WHITNEY
Over the next few weeks, things developed on all fronts.
Our grand opening had led to a closed case. After being treated at the ER for electrocution, T-Rex was released into police custody. Collin said the man seemed to have acquired an odd, random twitch from getting zapped in the motel pool, but it served him right. He’d killed Beckett Morgan there and had very nearly done me in too. If not for Sawdust coming to my rescue, I would’ve been floating in the pool along with the inflatable guitar.
Though T-Rex wouldn’t talk, it wasn’t difficult to figure out what had happened. As we’d suspected, he’d manipulated Beckett for his own gain, failing to share information with the singer and spreading falsehoods about him. We surmised that T-Rex had been the one to come across Shep Sampson’s song notes on the napkins, realize their commercial potential, and steal them for his client. Beckett’s family, who’d inherited the copyright, agreed to give Shep all rights to the song, plus a share of royalties on Beckett’s recording. It was the fair and right thing to do.
While a belt buckle with a T-Rex footprint was never actually found at Tomlinson’s home, his online shopping history revealed that he had ordered one the year before. He’d likely thrown it away after wearing it the night he killed Beckett, worried that someone might identify him by the unique design. Of course, someone had. Jimmy, Collin, and I. Not right away, but eventually.
T-Rex’s attack on me had been recorded on the motel’s security system—at least until the electricity short-circuited. Between the violent footage of T-Rex’s attempt to murder me, and the knowledge that a jury was likely to include fans of Beckett who’d give T-Rex the maximum sentence, the man’s attorney agreed to a plea deal requiring him to serve twenty years in prison.
With the murder resolved, the renovation complete, and his pockets now flush with cash, Jimmy decided to say goodbye to the Music City, climb back on his motorcycle, and see where the wind might blow him next. On his last night in town, we threw him a going-away party at the motel. He ended the evening by performing a perfect cannonball into the pool. We got up early the next morning to see him off. He promised to get in touch the next time he rolled through the area.
Collin extended his hand to Jimmy. “Happy trails, man. Beers on me next time you’re in Nashville.”
Jimmy took Collin’s hand and gave it a shake. “I’ll take you up on that offer. Thanks.”
The bids we received on the condominium units were, as Beckett’s hit song put it, “past your wildest dreams.” Buck and I made so much bank, in fact, that we were able to pay Presley her share of the market price for both a one-bedroom downstairs unit and a two-bedroom upstairs unit that Buck and I kept to lease out ourselves. The units would generate a consistent rental income that would help fund future flip projects. While my liquid assets were still mostly in the form of WD-40 and turpentine, my net worth increased tenfold thanks to the real estate I now owned. Never again would I have to grovel for a bank loan.
We paid Presley her share of the profits, and agreed to let her buy one of the ground floor units at cost. It was a ridiculously good deal for her, but we’d never have snagged the place if it wasn’t for her joining in with us at the tax sale. The deal also eliminated any residual guilt I felt over her former boss selling me my home on Sweetbriar Avenue rather than offering it to her first. We were even now.
Gia Revello and her husband bought an upstairs end unit and were among the first to move in. They were often seen sitting in chairs on the balcony with glasses of wine in their hands, gazing happily across the river at the downtown skyline. The other units sold to record label execs, rising country-western stars, a surgeon, and a defensive end for the Tennessee Titans, among others. Yep, the Music City Motor Court was a wildly successful flip.
In light of the frantic pace with which we had worked on the motel, Buck and I held off jumping into another flip project just yet. We took a few weeks off to focus on other things, including putting another bathroom in my house and helping out on carpentry projects with my uncle Roger’s business, which tended to be busy during the summer months. Of course, Buck was also focused on Colette. They’d been officially, and happily, dating since the grand opening.
Colette signed up for vendor-booth space for her food trailer at various festivals in the Nashville area. Word spread at the festivals that Voodoo Vittles served the best Cajun food outside of New Orleans. The line at her trailer was longer than the line at any other food truck. In only a short time, she amassed dozens of stellar ratings on Yelp.
Shortly after the Fourth of July holiday, Collin took me and his new telescope out to Natchez Trace State Park, which sat a hundred miles southwest of Nashville. With few towns in the vicinity, the area was exceptionally dark, a great place for stargazing and for Collin to snap photos of stars, nebulae, and other astronomical objects. A shooting star caught my eye, and I pondered how it was much like Beckett, a bright flash extinguished too soon.
Cleo continued to grow by leaps and bounds, and Sawdust continued to teach her new age-appropriate skills. She could now climb to the top of the cat tree all by herself, walk around the edge of the claw-foot bathtub without falling in, and spin a roll of toilet paper like nobody’s business.
Come August, though, I was itching to get back to work. I searched the real estate listings and the tax sale rolls, and drove around, taking a look at the properties. Finally, I found one worthy of our attention. I cornered Buck when he and Colette were watching a movie on TV at our house one Saturday night. “You ready to do another flip?”
“You got something in mind?”
“I do.” I plopped down on the sofa next to him and showed him pictures I’d taken on my phone.
“That looks like an old country church.”
“It is,” I said, “for now. Of course it’s no longer in use. But look at those stained glass windows. Most of them are intact. What do you say?”
Buck grinned. “I say glory hallelujah.”