are we going that we can't walk or take a bus?"
Tia Rosa huffed. "José kill wife. He in love with Martha."
"What? How?" I had seen them in the same room together. He had paid more attention to his game than to her. I wasn’t buying it.
Abuelita nodded her head resolutely. "Maria mean sister. They no have children. Martha nice sister. Together, happy family."
"Not so happy if he murdered her sister." I didn’t know why I was defending him, other than to be contrary. However, even I had to acknowledge how Martha’s kids had crawled all over him. Clearly, they didn’t fear him in the least. And Fernanda, the impossible-to-please teen, obviously loved her uncle. Not exactly the emotions a cold-blooded murderer would inspire in a pack of innocent kids.
"You no believe me," Abuelita accused. Waving her pointer finger in front of my nose and shoving her armpit into Tia Rosa’s face in the process, she said in her normal feisty tone, "You know nothing about his business. José make puro from sugarcane. He grow plants in field of fathers."
I shrugged my shoulders, failing to understand how that made José a murderer. Besides, I already knew about his trade. Dario had told me.
"Maria killed with machete. José use machete to cut sugarcane. Police no find weapon. If we find machete in field, we solve murder."
“How do you know all that?” I asked. Fernanda had told me about the machete, but she hadn’t said the murder weapon was lost. There were too many pieces missing, and every logical thought in my brain rebelled at Abuelita and Tia Rosa’s suggestion. My lost backpack was merely an excuse for them to poke their noses where they didn’t belong.
“We listen police. Cut to throat—” Not having the words to describe the cut, Abuelita demonstrated by hacking her hand across Tia Rosa’s throat and sliding her fingers across. Not the mental image I needed. A chill settled over me despite the midday heat of the afternoon.
“Police no find machete. It disappear,” added Tia Rosa.
Their fallible reasoning aside, the first person I’d suspected was José. It was a sobering thought to realize I might have shaken hands with a violent murderer. I did not want to get involved. It would be the epitome of stupidity to go snooping around and potentially put our own lives in danger.
I moved a foot out of the buggy, ready to get out. I wanted nothing to do with this.
"I show you photograph of family. Thomas and Edison sweet boys. I have many photograph and Rosa have too."
My shoulders tensed. Thomas was my dad, and Edison was the uncle I only had one remaining memory of. She would use that against me. It was a manipulative trap. She couldn’t know I’d never seen pictures of my uncle. He wasn’t spoken about in our family. It was too painful.
Slowly, careful not to show how eager I was, I turned to face her, letting my foot dangle outside the door.
"You drive to Rio Negro. You help find machete. We tell you about brother of you father."
We stared at each other for a while, both of us as determined as the other to get what she wanted. The problem was that I wanted to see a picture of a long-deceased uncle more than I wanted to stay out of Abuelita’s crazy plan. What was wrong with me?
Before the sliver of sense I possessed could talk me out of it, I shoved the key into the ignition and fired up the dune buggy.
Chapter 9
We bunny hopped until the motor died. After two more tries, I finally found reverse. We hit the curb behind us so hard, it shot us forward and I ground the gear into first (or maybe it was third…) to take advantage of the momentum.
Peeking at my elderly accomplices, I said, "The gas pedal’s a little touchy."
Tia Rosa grinned. "Step on it, Jess!"
Needing no further encouragement, I steered in the direction she pointed me. After weaving around traffic until I figured out the location of the brake, we made it somewhat safely onto the highway heading deeper into the jungle. Following the road, we wound around the curves carved in the mountainside, crossing the surging river, and passing a giant concrete dam with electricity towers surrounding it.
Abuelita signaled for me to pull over in a parking lot near the towers, so I did. She and Tia Rosa clambered out of their shared seat, stretched their limbs, then Tia Rosa reached into a plastic bag she had brought with her, pulling out three packets of those yellow plastic sheets people wore to Niagara Falls. It reminded me of the trip my family had taken to Disneyl
and during our winter vacation from school. The park had been crowded with tourists, and we had been delighted when it began raining because it meant that only the braver vacationers would wait in the lines. (After two days cramped together in our station wagon, we would have endured a tropical storm just to be outside.) Jessamyn, only four years old at the time, had thought the ponchos looked like daffodils.
Abuelita donned her plastic poncho and a pair of safety goggles, offering me another set she had packed. I gladly accepted the goggles, but I refused the poncho. As a proud Oregonian, I wasn't afraid of a little rain. Besides, it didn’t look like it would rain with the clear skies above.
"You sure?" she asked, extending the daffodil with an insistent pulse of her hand.
"I'm sure," I said, pushing her offering aside.
Tia Rosa looked at her watch. “We no have much time. Let’s go.”
“Time for what? I know you paid for two hours, but we can always pay the extra if we’re gone longer.”
“No is money. Is time for lunch. José no work at lunch,” she answered.
“How can you be sure of that?”
Abuelita grinned. “I send favorite food of José to Martha. Sylvia text me he with Martha.” She patted her pocket where her cell phone must have been.
“If I’m in, then I’m all in.” I would rather have been anywhere else than where we were for the reason we were there, but I craved to know more about my dad’s twin. Uncle Eddy had let me pretend I was an airplane pilot. He’d plopped me on top of his shoulders and he’d ran around while I stretched my arms out and flew. That was the only vivid memory I had of him. It was a cool one, but it wasn’t enough.
I pressed the throttle and we jolted forward. A bus honked at me and I stepped on the gas before it could run us over, forgetting that our top speed was half the speed limit.
The dune buggy didn’t tip over on the sharp corners — a good thing because the bus driver rode our tail so closely, I had to take them quicker than I liked. At one point, I'm certain I could have reached back and touched the grill of the bus looming over us. Searching the narrow road for a place to pull over, we came upon a tunnel. Not exactly what I was looking for.