Bootscootin' and Cozy Cash Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-6)

by Scott, D. D.

  She didn’t want to wait for her staff to catch the call. She’d take it. She’d deal with his excuses then go right to Plan B to compensate for his latest screw-up.

  She set down the icing tube she was color-testing for the last of the cupcakes and reached for the cordless phone.

  “Sweet Destiny Bakery and Catering, may I help you?” she asked with more uplift in her voice than she’d had since taking on Sienna and her wedding.

  But after noting all that she’d already accomplished, according to her lists, she was proud she’d gutted out the monstrous gigs and stood where she did today. She was about to make her first major job in Music City a huge, huge success.

  “Jules, is that you?”

  “Yes, it is.” She didn’t recognize the voice on the line.

  Hell, she had difficulty even determining if it was a male or female.

  In fact, it kinda sounded like Rebecca Romijn from the eerie, black-lit Ugly Betty scenes when her character underwent the final procedures of the transformation from Alex to Alexis Meade.

  Who the raspy, rather robotic, part male-part female voice belonged to was anyone’s guess.

  “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

  Jules didn’t have time to waste so tried to push the caller to get to the point.

  “It’s Jacques. I need you.”

  “Jacques?!”

  What the hell?!

  So help her if he’d been saloon hopping again and was now hung-over she’d kill him. When was he ever going to grow the fuck up and accept the responsibilities of his business?!

  He couldn’t keep going like this. Someday soon someone was going to tell him to go screw himself, regardless of the size of the paycheck he was giving them to cover his sorry ass. And the likelihood of that someone being her was a real safe bet.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?! Where are you?! And so help me your voice better be sounding so damn fucked-up because your hanging upside down attaching that chandelier to the main tent’s ceiling braces!”

  “I’m at my plastic surgeon’s office. Ouch! Oh God. That hurts.”

  “Your surgeon’s office?! I’m covered in cupcakes, cookies, wedding cakes, and your event planner snafus while you’re getting a cosmetic procedure?!”

  OMG! Oh my fucking God! Jacques was a dead man. If that surgeon hadn’t ripped off his entire face, Jules would.

  “It was supposed to be a minor little thing. Really. It was. But something went drastically wrong.”

  Jacques started to cry, and not tiny, barely audible sniffles. We’re talking big ass sobs of hysterics.

  “What minor little thing, Jacques? And it sure as hell better not be a nose job, because no matter how good it is or how much you paid, I swear I’m gonna come down there and break the son of a bitch!”

  Needing something to pound, Jules slammed her fist into the icing tube, not giving a damn as the pink pearlized contents squirted out in all directions.

  “I had a chemical peel, Jules. It was only supposed to be a light peel. I swear. But the doc said I really needed to go deeper to get rid of some coarse wrinkles and uneven pigmentation.”

  “How deep, Jacques?”

  Jules picked up the icing tube, caressing the sharp, decorative tip, ready to use it to finish evening out Jacques’s uneven pigmentation.

  “Think steak tartare.”

  “Oh my God! You didn’t. The peel that damn near burns your face off?!”

  “Well — I think I still have a face. It’s just covered with petroleum jelly and adhesive bandages at the moment so it’s hard to tell. ‘Course my eyes are swollen shut and there’s some significant additional swelling there, tingling and throbbing too.”

  With each added description the panic in his voice matched the rage building in Jules’ chest.

  That son of a bitch.

  “Hello? Jules? JuJuBee? Are you there?”

  Desperation hung on his every syllable.

  “They won’t let me drive back to the hotel and say I need constant care for the next two days at least.”

  “First, don’t you dare call me JuJuBee. You haven’t and never will earn that right. Second, oh I’ll take care of you all right. And put you out of your misery long before the two days are up.”

  Jules stabbed the tip of the icing tube into the cork board holding her staff’s schedule, impaling it ‘til the sucker struck drywall.

  “Where are you?”

  Jacques gave her the address of his surgeon’s office, saying over and over again how sorry he was.

  But he didn’t know the first thing about how sorry he’d be once she got a hold of him.

  Being overly chemically-peeled was nothing compared to the hurt she was about to hand him. If he thought his face looked like minced meat, wait ‘til she got done with the rest of him.

  She’d had it!

  After shifting her workload to her staff and calling in two additional people, Jules left the bakery.

  She punched the accelerator of her hybrid to the floorboard testing its energy-efficient speed while dialing Cody’s cell phone. Thank God for programmed numbers. Her mind was too preoccupied thinking of ways to do-in Jacques to recall phone numbers.

  “Hello? Is that you Jules?”

  Grams’ way too loud and quite sharp voice cracked Nashville’s cell tower airwaves.

  She must have hit the wrong autodial number, Jules thought.

  Picturing Grams yelling into the phone, she laughed.

  Grams never grasped, despite she and Cody’s efforts to convince her otherwise, that cell phones had great reception in this area. Instead, she always hollered into the voice speaker as if she were taking the call from across the sea.

  “I’m sorry, Grams. Yeah it’s me. I must have pressed the wrong speed dial code. I’m trying to reach Cody.”

  “You got the right number, Sugar. But he ain’t here. He left his cell at the diner when he went for a ride on that damn death machine,” Grams said, never one to miss an opportunity to give her opinion on motorcycle riding. “Can I help you?”

  “I wish you could, Grams, but I’m not sure anyone can at this point,” Jules said and meant it.

  Jacques’ latest antics would probably be her and Sweet Destiny’s demise.

  “Try me,” Grams challenged, her tone assured and adamant she couldn’t be beat.

  Jules admired Grams’ gusto but was too all-in to hope for a change in her unexpected karmic twist.

  “Better yet, Sugar, I’ve got Tulip here having some sweet tea with me. So lay it on us. Let me see. Now how the hell do you get speaker phone on this thing?”

  “Oh boy,” Jules said while horrendous bleeps and techno-screech blips shot through her ears.

  “I heard that,” Aunt Tulip said, her sarcasm coated with sugar-sweet amusement.

  “And I meant it,” Jules retorted.

  Despite the impending drama awaiting her arrival at the clinic, she laughed at the two wild coots guarding her dreams.

  “I know you both mean well, but Jacques has outdone his dumb ass this time.”

  “How so?”

  The sugar in Tulip’s voice turned to ice.

  The term “hysterics” wouldn’t do justice to her aunt’s rage after finding out Jacques had once again screwed Jules over.

  Jules took a belly-deep yoga breath, bracing for Tulip’s outcry. Talk about ballistic. A rocket launch would be mild compared to the lift-off she’d witness from Tulip after recounting Jacques’ face now having more pits than Apollo’s moon.

  “The bastard is pretty much done for as far as carrying off the wedding,” Jules said, silently repeating an extra “ohm” mantra.

  “What do you mean done for?” Tulip’s chilled voice went from ice-cubed to iceberg.

  “He had a bad facelift today. Let’s just say he got overdone. Like a burnt cake.” Jules gripped her steering wheel to weather Tulip and Grams’ stormy blast-off. “I’m on my way over to the clinic to pick him up.”

  “You�
�re slaving away — hell we all are — while that bastard is baking in another acid peel?!” Tulip’s anger melted the iceberg in one heated question.

  “What a jack ass jerk-off,” Grams joined-in. “Wait ‘til I get a hold of that dickhead.”

  Amused not at all by her predicament, but rather enlightened by the prospect of trash-talkin’ Grams and her bitch-on-wheels-when-pissed-off Aunt Tulip going after Jacques, Jules giggled.

  And all bets were off regarding her having to any longer rein in her potty mouth.

  “Oh, we’re not waiting, Grams. His ass is ours now,” Tulip said, almost salivating judging by the extra rich, devilish thickness wrapping around her tone.

  She sounded like a very dark and determined Amazon about to kick some major ass.

  “Get your stuff gathered up, Grams. We’re about to become Jacques’ personal nursemaids. Jules, give me the directions to that clinic.”

  “Oh no. God no! You’re not going to the clinic.”

  Jules punched the gas when she meant to touch the brakes to ease into the next lane of traffic. She let off her accelerator, glad her small car could sashay rush hour with a bit of room to spare. Crashing was the last thing she needed.

  “I’ll handle this,” she said.

  “You’ve got way too much riding on these gigs to deal with that asshole,” Grams said in a way Jules had learned meant the woman’s mind was already full of borderline crazy-ass ideas. “There are only two freak face places on the west-side of town, Tulip. So I got that info almost covered. It’s high time we help that dick find a new occupation.”

  “What?!” Now the woman must have really fallen off her rocker, Jules thought. “What are you talking about, Grams? If his ass can work at all, he’ll be helping us pull off Sienna’s wedding.”

  “You don’t need that kind of help, Sugar,” Grams came back at Jules like a pesky fly hell-bent on getting at a fruit pie left overexposed at a picnic. “But I know just the kind of uptight, obnoxious people on the opposite side of our great nation who do.”

  “How much sweet tea have you had, Grams?” Jules couldn’t think of anything else that would cause Grams’ delusions.

  “Screw the sweet tea, Sugar. When I get done with my plan, I’ll be celebrating with more than sweet tea. We’ll be talking hot toddy time. I’m not the one in my family with an alcohol problem. Yet. And Jacques, oh that pompous bastard will be begging to be put out of his misery.”

  “Oh boy,” Tulip now echoed Jules’ earlier sentiment. “This is going to be some kind of fabulous fun.”

  “You sit tight at that doctor’s office. We’re on our way,” Grams said, still about ten decibels above comfortable listening pleasure. “So which face disgrace clinic is he in then?”

  Sure she’d regret it, Jules gave them the clinic’s address. She could use their help. As much as she’d like to imagine she didn’t.

  But no yoga training on Earth could keep her from roughing up Jacques too. The idiot deserved what he was about to get. Any good karma he had left was expired.

  She hung up and dialed Cody’s home number, hoping maybe he’d stop there before returning to the diner. What she wouldn’t give to be with him on the back of his bike, riding away into the sunset, leaving all this BS in the dust of the bike’s exhaust.

  Cody’s voicemail greeting sounded. She left him a message — with all the frightening details then hoped he’d enjoyed his ride and cleared his head ‘cause he was going to need it.

  After screeching to a halt in front of the office address Jacques had given her, Jules marched into the building.

  Frustration damn near strangled her seething nerves.

  Ready to go after him one last time before her “Mom Squad” took over, she followed the receptionist into the recovery suite.

  She found Jacques, sitting on an examining table, whimpering like one of the Rugrat brats who’d lost his favorite toy.

  “Oh, Jules. What are we going to do? They say I’ll have disgusting, crusty scabs for seven to ten days. And that it will be two weeks before I can resume normal activities.”

  Jacques threw his hands into the air, although careful not to move his zombie-like, bandaged head.

  Jules wanted to skip all delicacy and just knock-off his acid burnt block.

  “I’ve got to be on a liquid diet and not much talking. And thank God they’re giving me pain medication.”

  “Pain medicine, my ass, Jacques. It won’t be near a strong enough dose for what you’re about to need, you worthless piece of shit,” Jules hissed, unable to summons an ounce of empathy for the cocksucker.

  How she could have seen anything of value in him other than his cooking skills pissed her off big time.

  “Where’s your heart, Jules? Can’t you see I’m mortified? Not to mention how bad I’m hurting? I could be scarred for life.”

  Jacques waved his hands in front of his face, fanning away tears that probably stung like hell sizzling on his raw skin.

  “After everything you’ve put me through, it’s a wonder I still have a heart. I don’t give a shit how mortified you are. This is the last time you’re going to rear your ugly head, figuratively and literally, in my life. I’m done with you.”

  Jules paced the floor in front of him, not proud of her remarks but taking comfort in that he deserved every one of them.

  “I’m sorry, Jules. I just can’t be seen in public like this. I look like a slab of Grade A top sirloin. What will that do for my image?”

  “Your image?! What do you think your lack of work ethic, lack of organization, and lack of follow through has already done for your precious image? Grade A, my ass. You’re a joke. That’s the only Grade A thing about you.”

  Jules glided across the waxed floor to a stop and lowered her face to his. She stared in between the bandages, trying to find his eyes amidst the grotesque chunks of swollen tissue.

  “You’ve only gotten where you are because the talented people you surround yourself with always bail out your lame ass.”

  Oh, I’ll get your ass back to your hotel and arrange for their staff to look in on you. But then I’ll finish the Cruz events without you, just like I’ve done most of them already without you. This is my image, Jacques. My success. Plus someone else’s night of a lifetime you’re fucking with. And all you can think about is yourself?! You’re a despicable excuse for a man, Jacques Marentino!”

  Before she could finish her verbal assault, her cell phone rang.

  Relieved to see Cody’s number on the display, she sucked in a deep breath of air then exhaled. “Hey, Sweet Man. You got my message?”

  Her heartbeat, now on overdrive, changed rhythm mimicking the pattern of Cody’s calm. Just hearing his voice, her blood pressure began a slow drop to just beyond normalcy.

  “If you could meet me at home in about an hour, that should give me enough time to get him to his hotel and overdosed on something. I love you too. And Cody, I do need you.”

  Hanging up the phone and turning back to look at Jacques, Jules sighed.

  Hearing Cody’s voice had given her peace in the middle of her personal storm. No matter what was wrong in her life, having him as her partner negated the bad, relegating life’s poisons to relatively little effect in the grand scheme of things. Sharing life with him, both the ups and downs, felt so damn good.

  With him watching her back, she had a renewed and unshakeable confidence. Nothing was out of her reach or beyond her capabilities.

  Although this time, it was going to take more than the two of them to make things right.

  She needed to call in the cavalry.

  Or maybe not, she thought, hardly able to suppress a giggle caused by the ferocious faces and imposing postures of the two women now filling Jacques’ doorframe.

  Her cavalry had already arrived.

  Jules took a seat next to Jacques’ exam table. She’d more than said what she wanted. And something told her, she wouldn’t need to do more.

  Aunt Tulip and Grams swept
into the room like bad karma witches in a beat-up pick-up truck instead of on brooms.

  Tulip gathered Jacques’ medical gown into a tight-twisted pinch and leveled her don’t-f-with-me gaze with his bandaged head.

  “Listen you piece of shit chef, caterer, chauvinistic pig, you’re done fucking with my family. Do you hear me?”

  “That’s right, you bimbo-esque bozo. You’ve screwed with the wrong brawds.” Grams flicked Jacques’ bandage-covered forehead as if she were squashing a nasty mosquito.

  “Ouch. Help me here, JuJuBee.”

  Jules shrugged her shoulders giving Jacques a clear indication he was on his own. His whimper and whine really were pathetic, she thought.

  “I told you not to call me JuJu Bee, and I meant it. You’re soooo fighting this nightmare yourself, Dumb Ass.”

  She stood up, feeling quite confident The Mom Squad could handle things from here.

  “Speaking of dumb asses, I hear you’re now in need of a new career.” Grams winked at Tulip.

  “That’s right, Grams. I just got off the phone with the Fan Fest Board’s secretary. She was more than willing to pull Jacques’ application from the finalist pool. It appears that they’re now done with you too, Blow Hard, and as soon as the secretary informs Sienna’s mother of your little medical emergency, she’ll probably put you in permanent intensive care for messing with her daughter’s wedding. I’d imagine she’ll probably let the rest of Nashville’s society crowd in on your issues too. Hmmm. Not much future left here is there?”

  Tulip pranced the room, each pop of her designer pumps to linoleum punctuating Jacques’ demise and doom.

  “You can’t do that to me. Losing the Cruz-type clientele, I’ll be ruined,” Jacques wailed, his misfortune ringing the top limits on all their don’t-give-a-shit gauges.

  “Don’t worry, Pretty Boy. We’re not as heartless and all about ourselves as you are, Turd Ball. We’re gonna see to it you have work. Far, far away from here. But work. Hard, hard, torturous work. In LA to be exact. Too bad it will be with the biggest bitches in Hollywood.”

  Grams said her peace then took a position next to Tulip, her tiny, string bean-lean legs shoulder width apart and her arms crossed.