Nancy Grace: The Eleventh Victim

Time was money, and every day of delay cost him thousands in potential profit. If Eugene couldn’t pull off Palmetto Dunes, he’d lose the deal in Hawaii…at the very least. His “friends” in Vegas backing the deals were not the understanding sort.

He had trusted others to handle the problem. They failed miserably.

He’d drive out to the construction site on the Island right after dinner, find out exactly what the problem was, and solve it. Himself.

Tonight.

Dooley County, Georgia

OF ALL THE PLACES C.C. HAD IMAGINED HIMSELF LIVING, OR even visiting, Dooley County was not among them.

An upscale Atlanta penthouse, yes. Tina’s place minus the voodoo roommate, yes. The Governor’s Mansion, definitely. The White House, a distinct possibility.

But never did he imagine the rambling former farmhouse that had been in Betty’s family for over a century would be his permanent abode. Her family barely tolerated him, practically holding their noses at him just to get through a single dinner. He could feel it emanating from the walls of the front room when he walked in. And the feeling was mutual.

“Betty? I’m home!” C.C. called out after he opened the screen door, flipped on the wall switch, and dumped his bags in the floor. He’d just have to make the best of it…for now.

True, he’d lost his reputation, Tina, the bench, the governorship…but he still had Betty.

And more important, he had Betty’s money.

After the dust settled, he could regroup and get his campaign back up and running again. Show ’em C.C. was still in the race.

“Sugar Pie?” he called, leaving his bags lying there in the hall and making his way through the house. Betty usually unpacked them for him.

Speaking of pie…

She usually welcomed him home with a homemade peach pie, hot from the oven.

Sniffing the air, he smelled only a hint of Lysol and all the musty antiques Betty’s family was so hung up on. He briefly remembered when he’d placed a glass of ice tea on her grandmother’s antique buffet without a coaster. It was as if a possum got in the house and climbed on the dinner table, the way they’d all rushed around.

Walking room to room, he noted she’d changed things around a bit. Bought some new furniture, gotten rid of some of the old-including his favorite recliner, he noted, as he glanced into the living room. He loved that thing!

She’d probably just sent it out to be re-upholstered. It had seen better days. Or better yet…she’d ordered him a brand new one! To surprise him now that he’d be spending more time here with her.

And he would-in the immediate future, anyway.

“Betty?” he called, making his way to the kitchen in the back of the house and opening the screen door out into the backyard.

The house was silent.

And not just the house. It had been so long since C.C. had been back home to Dooley County for any extended period of time, he had actually forgotten how quiet it was. Even with the kitchen door wide open, he couldn’t hear a sound.

Finally a dog barked in the distance…and that was it.

What the hell would C.C. do with himself, stuck here with Betty for who-knows-how-long, and nothing to do?

Turning back and heading into the kitchen, he went directly for the high cupboard where he kept his stash of bourbon…he stopped in his tracks.

There, squarely in the center of the table, sat a big, yellow manila envelope, his name scrawled on the front in black Sharpie, Betty’s handwriting.

Something told C.C., even before he opened the flap, this was not a love note.

He was right.

In fact, it was quite the opposite.

Divorce papers…along with all the newspaper clippings about the trouble he’d gotten himself into at the Pink Fuzzy.

There was a note from Betty, too.

Don’t bother looking for me. I’m on a Carnival Cruise to the Bahamas with John David. P.S. don’t bother going to the bank. And remember, the house belongs to my aunt Fruttie.

So.

That’s how it was.

His wife had run off with the farm overseer, leaving him high and dry.

C.C. found a bottle of bourbon and took it out onto the back steps.

There he sat in the hot, still darkness, slapping at mosquitoes and blowing upward through his bottom lip to keep the gnats off his nose and eyes. He couldn’t stay here-glancing at the papers in the folder, he saw that even the lawyers said so.

He wondered what Tina was doing tonight. She’d gotten over the tranny, but she’d told C.C. how “the trust was gone” between them.

God, he missed that girl. For the rest of his life, he’d go to sleep remembering the routine to “Freebird” she’d finally worked up. It was a doozy.

C.C. sat in the silence awhile longer, looking out the screen door into the backyard. Hell, he could make a comeback. He still had a law license.

He could always practice law.

St. Simons Island, Georgia

THE MOON RODE HIGH AGAINST A BLACK VELVET SKY. VIRGINIA parked her Jeep and got out just at the point before sandy grass turns to pure beach. She reached back in to cut the lights so as not to scare the sea turtles.

It was that time of year, the magical few months when, only under the cover of darkness, the loggerhead sea turtles swim ashore, find their way across the sand, dig their secret nests, and lay tiny eggs. Endangered, according to the feds, they searched the world and chose the Golden Coast to raise their young. A safe haven…until now.

Inside the Jeep, the wieners, the whole yapping bunch of them, made it vociferously clear they wanted out.

“ Sshh! I promised a ride, not a walk.”

They didn’t care what she’d promised and continued yelping frantically like all their little lives depended on getting out the one window.

The turtles would not appreciate the wieners’ sincere attention, so Virginia pressed the button to automatically lower the window on the driver’s side, just enough to give them some air, but not escape.

“Don’t even think about it, or it’s no treats forever,” she told Sidney, turning to find his watchful gaze on her, both ears standing straight up in the dark of the Jeep’s cab.

Just to be on the safe side, she raised the window another quarter inch.

“I’ll be right back.”

The salty air whipped Virginia’s hair when she stepped away. She had eased up, hoping her engine wouldn’t disturb the turtles.

They were here first, after all, inhabiting the beach long before the Indians roamed the coast, before the Spanish came searching for gold, before slaves were finally set free, before German subs trolled this very shore, spying on the Rockefellers and Gettys who summered here.

Now Palmetto Dunes was set to do what even the German subs didn’t…destroy their habitat.

Walking out halfway to the water, she sank down on the damp sand, sitting Indian-style, her body still aching from the beating.

What next?

How long could her band of misfits, amateurs all, thwart the multimillion-dollar plans of powerful developers and local politicians in league with God-knows-who.

Speaking of God, it had been a long time since Virginia had had any contact with Him/Her.

Now was as good a time as any to break the ice.

“God, it’s me, Virginia. I don’t blame You if You don’t accept this call. I know You only hear from me when I need something.” She hesitated. No other way to say it, so she tried the direct approach. “But guess what? I need something. I need help to stop this.”

She nodded her head backward toward the construction site in the distance. She knew He’d know what she meant by “this.”