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

by Scott, D. D.

  Winning Nashville’s Best Heirloom Tomato Contest was all Kent McDonald had cared about. Admitting that was his Dad’s dream and not his still hurt Zayne, but the years had softened his pain. His dad had never given a rat’s ass that the rest of his family didn’t share his vision. As his son, Zayne was just expected to follow the McDonald tradition.

  Even though Zayne didn’t care about the contest while his dad was alive, his death had brought a sense of urgency Zayne couldn’t explain. Winning the title was a way he could please his father, something he hadn’t accomplished growing-up.

  “Okay, the way I see it,” Cody steered the conversation to the growing season. “Today, we need to decide which seeds to use. Then start to work the soil. Damian, I need you to repair and make new stakes. Zayne and I’ll build-up the beds.”

  “No problem,” Damian offered. “Just tell me how tall you need the stakes and how many.”

  “Will do,” Cody said.

  Zayne flipped through the cards, half-heartedly thinking about which hybrid he’d like to perfect for the contest. How could he narrow it down when none of them meant shit to him? How could he keep his focus on his dad’s dream while abandoning his own?

  He paused before passing on the Red Rocket Brandywine card. If his dad were still here, he’d go with this one. If for no other reason than to piss off the Baudlins who ran the neighboring farm. Zayne was sure Jack Baudlin, the oldest son, would enter the Baudlin Farm’s Red Rocket Brandywine. His mom had heard Jack’s dad boasting about it at the saloon. Nothing like a little vine-to-vine competition.

  “Let’s go for the Red Rocket Brandywine.” Zayne smacked the card in the middle of the table.

  “Are you sure?” Cody asked, blinking his eyes, evidently not sure he’d heard Zayne correctly. “You know that’s the one Jack Baudlin will enter. I don’t know if I feel like going head-to-head with him.”

  “C’mon, Cody,” Zayne baited him. “Where’s your sense of friendly competition?”

  “Jack’s a little too friendly, if you ask me,” Damian said. “If that family wasn’t so fiercely conservative, I’d swear that man’s gay.”

  Not that Zayne hadn’t wondered the same thing on occasion, but the chances of that were so slim, they didn’t warrant consideration. “Jack’s old man would kill both him and his lover. And you know it. Jack may be a tad effeminate, but he’s not gay.”

  “Zayne’s right, Damian,” Cody said, picking up the card with the mix notes Zayne had chosen. “How many gay tomato growers do you know?”

  “Well, if you believe the tomato’s a fruit…” Damian smacked his thigh.

  “Good thing your mom didn’t hear that,” Damian said between laughs. “You know how much she loves her gay artsy- fartsy friends. We’d be in the dog house for sure.”

  “Consider yourselves already in it, Neanderthals,” Zayne’s mom said swatting all three of their heads with her dishtowel. “At least those boys know how to treat a lady.”

  “So, the Red Rocket Brandywine it is,” Cody stated, bringing the conversation back to a respectable level while studying the cards containing the notes from the McDonald Farms’ past attempts growing that particular large heirloom tomato. He cleared his throat. “Shit, Zayne, this is the one your dad never got right. It says here he didn’t think the skin was as thin as it should be.”

  Zayne took the card and flapped it against the palm of his hand, wishing he could dismiss his uncertainties by flapping his brain. His nerves flicked under his skin, causing his arm to itch as if he had hives. “Don’t worry, my man. We’re going to figure it out.”

  “If you say so. But I sure as hell hope you plan on living and breathing the farm for the summer,” Cody warned. “Producing this monster, there won’t be much time for bootscootin’ and bar tendin’.”

  “Whatever it takes,” Zayne said, with much more conviction than he felt. “This one’s for dad, he’d —”

  Tires crunching in the gravel driveway directly outside the kitchen’s bay window interrupted him. Zayne reached his arm behind his chair and pushed back the curtain. Harry Baudlin, his son Jack, and Jack’s friend and ranch-hand Santos got out of Harry’s truck.

  “Speaking of thin-skinned. What the hell do those whiners want?” Cody demanded as they watched the trio approach the door.

  Jack waved at Zayne and smiled, earning the same from Zayne in return.

  But the Baudlin clan got nothing from Cody. Cody watered and tended the fruits of the McDonald’s labors when he wasn’t busy cooking at his family’s diner. He didn’t give a damn about the fruits next door.

  Zayne felt a surge of panic at his own lack of competitive edge against his father’s biggest competitor. The men who should have been his nemeses were nothing but fairly decent neighbors and frequent patrons of the Neon Cowboy.

  Now, if it was a dance-off…that was another matter entirely. Zayne had seen Jack on the dance floor numerous times at the saloon. The man knew some good moves. Zayne hoped he stuck to tomatoes.

  Zayne got up to open the door.

  His mom hustled out of the laundry room. “I’ll get it.”

  She whizzed past him, beating him to the door. The woman had the uncanny ability to know exactly what was going on without even being in the same room.

  “By the way, Zayne, your boots and clean socks are in the laundry room.”

  Zayne went to put them on, leaving Cody and Damian snickering. They may think he cow-towed to her demands, but he didn’t. He chose his battles carefully. Boots and clean socks weren’t worth premium billing.

  “What a nice surprise,” Kat said as she swung open the screened door, her voice dripping with forced niceties.

  When she packed it on that sweet, it was always a sinful departure from how she really felt. A talent Roxy shared with her.

  “C’mon in, neighbors.”

  Oh, boy. Zayne watched the action while he slipped on his socks and boots from the bench outside the laundry room.

  Harry tipped his hat on his way in, his face reddening. Yep, dad was right. Mr. Baudlin had a thing for his mom. Not that it mattered. She’d never give him the time of day. She’d outlived one tomato man, and even though she’d loved his dad, she’d never commit to another one.

  “Harry. Jack. Santos.” Zayne came toward them, shook their hands, and gestured toward the empty chairs at the table. “Have a seat.”

  “No. No thank you. We won’t be staying long,” Harry said, nodding his acknowledgement of Zayne and his friends.

  “So what brings you by?” Kat dazzled them with her best forced smile.

  “Well, the boys and I just wanted to check-in with you. We didn’t figure you’d be participating in the festival this year with Kent’s passing. But with the entry deadline approaching the end of the week…” He wiped his damp forehead with his hand. “We just wanted to tell you we’d miss the competition.”

  Zayne and his mom laughed simultaneously, exchanging ‘the look’ they shared when they knew much more than their opponents.

  “Well, it appears as if you’re in luck.” Zayne looked at Harry then Jack, whose neighborly smiles faded.

  “What do you mean?” Harry stood straighter and bristled, taking a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and patting it against his forehead.

  “You won’t have to miss our competition. The guys and I were just deciding which hybrid to enter.”

  Maybe he could enjoy this game, Zayne thought. Suddenly it was getting a bunch more fun to play. He sure got a kick out of watching Harry squirm, just like his dad always had. That — their competitive barbs with the Baudlins — Zayne and his old man had in common.

  “We’re going with the Red Rocket Brandywine. What about you?” Zayne asked unable to keep a smirk from forming across his mouth.

  Jack recovered first. He took a deep breath and shifted his weight.

  “Same one. Looks like we’ll see who’s the better tomato man once and for all — a Baudlin or a McDonald,” he said, the goodwill gone
from his voice.

  “Maybe,” Zayne countered, expecting Jack’s challenge but surprised by the edge in his normally genial demeanor.

  Zayne gathered the mix cards from the table and stuffed them into the box, silently chastising himself for not clearing them from view when he’d first seen the Baudlins’ truck. “Good luck. But if you’ll excuse us, we were just heading out to the greenhouses.”

  “No problem,” Jack replied, stepping out of Zayne’s way. “And good luck to you.”

  This time Jack’s tone was its ‘ole congenial self. He reached out to shake Zayne’s hand.

  Upon accepting Jack’s good sportsmanlike offer, Zayne fumbled the box, sending the cards flying through the kitchen.

  “Shit.” Zayne bent down, grabbing as many cards as he could off the floor, while Cody and Damian did the same.

  “Here you go,” Jack offered, handing him another one.

  “And here’s one more,” Harry said.

  “Thank you,” Zayne said, mentally kicking himself for being so stupid.

  His dad never would have let those cards out of his sight and was probably belting the top of his casket with his fists at his son’s ineptitude.

  Hell, Zayne hadn’t even known the notes existed until after his dad died. He’d stumbled across the box in his dad’s office. ‘til his discovery, he’d always thought his dad kept the seed mixes in his head. Man he was in deep.

  Winking at his mom and giving her a quick peck on the cheek, Zayne stepped out the back door, Damian and Cody at his heels, leaving her to get rid of the Baudlins.

  Poor bastards.

  Chapter Seven

  Roxy’s pharmaceutical-induced snore catapulted her out of a deep sleep. Rubbing her eyes, she tried to clear the haze blanketing her vision. But the fog was thick.

  Placing her hand over the top of her sofa, she pulled herself up along its padded frame. Stopping midway, she clutched the leather cushions, anchoring her nails into the supple fabric, until her dizziness subsided.

  Whoozyville was a rough ride and coming to was no Sunday afternoon cruise. But where exactly had she been? Her ankle, throbbing as if someone were thumping it with a rubber mallet, reminded her of her disastrous fall. But how had she gotten home?

  Oh, God. It was all coming back…in the form of Zayne’s rear end.

  Had she really commented on the nice nature of his ass? Nice one, Ace. So maybe she deserved the headache bouncing off her skull bones like a bonanza of brain freezes. But no one would blame her for thinking the man had one fine ass. She’d just forgotten in her medicated state that some thoughts should be ponder-only instead of ponder and pronounce.

  No wonder she rarely took medicine. The damn pills zapped her mind and body of all humanness, turning her into a dazed, loose-lipped lunatic. From here on, she’d deal with the pain instead of the loss of control.

  She tried again to focus her eyes, but the cherry red sofa blinded her. Please God, let there be no sun today. Dreariness and darkness. That’s what she wanted. But the gold-dusted particles streaming through the slats of her Venetian blinds hinted at a different Local on the Eight’s.

  Dipstick and Darling wiggled to life at her feet, licking her toes. Toes she swore looked blue sticking outside her surgical boot. But toes too cramped up and stiff to give a damn they were blue.

  Letting the dogs out for their morning duties was going to be a real treat. Moving around today period would be a pain in the ass — well, not in her ass.

  Her lips were sucked dry by the pain meds. She rubbed them together but moisture refused to surface. Even though dehydration seemed more attractive than fighting for a foothold on the stairs to the kitchen, she had to flush out her drugged-up stupor and attempt to drown the dysfunction swirling through her bloodstream.

  She swung her bad leg off the sofa, her booted foot connecting with Dipstick’s head and almost knocking out the poor dog. Dipstick yelped. Roxy winced. Darling went airborne then scampered for the door, evidently realizing her master still had another foot to put to the floor.

  “Oh, Dippy, Mommy’s sorry,” Roxy said reaching for the dog, who’d fallen off the sofa during the commotion.

  Dipstick shook his head. His eyes rolled in their sockets like a cartoon character sans the chirping birds. Shaking off the trauma almost as fast as it had got him, he trotted across the room like a proud, battle-hardened warrior.

  Well, if her dog could conquer a boot so could she. Placing her bad foot on the floor, Roxy added weight, one pound per square inch of pulsating pain. Finding stamina to maneuver her other leg off the sofa, she concentrated on its placement, careful not to get tripped up where the area rug met the hardwood. Feeling her blood rush to keep up with gravity, she stood, leaving one arm on the sofa as a safety.

  “Son of a —,” she said, adjusting her weight onto her good leg. “And I gotta be ready to dance by next Wednesday night.”

  Darling poked her head around the doorway of the studio, tilting her neck as if to say ‘excuse me?’

  “That’s right. You heard me, Darling. This chick will be dancing in three days.” Roxy searched the room for something to brace herself with, cursing her vain refusal to accept the hospital-recommended crutches.

  Seeing a broom in the corner, partly hidden by one of her shoe cases, she took a deep breath. Thanks be to God she’d spilled a bag of beads yesterday then left the broom instead of putting it where it belonged post-mess.

  She still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of cleaning-up after herself. In Manhattan, everything she’d left out, magically ended up in its original spot by the time her au pair tucked her into bed. Now, every object she touched ended up a semi-permanent fixture in whatever room she last used it in. Working at Raeve all day then designing her buckle line at night, something had to give. And house-cleaning it was.

  But worse than the clean-up by far was adapting to nobody being there to make her snug as a bug before bed. Nobody turned down her sheets anymore or fluffed her pillows or basically gave a damn how or if she slept tight. And yes, pathetic as it was, that kind of paid-for care was the only way she’d been used to measuring whether or not she was the least bit thought of or worthy of her family’s concern.

  Roxy scoped the distance to the corner then willed herself to move. Dipstick and Darling stayed clear of her path, although they both started panting, as if cheering her to victory.

  Using first a floor lamp, then her desk, followed by an over-sized chair and finally a wall for balance, Roxy hopped toward her broom, foregoing poise or grace.

  Locking her hand around the broom’s wooden handle, she turned back toward her canine cheerleaders. Seeing that she’d scored, they wagged their tails.

  “All right, you two.” She made her way toward them, using the broom, bristles down, in what looked like an awkward version of The Electric Slide. “Mommy will take you outside.”

  Leaving Dipstick and Darling to fertilize her backyard, Roxy hobbled back to the foyer. Needing a delay tactic before she climbed the stairs to the kitchen, she decided to grab yesterday’s mail. So far, her ankle hadn’t refused to cooperate with her mind, although it didn’t seem overly amenable. Each point of pressure and the brief pierce of pain following, reminded her she was a well-coutured klutz.

  She dropped her broom into the umbrella stand in the front of the foyer and opened her door. Diamond-edged sunlight fired into her eyes, each ray poking and prodding her pharmaceutical nightmare. A gorgeous southern morning she’d normally embrace with gusto, today, only intensified her massive, medicinal migraine.

  Leaning against the doorframe for added support, she shielded her eyes with the back of one hand. Shoving her other hand into the mailbox affixed to the façade of her home, she yanked out the mail, failing to catch a letter nestled between two fliers.

  “Shit.” She bent down to retrieve the envelope, but her equilibrium refused to equalize whatever it was supposed to, and she nearly took a nosedive into her azaleas.

  Slowly righ
ting herself with the letter clutched between her fingers, she recognized her dad’s handwriting. The sharp scratches of his penmanship clawed her ego. With the sun’s glare and without her glasses, she couldn’t make out the foreign postmark.

  “Wonder what the hell he’s up to?” she said as she shuffled back inside and closed the door.

  Arming herself with her broom, she fixed her eyes on the stairs and wiggled her nose. Maybe the broom, coupled with her best Bewitched-style nose twitch, would turn her stairway into an escalator.

  She hummed the theme song from the show — her family chef’s and her favorite show. Duh-Duh. Duh-Duh. Duh, duh, duh, duh, duh-duh. Hearing imaginary bells tinkling in her head, she wiggled her nose again.

  Nothing. The damn stairway stayed put. Promising herself she’d invest in a witchcraft manual and get the show added to her Netflix queue, Roxy gave up then stuffed the mail into a pocket on the front of her scrubs. Jabbing her broomstick into the carpet’s plush pile on the bottom step, she attacked the stairs, planning to cuss her way to the top.

  She’d whipped three stairs out of nine using her broom and the mouth of a Manhattan cab driver when her phone rang. Like she’d be answering any time soon. She nailed two more steps before her machine picked-up.

  “Rox, it’s Mom,” her mother’s oh-so-cheery voice etched into her answering machine’s memory. “Darling, I haven’t talked to you for days. Really. It’s been days, Darling. I’m at Elizabeth Arden between my seaweed wrap and pumpkin facial peel. Then I’m scheduled for the eucalyptus steam shower. I’ll try you again later. Ciao.”

  Roxy grunted her way up the last four steps.

  Life was so unfair. Her mom was wrapped in seaweed, while she was wrapped in bandages and a surgical boot and relying on a broom for life support.

  Or was it unfair? Roxy pondered that question as she and her broom finally landed in the kitchen. She parked the stick between two stools at her breakfast bar then stepped-and-glided her way to the refrigerator. Reaching for a carton of organic orange juice, she searched for something else to soak up the medicine coating her stomach.