Hoo boy. Even in Boston, when I worked at the zoo, men had always commented how I was too small, or too young, to be handling reptiles. Dad used to laugh at comments like that and would proudly say he raised tough-ass girls.
“My family’s been trapping gators for four generations in these parts. I caught my first baby gator when I was six. It was about the size of this one.”
With a tight smile, I said goodbye and climbed into my truck. It was time to bring the reptile to Gator Heaven.
No, really. That was what my family had dubbed the swamp on the edge of town—Gator Heaven. It was owned by the Covington family, who also farmed citrus. This particular piece of land was too wet to plant orange trees, and the family had kept it wild and undeveloped for decades. Because my grandfather had grown up with one of the Covington boys, he’d gotten permission to release the wildlife that we trapped into the wetland on the property. We’d been going there for decades with our little gators.
It took me two attempts to exit the subdivision because every street looked identical. I pulled over to study the map on my phone so I could decipher the twisting roads to nowhere. It struck me that the development was probably named after the very thing it displaced—ospreys—and I breathed a sigh of relief when I finally pulled out onto a more familiar street.
I headed west out of town, passing one of the two remaining orange groves in Wahoo. Workers with heavy burlap sacks slung around their bodies picked the last of the season’s ripe fruit off the trees, reminding me that I should probably stop at my favorite produce stand at some point to grab a bag. I’d been here for more than a month and hadn’t had a single glass of freshly squeezed juice.
My mouth watered when I thought about the sugary liquid sunshine mixed with a shot of vodka. Mmm. Screwdrivers.
At the stop sign next to a gas station, I banged a left, then slowed about a mile down the road. I hadn’t been to this swamp in years and frowned when approaching what I thought was the dirt road leading to the wetland. A heavy chain attached to two wooden posts stretched across the road.
There was also a sign with a photo of a house similar to the one I’d just left. I slowed the truck to a stop and gaped in horror.
COMING SOON: Sunny Meadows
Homes starting at $500K!
“What the hell? Come on!” My voice bounced around the cab of the truck and I slammed my palm on the steering wheel.
Chapter Two
When had the Covingtons sold the property? And who in their right mind would pay a half million bucks for a home in a swamp, where mosquitoes were thicker than humidity in August?
Also, wasn’t it illegal to build on a swamp? Possibly, but it was Florida, where developers didn’t care about stuff like that.
“Shit,” I muttered, while calling Vera.
She picked up on the first ring and her squeaky voice hit my ear. “Well, that’s pretty quick for a giant gator. Did you have to wrassle him?”
Even though she wasn’t technically involved in my business, she’d trapped more than a few reptiles in her time.
“It was a two-footer. A baby. Grabbed him with a pool net and some marshmallows. Listen. I’m at Gator Heaven and there’s a chain across the road and a sign saying that the property’s becoming a housing development. What’s going on? What should I do with the alligator?”
She emitted a screech that made me hold the phone away from my ear. “Shut the front door! The Covingtons finally sold the parcel? I heard the deal was in the works but didn’t know it actually went through. The city council hasn’t approved the development, so maybe there’s still hope. You know I’ve been fighting that for months.”
Vera protested almost all new developments in town, hoping to keep the undeveloped parts of Wahoo pristine. Well, as pristine as a small town with a pill problem and a heavy dose of Florida shadiness could be. Yet amid the chaos of eccentric locals, drug dealers, and the occasional illegal business enterprise, Vera stood firm in her mission, tirelessly fighting to preserve the town’s questionable charm. Bless her stubborn soul.
She was a member of Friends of the Everglades, or FOE. Now that I thought about it, there were a lot of cute acronyms in the Sunshine State.
“OK, we can talk about your activism later.” I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel.
“Meet me for lunch downtown and I’ll try to find out more on the land deal.”
“I can’t bring the gator to lunch and don’t want to leave him in my truck.” Sometimes my twin sister could be a little airheaded. She was a human exclamation point, whereas I was more of a comma in the grand scheme of things.
Necessary for structure, but not at all flashy.
“Right. Bring the gator to Uncle Bert. I’ll call and let him know you’re on the way.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you in a little while. Text me the name of the restaurant.”
We hung up and I peeled out, annoyed. It took me another ten minutes to reach Bert’s place on the edge of town. It was a kitschy roadside tourist attraction that had been in my family for decades. He and his wife, Lolo, lived a few doors down from me and Vera, but the sanctuary was Bert’s true home.
When I parked in front of the tired-looking, homemade wooden sign that read SEE LIVE GATORS HERE AT TROPICAL ACRES, my phone pinged with a text from my sister.
