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

by Scott, D. D.

I silently screamed then choked on the melodrama.

  Of course the bitch’s stylist was fantabulous!

  I was her stylist!

  And she…was my Camilla de Vil!

  Before I could answer her or Roman, who I’d heard behind me actually say WTF out-loud, my not-so-faithful assistant Ross—who was about to be the next guy added to my Dead Guy List—mouthed ‘sorry’ then went back to his Blackberry which was evidently more important than me, his boss.

  Seeing that he had been unable to stop the beast now admiring my McQueen and demanding he make a note to acquire something for her just like it, I damn near went all McQueen on both their asses.

  While Ross was apparently punching Camilla’s request into his Blackberry, he kept making strange nods of his head as if he wanted me to look behind him.

  Too bad I followed his nods.

  WTF no longer adequately covered the horror scene I was about to become part of.

  Quickly approaching Ross’s backside were my dearest friends…fashion designer Roxy Rae Vaughn, cupcake baker and caterer extraordinaire Jules Lichtenstien and Bernard McCall’s daughter, sort of the reason I was in this mess, Alexandra McCall.

  And don’t get me wrong, I adored these girls, and at any other time would luuuvvv to do any Fashion Week with them.

  But not this year, when I was beyond McQueen-deep in Cozy Cash Hell.

  Although, I did have a few questions for Alexandra…but anyhoo…back to the real horror of this scene…

  My BFFs weren’t travelling alone.

  I was nowhere near that lucky…just unlucky, being as now Roman and I had to protect them from the mob too.

  Right behind ‘em, looking like the fancy-coiffed, blue-haired version of Charlie’s Angels—and yes, the Seventies vibe was very much a part of this year’s Spring Collections—but not when it meant The Mom Squad was now doing Fashion Week too.

  I turned to Roman, whose WTF had now turned into, “You have got to be fucking kidding me?”

  “I wish it all was a joke. God I do,” I said, plastering a Beverly Hills smile on my face my BFFs and The Mom Squad were sure to recognize as one purely for show.

  They all knew me better than sometimes I knew myself. Making them beyond scary people.

  I shoved-off Ross for a moment, leaving him to squeal with Camilla, while I hugged then fashion world, cheek-kissed each of my friends.

  “We know what you’re up to,” Alexandra whispered into my ear, “and we all thought you could use our help and support. Plus, Roxy’s been dying to bring us to Fashion Week Europe-style.”

  “Thanks, I think,” I whispered back, having no clue how they could possibly know the extent of my Cozy Cash involvement, but not having the time right then to ponder it. “But The Mom Squad? I mean really…who’s that desperate?”

  Alexandra didn’t have time to answer before Jules’ Aunt Tulip had pulled me into a huge hug, smothering me with every European language’s version of ‘hello’.

  “This is just going to be amazing. Aaa-mazing,” she said, tsk tsking her hands summonsing all the rest of the melodrama Camilla hadn’t yet sucked-up. “And you know, I read in several top fashion mags on the way over the pond that this year’s collections are all about sheer, sensual transparency. Why it’ll be like sex on the runway. How wickedly chic.”

  “I can’t wait to see the aphrodisiacs you prescribe for this,” Roman said, feigning a rough cough after his shitty snide remark.

  He and Tulip weren’t the best of friends. Actually, I think she just scared the hell outta him and his at times, uptight, royal-esque self.

  “Lucky for you, Thug Guard, I already have that all figured out. At least for the London Leg of our trip,” Tulip snapped back, never missing a beat, something I got a kick out of, although I wouldn’t be sharing that with Roman anytime soon.

  “You see, rumor has it, the London shows are going to have a strong digital element. The designers and houses are looking for a way to bridge the gap between their straight-off-the-runway clientele and their online clients. They’ll actually be live-streaming many of the shows and using every medium from Facebook to Twitter to show their fashions.”

  As she stated her case, Tulip’s eyes danced with mischief.

  “So how, from that fascinating tidbit of fashion scoop, are we getting to your beloved sex therapy techniques?” Roman asked.

  He was completely exasperated, I knew, because he was running his fingers through his hair while sighing at the same time. A bad sign in Roman Bellesconi body-speak.

  “Why Sex-ting of course,” Tulip said, looking at the rest of us for confirmation, which only got a few small-time chokes and giggles-held-in-check, out of respect of course for Roman’s Tulip-centered anxieties.

  “Of course,” Roman replied, giving me the wayyy evil eye then picking up his stainless steel briefcase which looked like it should hold some big ass weapon instead of the research and documents we needed.

  “I’ll even be doing live-streamed text and sex-ting demonstrations for my patients, right here from London,” Tulip said, never knowing when to quit or perhaps knowing full well, but not giving a damn, or perhaps even enjoying witnessing Roman’s unease.

  “Okay then,” Roxy Rae broke-in to the madness, never one to simply stay quiet and outta the ruckus in front of her. “How ‘bout we get rolling? I’ve got some private showings set-up in a couple hotel suites in the West End.”

  I gave Roxy a thumbs-up for thinking ahead like that. I couldn’t wait to get a few of my clients into her Raeve Boutique apparel. She was about to become an international sensation, especially now that she’d successfully become the new design darling for a couple top home-shopping channels.

  I’d been begging her to do an upper-end runway collection, and perhaps she was finally giving it some serious thoughts.

  I noticed Roxy’s mom Lily taking out her Blackberry and evidently going over the details with her daughter. Now that she was managing Roxy, Raeve was unstoppable.

  ‘Course anything with a Mom Squad Member at the helm was safe to call unstoppable.

  Along with Jules’ Aunt Tulip, Lily, and Roxy’s soon-to-be mother-in-law Kat McDonald, plus Jules’ boyfriend’s Grandma Lucy, aka Grams, no one stood a chance against The Mom Squad.

  In fact, they could probably take on the Russian Mob. I sure as hell knew Lowell and Larry wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Hmmm…not a bad back-up plan, I thought, making a huge ass mental note to talk to Roman about it. Perhaps later tonight, though, much later, after a stiff martini or two.

  “So, Honey,” Roman said with a much too sarcastic tone to catch any bees, “let’s get moving, we’ve made entirely too big of a spectacle here. You know what I mean?”

  “Honey?” Grams inquired. “Are you two now an item? I swear, no one ever tells me shit.”

  Roman did enjoy Grams. Actually, I think he was sort of fond of all of ‘em, except Tulip.

  He put his arm around Grams and motioned for all of us to follow him.

  “Don’t worry, Grams. You’re not the only one in the dark. But I’ll fill you in. And yes, you could say that Zoey and I are now an item. Isn’t that right, Plum Puddin’?”

  He gave me the sickest sweet smile I’d ever seen, oozing with right-backatchya-bitch.

  “Plum Puddin’? How kinky. Tell me more,” Grams said, her Betty White, all-innocent, but far-far-from-it, game-face on.

  Grams had actually kinda morphed into a Betty White-wanna-be, probably because she’d been watching way too much Golden Girls and Hot in Cleveland.

  And now that she’d been hanging around with The Mom Squad, she’d become much more of a sophisticated, kick ass Gram. It was as if the Beverly Hillbilly Gram she used to be truly had become Betty White-itized.

  “Oh, we’ve got tons to share with everyone, don’t we, Luv?” Roman said, giving me the evil eye before leading us to where R waited with our latest Bond mobile.

  I sure hope it wasn’t those vintage bikes we�
��d picked out in Vienna. ‘Course The Mom Squad would be all over those.

  Speaking of sharing the luv, I grabbed Ross by his elbow, and yes, I squeezed way too hard.

  “Ouch,” he wailed. “Honestly, I can’t help it. I tried to…”

  “I suggest you try harder. That witch could be the death of both of us,” I snapped, careful to be out of earshot of Camilla who was probably way too focused on herself and making all the heads in Heathrow turn her way than worrying about what we were saying about her.

  Ooooooo…but that kinda gave me a grand idea.

  Maybe I wasn’t gonna be the next Dead Gal…we now had a very viable body-double.

  And how Bond was that?!

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thanks to R wrangling us a few extra limousines—as if he always had additional ones on standby—we all made it to the super fantabulous Mayfair Hotel.

  No hotel in London screams Fashion Week like the ultra-luxurious Mayfair. If it’s the rich and famous, or young trendy socialites you want to see, book the Mayfair.

  And how, of all weeks, we were able to add nine people to our entourage and get a “No problem at all, Sir” from the hotel’s staff at check-in was a miracle.

  ‘Course they were responding to Roman, and I was quickly becoming accustomed to nothing being beyond doable if he were to ask it done.

  The Mayfair’s magnificently accommodating staff aside, we still barely made the McQueen Memorial before dashing off to the Victory Victoria Show for one of my fave new celebrities to add Top Designer to her repertoire…Victoria Beckham.

  Again…Roman had somehow pulled more miracles out of his multiple spheres of influence and arranged for our grouping of two front-row seats to now include the rest of our entourage three rows behind us.

  Camilla de Vil was quite annoyed, to my delight, to be unable to squeeze her less-than-zero, haughty frame into the front row. But, after I promised to get her backstage to meet Victoria following the show, she seemed to temper her rage to a pouty hiss as we all took our seats waiting for the show to begin.

  “What’s on your mind, Plum Puddin’? I’d have thought you’d be beyond exuberant to be back in your crazy fashion world, but I’m not getting that from your dead serious demeanor,” Roman said while flipping through the show’s program.

  “Interesting. It does seem I’m rather preoccupied with all things dead serious lately, doesn’t it? I wonder why?”

  I knew my response was terse, and he didn’t really deserve it. But maybe he did. Why did I keep having the feeling that I was the last to know all kinds of rather important pieces of our Cozy Cash Operation?

  But that was about to change too, wasn’t it? ‘Cause we decided to use my comfy cozy fashion world to catch us some criminals. And I was ready for my new charge.

  “Touché,” Roman said, giving me a small, well-practiced bow deferring to my decent comeback.

  “Sorry to be a bit bitchy. But now that I’ve got to find a way to catch our thugs, before they catch and kill us, plus entertain The Mom Squad and Camilla de Vil, I’ve got more on my plate than I bargained for.”

  “I’m pretty certain The Mom Squad can take care of themselves and find plenty of entertainment they probably don’t need to begin with. And as for Camilla, you’re paid to dress her, not entertain her, right?”

  Roman looked more than a slight bit pleased with his response, and I had to give him credit for kind of making sense.

  But still…The Mom Squad drove him nuts and he hadn’t spent half the time with ‘em that I had. And Camilla, well, she didn’t play nice when left by herself. Unless you knew her activities at all times, no one was safe. Which Ross sure as hell better get a grip on ‘cause I had other things going on right now and bigger villains to take out.

  “So back to Thug Guard trouble…”

  I leaned into Roman to make sure no one sitting next to us could overhear our conversation.

  I’m sure pondering how to take out suspects wasn’t anything the fashion elite and buyers on either side of us cared to cuss and discuss.

  “I’ve been thinking. Just like the lovely Victoria Beckham, my advantage is that no one in this biz tends to take people very seriously. They assume you’ll fail and in fairly short time too. And also, just like Beckham, I’ve been studying hard, taking the time to learn what I don’t know, and I’m about to prove myself more than deadly serious.”

  Even though I didn’t much care for the silly grin uplifting the corners of Roman’s luscious lips, I didn’t have time to pounce on it because I had too much I wanted to tell him before the show started.

  But before I could get his opinion regarding my plan to snare two of our problem thugs—Larry and Lowell—the bastards took seats directly across the runway from us.

  I reached for Roman’s hand to fill him in, but knew the minute I felt his fingers clamp tight around mine first, he already knew they were there.

  “Good. It looks like we have company. Exactly as I hoped we would,” I said.

  That briefly got Roman’s attention partly focused on me instead of our thugs.

  Never taking my eyes off their beady-little, black, gumdrop-spotted eyeballs that definitely showed Larry and Lowell’s in-kind gene pool, I leaned over and whispered into Roman’s ear.

  “So let me just ask you one thing. These kinda guys would not hurt me in such a public place, right? I mean, not with all these cameras and television crews and superstar-filled audiences, right?”

  “Probably not. But I’m definitely not comfortable with you asking that question. What’s up?”

  “You said we needed to use my fashion world expertise to get to these guys, right?”

  “I did. And now I regret it. What are you up to, Witherspoon?”

  “Trust me on this,” I said, squeezing his hand, which was still locked around mine, before I wiggled free from his dead serious grasp.

  “I do trust you, Witherspoon. It’s those two goons I don’t.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t you leave my sight,” he said, his voice no longer the least bit playful, but rather dark and daring.

  “Wouldn’t think of it. I’m not that brave.”

  With that, I stepped around the end of the runway which was just a few feet from where we were sitting and made my way over to Larry and Lowell.

  Both goons looked highly agitated when I approached them, which I’m sure was because they were hot on our trail and evidently closing-in fast. When I reached their seats, they both rose, which I noticed made Roman stand up out of his seat too.

  I put-on my best killer smile and took-in my foes. All four-foot something of Larry who reminded me sooo much of Joe Pesci in Home Alone I wanted to laugh.

  ‘Course wanting to laugh could just be my raw, scared-shitless nerves giving in to the rush of adrenaline surging my body as I tried to appear to be playing nice with my hit squad.

  Being strong in front of Larry wasn’t that hard since, thanks to my Louboutin’s, I towered above the miniature mobster.

  Lowell, on the other hand, was a different experience totally.

  Except for the devil-dark, tiny and round, beady eyes he shared with what was supposed to be his brother Larry, they looked nothing alike. And being as they were supposed to be triplets—Ludwig the deceased, Lowell then Larry—I just wasn’t seeing it.

  Ludwig and Lowell, yeah, they both looked like that Russian actor in one of the Rocky movies. But Larry, especially now that I was close enough to him to smell his pricey cologne, which damn near made me dizzy being as he had entirely too much on and his scent was competing with his brother’s for dominance, he looked like he’d been adopted and just claimed to be the third of this threesome.

  I held out my hand in front of Lowell first, hoping since he was so many feet above me, he couldn’t see my fingers trembling.

  “I don’t know that we’ve been properly introduced, but I’m Stylist to The Stars Zoey Witherspoon, and you’re Lowell Kohn, correct?�
�

  Pleased I’d gotten his big ass goat a bit, but quickly learning not for long, he took my hand. I jumped back a step. The guy seemed to want to crush my finger bones inside his huge palm. As I tried to casually remove my now sore hand from his brute-like hold, I couldn’t help but take-in a rush of air that damn near caused me to choke.

  “And I’m Larry, Larry Kohn,” the Joe Pesci-wannabe squealed, stepping in front of his brother and shaking my hand with a tiny little grip that, when juxtaposed with his brother’s, almost made me laugh.

  Not that I thought Larry wasn’t just as adept as his brother at wiping me off the face of Earth.

  What Larry lacked in sized, he more than compensated for in his handling of firearms. It was him who had been hanging out of Lowell’s car shooting at our limo in Vienna. And it sure as hell sounded like most of his shots hit our car.

  “Well then, I must say, that it appears perhaps we’ve gotten off to a rough start, but I wanted to at least try to befriend you both. And we certainly wouldn’t want this huge audience, well-captured-on-international-cameras, to think we weren’t all friends, right?”

  Larry immediately bought into my argument, and quickly fixed an imaginary piece of hair that he must have thought wasn’t well-greased to the side of his tiny little pinhead.

  Lowell looked like he could have cared less how many people liked him or not.

  “Anyhoo…Victoria is a personal friend of mine, and I’ve taken the liberty to arrange for you both to wear a gorgeous jacket from her private label men’s collection. Consider it my peace offering.”

  “We’re not into peace,” Lowell said, the permanent scowl he seemed quite comfortable with remaining smacked onto his perfectly square, Russian jaw.

  “Well, Lowell isn’t, but I am. And as the older of us, I make the decisions. We’d love a Victory jacket,” Larry said, without hesitation, before stripping away his current suit coat.

  As if on cue, Grams, The Mom Squad’s new Betty White protégé and my new protégé assistant, appeared by my side, winked at me, then handed me first a jacket for Larry then a gargantuan version for Lowell.