Carpenter Whitney Whitaker, her cousin Buck, and guard-cat Sawdust just scored a hot property near downtown Nashville in a tax sale. While the Music City Motor Court might not be much to look at now, the two plan to transform the motel's twelve units into six one-bedroom condominiums with popular mid-century styling. But surprises await when Whitney discovers a squatter living in Room 9 and Sawdust uncovers a body in the bed next door.
A LIVING NIGHTMARE
The murder victim is none other than Beckett Morgan, an up-and-coming country-western singing sensation who's taken Nashville by storm with his number-one hit "Party in the Pasture." Beckett's left a long trail of broken promises and broken hearts, and the list of suspects seems endless. So does the line of female fans intent on halting the flip and turning the construction site into a shrine for the deceased star. If Whitney and Buck don't help Detective Collin Flynn nail the killer, they'll never be able to clear out the star-obsessed groupies, complete the remodel, and recoup their investment. But just who silenced the singer and why?
Release date:
February 9, 2021
Publisher:
St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages:
320
Reader says this book is...: female sleuth (1) quirky supporting cast (1)
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It was barely sunup on a day in the middle of May when I was wakened by the sensation of my fluffy, buff-colored cat headbutting my cheek with his furry forehead. Who needs an alarm clock when you’ve got a cat to tell you when it’s time to wake up?
With a yawn and a sigh, I opened my eyes. Seeing that his efforts had been successful, my cat revved his motor and launched into a loud purr meant to further encourage me. I reached out my hand to pet my furry fellow. “All right, Sawdust. Mommy will get up and get your breakfast.”
Sawdust trotted along next to me as I made my way out into the hall. On hearing our footsteps, my roommate’s long-haired calico kitten came skittering out of her bedroom at warp speed to join us. In her zealousness, the kitty overshot her mark, bouncing off the opposite wall like a fuzzy pinball. Fortunately, she was no worse for the wear. I led them to the kitchen, split a can of flaked tuna between them, and gave them both a nice scratch behind the ears.
“You two behave yourselves today,” I admonished them. “I’m off to buy some real estate!”
* * *
Later that morning, my cousin Buck and I walked into the Davidson County Courthouse with a spring in our steps, big ideas in our heads, and a certified check for ninety-five grand in my purse. Having spent much of our childhood together, Buck and I were as close-knit as siblings. We looked like siblings, too, sharing blond hair, blue eyes, and a tall stature. Buck’s father—my uncle Roger—ran a carpentry business, and had taught us both the ins and outs of woodworking when we were young. We’d started off building birdhouses, later graduated to doghouses, and, these days, we’d partnered to flip houses made for human inhabitants. We’d recently earned a nice profit on the sale of a three-bedroom, two-bath Colonial we’d purchased and remodeled. We planned to plunk that profit down on another property and see if we could double or maybe even triple it. Flipping houses was a risky venture, though, like real-estate roulette. But we had nothing to lose—unless you counted our money, our solid credit ratings, and our confidence in ourselves. I chose not to.
The property we’d set our sights on this time was, ironically, not much to look at. The abandoned one-story motel dated back to the 1960s, when men with mutton-chop sideburns and women with bouffant hairdos pulled into the place in their Chevy Chevelles, Plymouth Barracudas, or Ford Fairlanes. Currently, the place sported sea-foam green stucco and scratched pink doors, along with plastic tarps and plywood. Years had passed since anyone had paid taxes on the place, slept in its beds, or swum in its now-cracked pool. But with my mental crystal ball, I could envision the twelve motel rooms turned into six one-bedroom condominiums with contemporary conveniences and a charming retro façade that incorporated the guitar-shaped neon sign in the parking lot. With the property’s prime location just across the Cumberland River from downtown Nashville, we could earn a huge gain—assuming we were the highest bidders at today’s tax auction.
We checked in with the clerk at a table outside the room where the auction would be held.
“Name?” she asked, looking up at my cousin and me.
I spoke for us. “Whitney and Buck Whitaker.”
She wrote our names down on a sheet of paper and held out a numbered paddle. “Here you go.”
I eyed the paddle. Number 13. Call me superstitious, but I got a bad vibe. “Any chance we could get a paddle with a different number?”
The woman eyed the line forming behind us and sent me a sour look. “No. Sorry.”
Buck pushed me forward into the courtroom and muttered, “You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.”
“I wasn’t throwing a fit,” I said. “I just don’t want to be jinxed.”
But jinxed we appeared to be. There, in the front row, sat Thaddeus Gentry III. Even from behind, I recognized his stocky physique and thick, wolf-like salt-and-pepper hair. His lupine resemblance didn’t end at his hair either. He was a predator, slinking around the city as if it were his territory, searching for unsuspecting prey. Thad Gentry owned Gentry Real Estate Development, Inc., referred to as GREED Incorporated by those who disliked his tactics, including yours truly. Gentry was a ruthless real estate developer who swooped down on older, unsuspecting neighborhoods and rebuilt them, running off long-term residents in the process. Rather than rehabbing rundown areas in modest and affordable ways that would allow residents to remain, he strategically purchased plots, razing old homes and building new, bigger, upscale houses in their stead. Older homes would end up sandwiched between his expensive new structures, which caused lot values to soar. The neighbors would find themselves unable to pay the increased property taxes on homes they’d lived in for decades. Gentry would buy them out when they were forced to put the homes they could no longer afford on the market.
Buck and I had a much different philosophy about real estate. While we were in the house-flipping business to make a living, profits were not our sole concern. Our focus was on providing a safe, well-constructed, and visually appealing residence for the people who would someday call it home. The two of us also enjoyed the artistry involved in revisualizing an outdated eyesore, as well as the simple satisfaction that comes from physical labor.
Not long ago, Gentry and I had butted heads when he’d purchased the house next door to the one in which I now live. He’d attempted to have the adjacent property rezoned from residential to commercial, which would have caused the value of my house to plummet. He’d been suspected of bribing a member of the zoning commission, then settling the matter to prevent the truth from coming to light. I’d managed to beat him then, but could I beat him now? It was doubtful. Our funds were limited. Gentry’s, on the other hand, were limitless.
I elbowed Buck in the ribs to get his attention and jerked my head to indicate Gentry. Rubbing his side, Buck followed my gaze and frowned. He knew why Gentry was here. For the same reason we were. To put in a bid on the Music City Motor Court. Although the land on which the motel sat was a mere half acre, its location and skyline view made it a potential gold mine.
Buck and I slipped into the back row and put our heads together.
“We can’t let Thad Gentry steal this chance from us!” I whispered.
“How can we stop him?” Buck asked.
I bit my lip and raised my palms.
Buck’s eyes narrowed as he thought. “You think the Hartleys would make you another loan?”
Marv and Wanda Hartley owned Home & Hearth Realty, the real estate company where I worked part-time as a property manager. They’d generously loaned me the funds to buy the Colonial that Buck and I had recently flipped. They’d give me another loan if I asked, but I’d really hoped the arrangement would be a one-time thing, that Buck and I would be able to buy another property on our own this time, without help. My parents would gladly loan me some money, too, as would Buck’s. But with me having reached the big 3-0 and Buck being on the backside of thirty, we were getting a little too old to run to Mom and Dad for money. We earned decent livings and could support ourselves, even save a little. But if we couldn’t manage this on our own, maybe we were trying to bite off more than we could chew.
Before I could respond, the courtroom doors opened and in walked Presley Pearson on a pair of four-inch heels. Designer, no doubt, though I’d be hard pressed to identify any footwear brand not sold at Tractor Supply, where I purchased the steel-toed work boots I wore when making repairs at rental properties or helping out in the family carpentry business. Presley was smart and chic, with a short angular haircut that framed her dark-skinned face. Presley could be the solution to our problem—if she didn’t still hold a grudge against me. She and I had a checkered past. I’d bought my current home from her former boss, and she’d been rightfully upset that he hadn’t offered the house to her first. But by the time I’d learned she was interested in the property, the deal was done. Her boss was later found dead in the front flowerbed, so she’d dodged a proverbial bullet. Buck and I were now stuck with the unmarketable house. Nobody wants to buy a property where a person was murdered. Not without an enormous discount, anyway.
I stood and raised a hand to stop her. “Presley. Hi.”
She turned my way and her face tightened. A reflexive reaction, I supposed. “Hello, Whitney,” she said in a tepid tone.
“We’d like to talk to you.”
Buck stood, too, arching a brow. “We would?”
“Trust me,” I whispered to him. I held out a hand to invite Presley to sit next to me and Buck on the bench. Once we were all sitting, I asked, “Which property are you planning to bid on?”
She kept her cards close to her vest and turned the tables on me. “Why don’t you tell me first?”
Unlike her, I exposed my hand. “The Music City Motor Court.”
Her face sunk as she realized she had competition for the property she’d hoped to purchase.
I angled my head to indicate the front row. “See Thad Gentry up there? I have a hunch he’s here to bid on the motel too.”
She eyed the man and sighed. “Gentry Development is flush with capital. There’s no way I could beat his bid.”
“Neither can we,” I said. “Not alone anyway. But what if we pooled our resources?”
She stared at me for a long moment, evidently engaged in a mental debate with herself, before asking, “How much were you going to bid?”
“Ninety-five thousand. You?”
“Sixty-eight,” she said. “It’s all my savings.”
Now $163,000 would be chump change to Gentry, and we all knew it. Fortunately, a devious idea popped into my mind. I gave Presley a quick overview of our plans for the property, assuming we were lucky enough to land it.
“Condos?” she said. “That’s a fantastic idea. They’d go fast and for a high price too.”
She’s in. I looked from Presley to Buck. “Are you two above pulling a fast one?”
“So you’ve dealt with him too?” It wasn’t surprising that Presley and Gentry would have interacted at some point. After all, Presley’s former boss and Gentry were two major players in the Nashville real estate scene.
“He came to the office once,” Presley said, “but he didn’t even glance in my direction. I’ve only spoken with him on the phone. He was always rude and pushy.”
Good. The fact that she hadn’t dealt with him in person meant he wouldn’t recognize her. He wasn’t likely to recognize Buck either. As for myself, that was another matter. Thad Gentry and I had a run-in at our properties a while back, and there was no love lost between us. He’d probably recognize me, and he certainly wouldn’t trust me.
We put our heads together and came up with a plan. Even after a property has been auctioned off in a tax sale, the county does not issue the winning bidder a valid deed until the expiration of the applicable redemption period. During the redemption period, the delinquent owner could redeem the property by reimbursing the purchase price paid by the bidder, as well as the delinquent taxes, penalties, interest, and court costs. Purchasing a property that was likely to be redeemed was a waste of time and would tie up funds that could be better invested elsewhere. If we could convince Gentry the motel was at risk of being redeemed, maybe he’d decide not to take a chance on it.
Buck took our #13 paddle, and he and Presley headed to the second row, taking seats behind Gentry. I, on the other hand, slid down to the end of the back row and slouched, doing my best to make myself invisible.
As the room continued to fill with people interested in placing bids in the tax auction, Buck and Presley made what appeared to be idle conversation, but that was actually full of fibs about the property. Though I was too far away to actually hear their discussion, based on our sneaky plan, I knew it went something like this:
Buck: “No point in bidding on the Music City Motor Court. I met the owners when I was checking out the property yesterday. They’re pulling funds together to redeem it.”
Presley: “Are you sure?”
Buck: “Yep. Their new investors were with them. Couple of wealthy guys from Chicago. Flew down on their own private jet. Anyone who bids on that property is a chump. I’ve set my sights on that parcel off Lebanon Pike. There’s an old farmhouse and barn on it now, but apartments are sprouting up all around that area. It’s just a matter of time until a developer comes a-calling.”
Gentry turned his head slightly, clearly listening in on Buck and Presley’s conversation. But if he overheard something they said and took it to heart, that was his problem, not ours. He shouldn’t be eavesdropping on a private discussion.
A few minutes later, the room was full and the auction began. Several smaller houses sold before the auctioneer announced that the next property up for bid would be the one along Lebanon Pike. Several bidders raised their paddles, including both Gentry and Buck, who was toying with the tycoon. Others dropped out as the price went up. The auctioneer continued to raise the price by five-thousand-dollar increments until Buck bailed out at eighty grand.
As Gentry raised his paddle one last time, the auctioneer brought his gavel down. “Sold for eighty-five thousand dollars to bidder number eight.”
Gentry cut a smug look back at Buck, who shook his head in pretend disappointment. I fought the urge to laugh out loud. Gentry was a smart man, but he was also a fiercely competitive one who didn’t like to lose. He shouldn’t have been so hasty. He’d just bought a worthless piece of land in the Mill Creek floodplain. Before it could be developed, expensive grading and flood-control improvements would have to be made. Sucker!
His business concluded, Gentry stood and left the room to finalize the paperwork in the clerk’s office down the hall.
The auctioneer announced the legal description of the next parcel of land, then said, “Otherwise known as the Music City Motor Court.” When he started the bidding, a dozen paddles shot into the air. Darn! Looked like we weren’t the only ones who realized the property’s potential.
Buck raised his paddle over and over as the price went from $100,000 to $110,000 to $120,000. About half of the bidders dropped out at that price, but several remained. The bid went to $130,000, then $140,000, and $150,000. By then only Buck and another man were still in the game. My intestines tied themselves in knots. We wanted this property—bad—and it looked like we might lose it!
The auctioneer raised the bid by only $5,000 this time around. “Do I hear $155,000?”
We had only eight thousand more dollars to go before we’d have to drop out. Argh! I crossed my fingers. For good measure, I crossed my toes too. Not easy to do in steel-toed boots.
Buck hesitated a moment before raising his paddle, a strategy to make the other bidder think twice about further raising his bid.
Seeing the hesitation of the remaining bidders, the auctioneer increased the bid by a smaller amount. “Do I hear $158,000?”
Both Buck and the other bidder waited a moment, before Buck slowly raised his paddle. The other man did likewise. I fought the urge to scream. I’d already visualized exactly what we could do to the property, had jotted down notes and sketched out some ideas. This man was screwing around with my plans, and I didn’t like it one bit!
“Do I hear $160,000?” The auctioneer’s head swiveled as he looked from Buck to the other bidder.
The other bidder raised his paddle and sent a scathing look in Buck’s direction. Buck raised his paddle as well.
“Can I get $162,500?” the auctioneer called, his eyes wide with anticipation.
The other man exhaled sharply, frowned in defeat, and shook his head. He’d reached his limit. Buck raised both his paddle and a victorious fist as the auctioneer brought his gavel down. “Sold to bidder number thirteen!”
Maybe 13 wasn’t such an unlucky number after all. We even had $500 left over.
Buck and Presley stood and made their way down the aisle, both of them beaming.
I met them at the door, giddy over our win. “We did it!” I held up a hand and exchanged high fives with my cousin and our new business partner. I only hoped we could all work well together. Buck and I had developed a system. Adding another person to the mix could complicate things. But we’d cross that bridge if and when we came to it.
We headed down the hall to the clerk’s office and stepped up to the counter beside Thad Gentry. He did a double take when he recognized me. I gave him my best smile. He frowned and turned away.
The matronly clerk took the approved bid from Buck and said, “You bought the Music City Motor Court, huh? I stayed there once back in the day. Got sunburnt out by the pool. Had a fun time, though.”
Gentry’s head had snapped in our direction when he overheard the woman mention the motel. His eyes narrowed as he looked from me to Buck and back again, seeming to notice the family resemblance.
I offered him a smug smile. “Didn’t your mama tell you not to trust in rumors?”
The man skewered me with his gaze and chuckled mirthlessly. “Well played, Miss Whitaker.”
Well played, indeed. Thad Gentry might not like me, but at least now he respected me.
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