Swamp Princess E-Book

Tara Lush

• Herausgeber: 8th Note Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Critters & Criminals
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 377

Beschreibung

Solving murders, kissing criminology professors, and just the right amount of alligators combine in Swamp Princess, the cozy mystery + romance follow up to Gator Queen.   Maggie Andrews is swamped—literally—as she tries to balance running her family's gator trapping business, "defining the relationship" with tattooed professor Jack Bianchi, and helping her twin sister Vera with her bookstore.   When she's invited to speak at a conference about the dangers hunting for cryptids in gator-infested waters, she assumes it's a joke she doesn't have time for. But it's all too real; hundreds of Bigfoot fans are sure that their monster has migrated to the swamps of Florida. Against her better judgement, Maggie agrees to lead a group of them on a small expedition. And it's going well—until a cryptozoology influencer ends up dead.<   With her twin sister Vera dating the town's only homicide detective (and Maggie's own sparks still flying with criminology professor Jack), she has an in on solving murders. But navigating conspiracy theories, petty jealousies, and Bigfoot sightings make the investigation even more complicated than last time. Plus, she's gotta figure out - is Jack just along for the crime-solving ride and a summer fling, or are they playing for keeps?

Leseprobe

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,and incidents are the product of the author’s imaginationor are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Published by 8th Note Press

Text Copyright © 2024 by Tamara Lush

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9781961795235

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, ordistributed in any printed or electronic form withoutpermission from the publisher.

Cover design by Alexandra Allden

Cover images © Shutterstock.com; iStock.com

Typeset by Typo•glyphix

To Marco,who doesn’t believe in Bigfoot,but has always believed in me.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter One

It was March in Florida, which meant bright blue skies, no humidity, and weather so perfect that it made one almost weep at the thought of the stifling inferno to come in just a few short weeks.

This was precisely the kind of day I’d normally spend outside. Hiking, kayaking—hell, even hanging out on the porch under the live oaks with a sweet tea and a romance novel. Instead, I was indoors in an airless chain-hotel conference room eating a foot.

A pinky toe, to be precise.

“How does it taste?” My twin sister Vera’s nose wrinkled as I swallowed.

“Like a pretzel. Salty. Pleasantly doughy with a buttery crust. Here.” I held out the baked treat sprinkled with salt. “Take the big toe. Just rip it off.”

“It seems weird.”

“Vera, we’re at the Fifth Annual Sunshine State Bigfoot Conference. It can’t get any weirder.” I popped a chunk of the foot-shaped pretzel into my mouth and chewed while I surveyed the large banquet hall that served as the convention’s vendor alley. This place was like Comic-Con for conspiracy theorists.

Folks in Bigfoot and Sasquatch T-shirts milled about, perusing adorable stuffed cryptid toys, plaster casts of feet, and DVDs of paranormal encounters. At least one booth offered human-sized Bigfoot outfits. A plethora of themed snacks were also for sale, including cookies shaped like Nessie the Loch Ness Monster, Chupacabra tacos, and something called Ogopogo Pie, whatever that was.

I had my eye on a six-pack of Bigfoot Brew that a local craft brewer was hawking in the corner, complete with complimentary beer coozies that said BELIEVE IN YOURSELF, EVEN WHEN NO ONE ELSE DOES.

“What’s an Ogopogo?” I asked my sister between bites. The pretzel was delicious, with just enough sea salt to make me want a beer. But it was only 11 a.m., and it was probably best to stay sober in this crowd. Plus, I had to work soon, if walking in the woods with some Bigfoot hunters was considered employment.

She shrugged. “I guess some kind of Canadian cryptid. Although I think it was also the last name of one of those guys I matched with on Tinder last year.”

Vera shuffled a stack of paperbacks, her pin-straight blonde hair swaying with her movement. She was here as the owner of Straight From the Heart, her romance bookstore, selling mostly monster romance novels, a genre that both confounded and intrigued me. Were real human men so terrible that people felt the need to fantasize about monsters?

Apparently so, because this crowd couldn’t get enough of the stories. Vera had almost sold out of her stock on the first day of the conference. There had practically been a fistfight over the last Orc erotica anthology, she’d said. That was yesterday, and today she was better prepared.

Her booth was possibly the cutest and most appealing here as far as I could tell, with a delicate, almost fairy-forest decor. Lush fake vines and small twinkling LED lights entwined the edges of the table. In the center, a miniature, moss-covered wishing well was surrounded by colorful silk wildflowers.

My sister had a keen eye for aesthetics, and always seemed to know how to decorate or dress based on where she was and who she was with. Today she was in a hunter-green maxi dress and sported a crown of flowers. Her blonde hair was loose, and I thought she looked like a pretty woodland sprite.

I was nowhere near as adorable, and was only here because one of the co-sponsors of the event—the North America Bigfoot and Cryptid Symposium—had asked me, Maggie Andrews, to give a presentation on the flora and fauna one might encounter in Florida while tracking critters in the wild. At first, I’d thought the email invitation was a prank and had laughed so hard that tears had streamed down my face, but the organizer had insisted that she wanted an alligator expert to explain the dangers of wading through swamps in the Sunshine State.

Seemed like pretty obvious information to me, but I’d learned in my twenty-five years on Earth not to assume people possessed common sense.

It had been a last-minute invite for both me and Vera, but as new local business owners, we’d jumped at the chance to peddle our wares, so to speak.

I’d given plenty of talks in my old job as the assistant to the assistant director at the Boston Zoo, but those had been to the general public. Back then, I’d fielded questions such as “What do crocodiles eat for breakfast?” “How can you tell a male reptile from a female?”—and, my personal favorite at the gator exhibit, “Do they bite?”

Since the Bigfoot group had chosen the small yet eccentric town of Wahoo, Florida, for its days-long annual conference, it had seemed like a no-brainer for them to ask me, the local gator trapper, to speak. I had taken the gig because Vera said I should—and I was thrilled to be in the presence of so much weirdness.

The two-thousand-dollar speaking fee didn’t hurt my mood, either.

“I can’t believe all these people believe in Bigfoot,” I said, taking a sip of Vera’s Alien Limeade, which tasted suspiciously like Mountain Dew Baja Blast. “I also can’t believe they’re paying me this much to tell people to stay away from gators. Then again, folks never listen.”

“Is Bigfoot even in Florida?” Vera straightened a stack of romance books involving the Loch Ness Monster and a sexy cryptozoologist. She wore a slight scowl, which meant she was worried about something. I knew this as her twin.

I shook my head and swallowed. “Skunk Ape. That’s the creature in these parts.”

“Oh, right, I remember Dad used to talk about that . . .” Vera’s words trailed off as she stared over my shoulder, toward the far end of her booth. Her blue eyes, identical to mine, were clouded with worry—as they often were. Vera was much more of a worrier than I was. “Hey, do you think the reporter on Monday will be nice? Or is this some sort of investigative report? It’s stressing me out.”

I swallowed a fluffy wad of dough. “Is that why you’ve been quiet all morning?”

She nodded. Last week, while I was helping out at the bookstore, the editor of the local paper—the Wahoo Sentinel—had come in. Of course, I didn’t know her from Bigfoot, but I had helped her choose a few historical romances. That’s when she’d introduced herself and said she was going to send out a reporter and photographer to do a feature on the store. The interview was scheduled for Monday, three days away.

“It’s the Sentinel. Not the New York Times. They’re going to write about a local business. No biggie. We’ve got this. Don’t ruin the weekend worrying.” I bit into the heel of the pretzel.

“Can you be in the photos?”

“Vera, no. You’re the official owner. And this is your baby. You deserve all the credit and recognition.”

She shook her head.

“What?” I asked. “Is it your skin?”

“Whatever,” she grumbled. “Don’t want to talk about it.”

Her nonanswer meant yes. Vera had vitiligo, an autoimmune disorder that caused her skin to turn white. She was already fair-skinned and had mad makeup skills thanks to online videos—but she was still incredibly self-conscious about the white patches on her face. Had been since it bloomed and spread, starting in high school.

Of course, I thought my sister was gorgeous. We weren’t identical twins, and with her delicate features, giant eyes, and curves, she’d gotten the better end of the genetic spectrum. I was somewhere between plain and “interesting-looking,” which is what my ex-boyfriend had said when he first met me. (That I still dated him after that statement was not my best decision.)

Because I knew my sister better than anyone on the planet, I understood that she didn’t want to talk more about this topic, and I respected that.

I turned back to the crowd. Three people had come to a stop about five feet from the table, and one woman—a blonde in a tight, olive-green jumpsuit and designer-looking black combat boots—was glaring at a rugged-looking dude. He had a foot pretzel in one hand.

A second woman stood by, wringing her hands.

“I can’t believe you’re getting upset about this,” the man pleaded. He reached for the angry blonde woman’s arm, and she slapped him away.

“I should have gotten top billing in the program,” she hissed. “I have more followers than you.”

“She’s right,” the second woman said. “So perhaps Kristi can get the bigger spot in the Atlanta program?”

The blonde glared at the other woman, then at the guy. He smiled and reached for the blonde’s arm with his free hand.

“Kristi, I’m worried about you. For some reason you don’t seem okay.” The man gestured with the foot pretzel. I stifled a snicker.

“I’m fine, Grant. Why are you always so condescending? Geez.” The blonde rolled her eyes in the direction of the other woman, who smiled weakly and nodded.

From my stool behind the table, I tore off another toe and watched as I chewed. I adored drama if it was someone else’s. I imagined that the two had hooked up at some point. Their enemies-to-lovers-to-enemies energy had all the hallmarks of two people who had gone down to bone town.

I spun an entire narrative within seconds. Their relationship had been born out of the drama and danger of tracking completely made-up characters. It was like a reality TV show come to life. I definitely wished I had one of those Bigfoot beers now.

The trio stood and bickered for a while, and I pretended to study the pretzel as I listened.

“You know people are here to see me,” the blonde said, then coughed.

“You’re not feeling well,” the man replied.

I glanced up, just in time to meet the man’s eyes. He was that close. He winked.

Eww. Pig. I ducked my head and focused on the pretzel.

“I’m feeling fine,” the blonde said, her voice rising an octave. “You’re being sexist. Not wanting a woman to be in the spotlight. You’ve always been this way, Grant. It’s tedious.”

I raised my head again, impressed that the woman was so direct, so assertive, so . . . bitchy. That dude probably deserved it, though.

“Maggie. Psst.” My sister’s voice pulled me away, but I didn’t have any remorse about watching them. Something about being behind a table made me feel invisible, as if I blended into the table’s pretty decor.

“What?” I whispered, slightly annoyed that she’d spoiled my fun.

She pulled me toward a chair at the opposite end of the booth. “That’s one of the organizers of this whole shindig. Grant P. Sanders.”

“Oh yeah?” I munched thoughtfully on my pretzel as I watched. The woman in the jumpsuit had one of those trendy water bottles, the kind that held bladder-busting amounts of liquid. The thing was hot pink.

Grant Sanders leaned into the blonde with a simpering smile. His dark hair was close-cropped. His muscles bulged, barely kept in check by a tight black T-shirt. He looked older than me—easily in his mid-thirties—with cargo pants and a rakish, I’m-in-charge-here vibe.

He was exactly the kind of man who annoyed me, and precisely the kind my sister adored. Was that a whip coiled and attached to his tool belt? Sketchy.

The ensemble might have worked if he hadn’t been holding the giant Bigfoot pretzel.

I bit back laughter.

“What time do you give your talk?” Vera asked, her voice peeling me away from eavesdropping.

I checked my watch. “I need to be at the meeting point in the lobby in a half hour. Not enough time for me to enjoy a Bigfoot Brew, but enough time to get a cookie. And tomorrow’s the talk. Today’s the walk.”

The conference had booked me for two speaking engagements. One was tomorrow, a formal talk with a PowerPoint presentation in a smaller conference room down the hall. That was all about the American alligator, of which there were 1.3 million in Florida alone.

Today was a more informal session. The hotel had been chosen because of its close proximity to Sawgrass Park, a gem of a county park. Boardwalks and trails stretched through vast swaths of swamp, and a beautiful path paralleled the Wahoo River. Gators, birds, and turtles were commonly spotted there, and I thought it was the best place to show off the area’s natural beauty.

I was supposed to lead a group out of the conference and into the (tame) wilderness, pointing out various plants and critters of interest along the way. I was hoping we’d spot a gator, even.

Again, I eyed Grant Sanders and the blonde. He handed her the pretzel. They glared at each other, he murmured something in her ear, then each went in a different direction.

Definitely a lovers’ fight. Which made his wink all the more skeevy. Vera and I glanced at each other. “Glad it’s not me,” I said.

I polished off our pretzel while Vera shuffled more stacks of books. My attention drifted again to the crowd, and I noticed several people wearing shirts with an unfamiliar slogan and what looked like the furry face of a Bigfoot.

“Hey, Vera?”

“Yeah?”

“What does ‘bromie’ mean? Is that some kind of cryptozoology lingo?”

She looked up and shrugged. “Who knows? Where’d you see that?”

“I keep seeing it on T-shirts.”

“Dunno.” She put her hands on her hips. “I’m going to call Diego and ask him to bring more books. I didn’t think I’d sell this many, this early.”

“Good plan,” I called out.

Diego Viernes was a twentysomething animal rights activist and computer hacker. He’d moved to Wahoo to investigate a report of animal abuse and stayed after helping Vera and I catch the killer of another gator trapper.

Diego also was a lover of paranormal romance, and when my sister opened her bookstore, he’d asked if he could work there a few hours a week. It was a little odd—a young, tattooed, vegan guy in a romance bookstore—but so far, the customers adored him, probably because he had excellent recommendations.

He especially loved gay werewolf shifter romance. Today he was manning the store while Vera was at the conference, although she’d said that Diego and his boyfriend were going to swing by the conference later because they, too, were curious about Bigfoot.

I balled up my napkin and threw it in the trash. “I’m going to roam. If I don’t come back by three, send out a search party. There’s no shortage of amateur sleuths here. And listen, the booth looks incredible. You’ve done an amazing job. I’m super impressed.”

“Thanks!” Vera giggled and did a little finger wave. “Oh, wait. Maggie?”

I turned back. “Yeah?”

“I almost forgot. We need to talk about something important. Now isn’t the best time. Remind me when we’re both at home tonight, okay?”

I tilted my head. My twin was a bit flighty, and tended toward the dramatic. She was sometimes difficult. Often forgetful in odd ways. This could be about adopting a new pet (we had two already—Catsy the kitten and Harry the rescue iguana). Or it could be about something more important. Who knew, with Vera.

“Sounds good,” I said, not wanting to give in to her theatrics. “See ya.”

With less than a half hour until I had to meet my group, I had enough time to take a lap or two around the convention floor. I couldn’t get enough of the crowds of seemingly normal folks casually rifling through tables full of Bigfoot-themed merchandise.

Although now that I looked a little closer, a lot of the conference attendees were dressed in camouflage, flak jackets, and those tan vests with multiple pockets that only fishermen, pro photographers, and eccentric older men wore. It seemed as though everyone here was ready to dive into the swamp and wade through muck—or go on a nice weekend camping trip with the family.

Everyone needs a hobby, I guess.

Chapter Two

I paused at a large booth filled with handmade wallets in the shape of furry Sasquatch faces. A couple nearby was gushing about the craftsmanship.

“See, they’ve used quality fake fur,” the woman in the couple said, then she turned to me and pointed at one satchel that looked more like Willie Nelson than a cryptid. “That’s a nice purse.”

I reached out to trace the googly eyes stuck on the side of the bag. “It’s . . . unique.”

“Darned tootin’ it’s unique,” the woman behind the table said. “Nobody else sells Sasquatch wallets.”

“Are you the . . . creator?” Artist seemed to be a bit of a stretch, considering the wallets appeared to be made of fake brown fur glue-gunned to a piece of virgin vinyl.

The woman took a swig of Gatorade and nodded. “I go to all the cryptid conferences.”

I blinked. Truthfully, I had only a vague idea of what a cryptid even was, and I definitely didn’t believe in them. A smile started to spread on my face, and I was dangerously close to laughing. It was something I did when I was nervous.

“There’s more than one conference?”

“Oh, honey, you must be new in these parts,” the woman said, and everyone in earshot chuckled. “This is a whole traveling show!”

I was about to ask her if she actually believed in Bigfoot, but she was called away to answer a question about a pair of handmade Bigfoot slippers, so I moved on.

Most of the booths offered books and DVDs about the elusive creatures. I stopped at one, which sported bedazzled Bigfoot water bottles, Mothman pepper spray holders, and adorable stuffed toys for pets.

“Is this one filled with catnip?” I asked, holding up a small toy that looked like a dung-brown version of those old Pac-Man monsters.

“That’s a baby Sasquatch, and yes, it is,” the woman behind the table chirped. “My cats love those. They go wild.”

“I’ll take one,” I said. Vera and I were the proud owners of Catsy Cline, a fluffy white kitten. Well, perhaps “owners” wasn’t the best description. We were more like servants of a four-pound, jarringly adorable feline. Who had never tried catnip.

It was time to introduce the kitten to the hard stuff, I decided while paying for my purchase. I declined a bag and the woman smiled.

“Thanks for saving the environment,” she said.

She was about fifty, with a bob the color of dishwater. She had a pleasingly plump, curvy shape, and wore a tan sweatshirt with a giant Bigfoot silhouette on the front and leopard-print leggings. Her teeth had obviously been whitened, because they were almost blue and glowed when she smiled.

A large vinyl banner hung on a divider behind the table. In large letters, it read: Giggles-N-Ghoulies Boutique.

There was no one else at the booth, so I decided to take a chance and ask her the question I’d been pondering for hours.

“Maybe you can help me with something,” I said in my friendliest tone while I shoved the catnip toy in my small backpack. “I’m new to this world. Do people here actually believe in Bigfoot, or is this just a fun hobby, or what? I’m not trying to be mean, and don’t intend to be disrespectful. I’m asking out of genuine curiosity. The whole scene is fascinating to me.”

She giggled. “I know. It’s hard to believe that all these people believe in Bigfoot.”

I nodded. “I’d always thought of him—er, it, as a myth. Or something out of those supermarket tabloids. You know, like Bat Boy.”

“That’s what most folks think. Have you seen any of the shows on YouTube or Netflix?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“You should check out Grant P. Sanders’s work. He’ll be speaking later today.”

Ooh. Mess! Grant was the guy I’d seen arguing with that blonde woman. “Wow. Is he interesting?”

She bit her lip and glanced to the side. Then she leaned over the table in my direction. “Interesting? He’s incredible. He’s dreamy. Easy on the eyes, if you know what I mean. And so smart. My gosh, he’s the best. Grant explains complex things in ways you can understand.”

I wasn’t sure how one would have difficulty grasping the concept of a giant, furry being stomping through the woods, but I nodded anyway. “I’ll be sure to look out for his session.”

“I’m like his personal cheerleader. During every one of these conferences, Grant is so sweet and takes me out for coffee. We went out last night.” She giggled like a teen. “We joke that I’m his stalker. We’re all Bromies here.”

My face lit up in recognition. “What is a Bromie, anyway? I keep seeing that on people’s T-shirts.”

She laughed. “Oh, that’s Grant’s word for his fans. He always calls us that. It’s a combination of ‘bro’ and ‘homie.’ As in, Bigfoot Bromies. It’s an inside joke with all of us. See?” She turned, and on the back of her shirt was a furry face and #1 Bromie in gothic letters.

“Oh, okay.” I tried to pretend to understand, even though I was really thinking about whether it was cool for a middle-aged white guy to co-opt a word like “homie.” Or even use the word “bro,” period. A split second later, I decided it wasn’t cool in any way, shape, or form.

The woman stuck her hand out, and I couldn’t help but notice her long, white nails. Each had a tiny decal of Bigfoot—the same silhouette that was on the front of her shirt. “I’m Michelle Newman, by the way.”

“Good to meet you. I’m Maggie Andrews.” I explained that I was here to give a talk about real-life critters.

“We don’t use terms like ‘real life,’ just so you know. I don’t mind, but some might. They get offended if you suggest the creatures aren’t alive. People take this quite seriously. Did you get a brochure?”

I felt properly chastised, even though she was smiling. “Oh, good point. Thank you. Well, maybe I’ll run into you at Grant’s talk. And no, I didn’t get a brochure. I arrived here a little late because of work.”

What I didn’t tell her: I’d had to take a detour on my way here to check on Chubbs, a giant alligator on a local golf course. The creature had been lumbering around for months, and today I wanted to see if it had moved from the water trap on the seventh hole. It hadn’t, which meant Chubbs was safe for now.

Michelle handed me a pamphlet. “You can have this one, I picked up extras. Plus, there’s a great photo of Grant on page two.” She winked. “He took my advice and wore the dark green T-shirt.”

“You are his number one Bromie,” I pointed out with a smile.

She said something about how Grant just loved his fans. Considering how he’d winked at me, I was sure he did.

I flipped through the glossy booklet, stopping on page two, where Grant smirked in a giant photo.

“Isn’t he hot?” Michelle said, tapping the paper.

If one was attracted to Great Value Indiana Jones. “Sure,” I agreed.

I continued to peruse the booklet. On page four was a photo of the angry blonde I’d seen earlier. Sure enough, her picture wasn’t as large as Grant’s, and she had to share a page with another Bigfoot “researcher.”

“Kristi Klaus—so that’s her name,” I murmured as I read her bio, which included the detail that she’d reached a million YouTube viewers.

Considered one of the world’s preeminent Bigfoot researchers, Kristi has tracked cryptids on four continents and has even come face-to-face with Sasquatch in the Pacific Northwest! Her soul connection with nature only deepens her love of Bigfoot and the extra-normal world.

I was wondering what a “soul connection with nature” was when Michelle grunted, “Ugh. Don’t believe a word of that.”

I looked up, surprised.

She shook her head. “I can’t stand that woman. She tries to get free things from the vendors all the time. She’s a real bitch. And she’s always after Grant. She’s not his type. He’d never be interested in her, but she hasn’t gotten the hint. She’ll get hers someday soon. I believe in karma.”

She ended her diatribe with a manic laugh. Eek. Kinda weird. Or not. I wasn’t sure if my definition of “weird” was the same as it had been a few hours ago, before I stepped into this convention.

I grimaced and considered telling her about what I’d seen just minutes earlier. But it wasn’t nice to gossip, even among weirdos. Also, I wondered if there was a bit of jealousy surrounding Kristi: she was a gorgeous and successful woman, two things that often set people off.

Now that I thought about it, Kristi and I had a lot in common. We were both women in male-dominated fields. We both spent time in the outdoors. Both of us loved cute outfits.

It occurred to me that perhaps I should introduce myself to Kristi and maybe get a photo for social media. Vera was always after me to “think of the ’gram.” I almost never did, since I loathed social media. But considering Kristi was so popular, it couldn’t hurt to get a picture. It would make Vera happy.

Maybe Kristi was around here somewhere.

I said goodbye to Michelle and wandered off, pausing at an empty chair in the corner to take a photo of the catnip toy and send it to Vera. She responded with a gushing, emoji-filled text of happiness. I also quickly checked my messages, hoping that no one had texted, called, or emailed with an emergency.

Fortunately, they hadn’t. In my line of work, I never knew when someone would contact me. That was the life of a wildlife trapper. I’d learned the business from my father, who had been known around our hometown of Wahoo as the Gator King.

When he was on his deathbed, I’d promised him I’d continue his legacy and take over his business as the Gator Queen. Since my degree was in zoology and my former job was as an assistant in the reptile exhibit at the Boston Zoo, I possessed unique expertise about reptiles, and Florida critters in particular.

But I’d never dreamed I’d be imparting my wisdom to a bunch of Bigfoot enthusiasts. This was a first. Although, now that I saw how much money was exchanging hands here, maybe I had a future on the cryptid circuit.

I’d probably have to get a better outfit, though. Today I was wearing my nicest skinny jeans, a long-sleeve, button-down, pale green sweat-wicking shirt, and a pair of sneakers. Alarmingly, I blended in with everyone here.

I went through all my messages again, wondering if I’d missed something, and sighed.

Unfortunately, the one person who I wanted to hear from hadn’t texted: Jack Bianchi. He was a criminology professor writing a book on serial killers and was taking a six-month writing sabbatical in Wahoo. He rented a cabin on the property owned by Vera and me, which meant that I was his landlord.

He had jet-black hair, tattoos that marked the time he was bitten by a shark and when he was struck by lightning, and sexy dark stubble. He made delicious lasagna. He was single. And he wasn’t here permanently—eventually, after finishing his book, he’d return to his teaching job in Miami.

The perfect man, really.

I harbored extremely lustful thoughts about him, and with any luck, this weekend we’d take our friendship to the next level, with some benefits.

But first, Bigfoot.

I still had twenty minutes to kill, so I refilled my water bottle and studied the official program, all while looking for Kristi. If I found her, maybe we could bond over hiking. Or hairy men.

If I didn’t find her now, perhaps this evening. There was a “meet and greet,” and I wondered who we would be meeting. Bigfoot himself? I needed to ask Vera if she wanted to go. Kristi would almost certainly be there.

As people buzzed around me, I read on, both fascinated and skeptical.

Who even knew that there was a North America Bigfoot and Cryptid Symposium? Not I. This was definitely in the realm of “learning experience.” My father, rest his soul, would have asserted that this kind of event “builds character.” I wasn’t so certain about that, but I would have lots of new stories to tell.

I noted that there was a “late-night hike on Saturday” and on Sunday, a “5K Fancy Feet Run” through downtown Wahoo. I had to hand it to these folks: they embraced the outdoors. I guess they had to, given the subject matter.

I closed the program, shoved it into my bag, and continued to mill around.

I wandered into a separate, smaller conference space, where a reed-thin bald man with a white beard was speaking into a microphone at the front of the room. I leaned against the back wall and tried to figure out what he was talking about. I peered at the projector screen behind the guy.

Was that a picture of Charlton Heston? I only recognized him because Dad had loved the old actor. Oh dear. I wasn’t sure where this was headed.

“As you can see, the family tree of the hominoid looks familiar,” the man said.

Another slide flashed onto the screen. It showed a family tree of sorts, with Charlton Heston, a plus sign, an ape wearing a pink bow on its head, and an equal sign. There was nothing after that.

“Has anyone seen the genital anatomy of a female Sasquatch?” the man asked.

A few people raised their hands.

Wait. Was he talking about Sasquatch cooch? Human-ape breeding? I glanced around, shifting only my eyes, but no one else seemed horrified. Yikes on bikes. I wasn’t sticking around to find out the answer to the question, so I grabbed my bag and scrammed so I could laugh without anyone noticing.

For a few seconds I paused in the main hall, giggling to myself, so I could tap out a text to Vera. Her announcement that she wanted us to chat later had been flitting around in the back of my mind like an unwanted ghost. My finger hovered over the letters on my phone as I wondered whether I should press her for more details.

Finally, I decided against it.

Did you know that Sasquatches are possibly the result of human-ape breeding?

She quickly responded with a barf emoji.

I snorted and checked my watch. It was time to lead a group of Skunk Ape seekers into the Florida swamp.

Chapter Three

There was already a cluster of folks waiting for me in the lobby, which was the designated meeting point previously emailed to people who had signed up for the walk. Outside, the bright sunshine and blue sky beckoned and teased. I couldn’t wait to get outdoors and into the non-air-conditioned sunshine.

I walked over to the group. “Hi! Are you here for the walk? I’m Maggie Andrews, the presenter.”

An older man with a black fishing hat stared down at me over the tops of his reading glasses. He pulled out one of the glossy brochures, unfolded it, and studied it for a second. Then he looked up. “There are two outdoor sessions. ‘When Bigfoot Hunting Turns into Gator Trapping’ and ‘Florida Man Meets Florida Cryptid: True Tales from the Trails.’”

“Uh, the gator one.” After that Sasquatch sex session, I shuddered to think of what the “true tales” were.

The man beamed and motioned to the half-dozen people standing nearby. “Yeah, that’s us here. I think the other session is being held at the picnic tables near the pool. They’re probably going to order tropical drinks, but we’ll be out in the wild.”

“Excellent, and yes, we will be.” I waved at everyone excitedly while they smiled. I had to say, folks sure were pleasant here.

“I thought there’d be more people than this,” the man said apologetically. “I suspect many already know about the flora and fauna in the swamp. And I’m more worried about a momma Sasquatch than a gator.”

While he smiled earnestly, my nervous chuckle faded. Good God, he was serious. I nodded sagely in response.

“We’ll wait a couple more minutes in case there are any stragglers.” I pretended to type out an urgent message on my phone. In reality, I was checking to see what time Cheesy Does It, the grilled cheese restaurant, closed on Fridays. Screw the meet and greet.

I was in luck. If I could get out of here by four, I’d just make it. The place had recently added a new sandwich, a Gruyère with caramelized onions and rosemary butter. My mouth watered at the thought of all that gooey cheese and pungent herb flavor.

Five minutes passed and I gathered my small group into a loose huddle. There were four women and three men, including the man in the black fishing hat, whose T-shirt sported the slogan KEEP IT SQUATCHY.

The rest were also wearing various cryptid-themed T-shirts: a Bigfoot on a Harley-Davidson, Bigfoot carrying an American flag, Bigfoot walking over an LGBTQ+ rainbow. A man and a woman wore identical tan, long-sleeve shirts that read Bigfoot Hunters of Iowa.

I assumed those two were a couple. I tried to imagine Jack and I wearing those shirts and muffled a snicker. Wait, why was I fantasizing about matching outfits with the guy? We’d only met a couple of months ago, and we were . . . well, I didn’t know what we were doing. We were keeping things light and simple, interspersed with hot makeout sessions.

All I knew was that Jack was sexy, smart, and sported tattoos of both a shark and a lightning bolt. Since he also had a wicked sense of humor, I was certain that he’d find this conference as weirdly fascinating as I did. Maybe we could stop by tomorrow, if he wasn’t busy.

The man with the black hat and the KEEP IT SQUATCHY shirt clapped his hands. “Okay, what’s the plan? We headed out to look for some critters? Does anyone have any Quarter Pounders?”

Everyone laughed. Everyone but me, that was. I raised my eyebrows and smiled. “I’m not sure why we would bring McDonald’s on the walk? But I can tell you where the nearest one is. It’s not far.”

“We’d bring burgers because that’s what we use to lure the creatures,” the woman in the Iowa shirt said in a girlish voice. “Bigfoot loves hamburgers!”

I scratched my neck. Was she joking? Part of me hoped so, but it also made sense in an odd way. Who didn’t love hamburgers?

“Okay, um. Right. Well, today we’re going to be looking at real—er, potentially harmful critters that you might encounter while hiking in Florida. Today’s walk is pretty low-key, it’s less than a mile, and we won’t be getting wet or going off-trail. We’ll be on dirt paths only.”

“Bummer,” said the motorcycle-shirt guy. He was about sixty, with a buzz cut and a gray handlebar mustache. He held up a pair of tall green boots. “I brought my waders along.”

“Yeah, we have our dry bag.” The woman with the high-pitched voice waved a red bag, the heavy vinyl kind that folded over at the top and was often used by people on dive boats.

“I’m glad you’re all so prepared,” I said, marveling that they’d toted all this stuff to a conference. The woman in the American flag shirt held up a pair of binoculars and I pointed at her, nodding slowly. “Very nice.”

I took another couple of minutes to explain where we were headed (out the door, across the back parking lot, then down a short, paved path to the park), and reminded everyone to top off their water bottles since it was warm. While folks did that, the motorcycle-shirt guy stashed his waders behind the hotel’s front desk.

As we were about to leave, the door from the convention hall was flung open. The blonde in the green jumpsuit that I’d seen earlier burst into the lobby, carrying a selfie stick with a phone attached.

“Oh my goddddd, is this the alligator walk? Wait for me! Wait for me! I’m so sorry I’m late.”

As she swept up to us, everyone in the group either gasped or grinned.

“Kristi Klaus,” the motorcycle-shirt guy said, in a reverent voice most people would use for royalty and certain A-list celebrities. “You’re joining us? Wow. This is the place to be.”

Everyone murmured and nodded. Even I had to grin. Kristi had an infectious, upbeat vibe.

“You know me, I won’t ever turn down a chance to get dirty.” She winked at the guy in the fishing hat, who blushed scarlet. “Who’s leading this session, anyway? Or am I going to have to take charge?”

I held out my hand to my new bestie. “Hi, I’m Maggie Andrews. I’m leading the walk. I’m a gator trapper here in Wahoo—”

“Amazeballs.” She beamed. “That’s my catchphrase, you know. Or maybe you don’t, if you’re not familiar with my work . . .”

Her words dissolved into a cough, and I stepped back, not wanting to be sprayed with germs. “You okay? Need some water?”

She patted the side pocket of her jumpsuit, which was bulging with a plastic water bottle, and shook her head. She pulled the bottle out and we all watched as she struggled to uncap it. Oh dear, she seemed a little drunk and shaky. Instead of the pink cup she’d been clutching earlier, this was the kind you’d buy in the supermarket—a brand of bottled water called Aqua de la Florida.

I hated the stuff, because the company drained Florida’s aquifers, preventing wildlife and plants from accessing the water. To me, the company represented everything that was wrong with my home state: greed and relentless consumption.

But that was of no importance now. I had to wrangle this clown down the trail.

I glanced around. No one else seemed alarmed, so perhaps this was normal for Kristi. Maybe it was her stage persona, or her schtick.

While she took a sip, I seized the moment and the spotlight.

“Let’s go look for some gators,” I said. Everyone except Kristi replied with little whoops and cheers. The energy in the group seemed to have ratcheted up by several notches since she’d arrived, which wasn’t a bad thing. I loved when folks were enthusiastic about wildlife—Florida wildlife especially. We had one of the most unique ecosystems in America, and I felt that more people should take interest in the place.

“If they learn about it, maybe they’ll save it,” Dad used to say, and I couldn’t have agreed more.

I was halfway out the door when I realized that Kristi was now taking selfies with the group. Stifling a sigh, I went back in and waited until they were finished. This took at least ten minutes, since everyone had to gush over her and post the pictures to their social media. I noticed she kissed all of the men on the cheek during the selfies.

“This is like meeting a rock star and the president all in one,” one of the Iowa Bigfoot hunters declared.

My odds of eating a gourmet grilled cheese were dwindling. Then again, I could endure anything for two grand—even buy my own Gruyère at the Publix down the street.

I studied my group. This was going to be a weird walk, I could feel it. Still, I had hope that I could grab a cute photo of Kristi and me. Maybe she’d even give my sister’s bookstore a shoutout on her social media.

Vera would be beside herself with joy. A picture of us on the trail would be perfect.

We set out under a bright Florida sun. Ahh. It felt like I was breaking free from jail, going from the stale air in the conference hall to the clean, grassy smell of the nearby park. I could feel my muscles relaxing with every step I took toward nature.

As we ambled toward the park entrance, we introduced ourselves and said where we were from. Everyone was from out of state: Iowa, Montana, Nevada, and Texas. All mentioned that they’d spotted Bigfoot in their part of the country.

I considered asking if they had any proof, like videos or photos, or physical evidence, but I remembered those earlier words of caution. It wasn’t any of my business if these people thought Bigfoot was real, and I wasn’t being paid to talk about that anyway.

“Have you ever Squatched?” one of the women wearing an LGBTQ+ Bigfoot T-shirt asked me.

Was this a new social media platform? A dance on TikTok? “No, I can’t say that I have.”

She grinned, revealing a diamond in her front tooth. “Do you even know what Squatching is?”

I laughed, genuinely. “Not really. Wait, did you say ‘squashing’?”

Everyone stopped and gathered around. Grabbing my arm, Kristi leaned in and slurred, “You don’t know what Squatching is?”

“Squatching,” said the man in the black hat, “is the term for when you hunt Bigfoot. Or Sasquatch.”

“Or the Skunk Ape,” someone chimed in.

“I see. Well, let’s go Squatching.” I grinned, thinking about how I’d tell Jack every detail of this, and how he’d sound so hot with that low, easy laugh of his.

We quickly arrived at the park. The main path ran along the Wahoo River. At the trailhead, I paused.

“It looks like any other suburban recreational area, but there are predators lurking—”

“We are here at the trail and going to hunt some gatorsssss,” Kristi yelled. “And maybe we’ll play hide-and-seek with some cryptids, too! Squatch stroll! We’ve got a gator nerd with us. Her name’s . . . ah, oh hell. Amazeballs!”

All of us whirled in her direction. She was holding her phone, attached to her selfie stick, in the air. Her expression was somewhere between manic and utterly oblivious to the fact that she’d just interrupted the talk. We all watched as she shimmied her upper body in a little dance for the camera.

I froze. This was not the kind of social media exposure I’d wanted from her. “Um. Excuse me? Kristi?”

“I’m going live,” she said, then angled the camera so it captured me. “This is Madge, and she’s a gator trapper? I’m not sure?”

When she spoke, it sounded like every sentence ended on a question.

“Maggie. My name’s Maggie.” I folded my arms over my chest. I was all for girl power, girlbossing, and girlfriends. But this witch was now getting on my last nerve. No one disparaged my gator business.

Yet she ignored me and continued to talk to the camera. How could anyone be so rude, so inappropriate, so . . . selfish? As I studied her, I noticed something else.

She was sweating. Not just profusely, but like a waterfall. Her mascara was creeping down her left cheek. To me, she looked unhinged. This was the world’s preeminent Bigfoot researcher? Was she okay?

But I wasn’t here to ask questions.

“Say hey to my fans, Midge!” She shuffled over to me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, doing a duck face for the camera.

I raised my hand in a little wave and let out a manic, soft chuckle. This was supremely awkward. “Hey. I’m the Gator Queen.”

“Come on, girl, be more enthusiastic! Sell yourself! You’re live with thousands of viewers!” Kristi elbowed me in the ribs. She was close enough that I could smell her—she gave off a powerful stench of gin, sour body odor, and a heavy coconut perfume.

I fought back a grimace. Part of me was totally repelled by her, but another part felt terrible that she was out here with her ass hanging out, so to speak.

Something was clearly wrong. No one should be sweating this much on such a beautiful, seventy-five-degree spring day with no humidity. Then again, no one should be hammered on gin at this hour, either.

“Have you ever seen Bigfoot?” she asked me in a mock-serious tone, her eyes wide.

The group stepped closer, possibly to hear my response. Or they wanted to be in the live shot.

“Um, well, I don’t think so.” This wasn’t the time to explain that I mostly hated social media and that whenever someone pointed a camera at me, I froze like a deer caught in the headlights of a fast-approaching eighteen-wheeler loaded with boxes of awkwardness.

Do this for Vera.

“You don’t think so, or you don’t want to say?” She raised an eyebrow. “Hmm? What secrets of the swamp are you keeping to yourself?”