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

by Scott, D. D.

  Two hours later, there we stood—SB, R and I—about to make one of the ultimate sources world-wide, for the best of Vintage Couture Clothing and Accessories, our very own James Bond, Quartermaster-style gadget lab.

  With SB and R flanking each side of me, I looped my arms through theirs, hardly able to stand the wait to see what our John Cleese look-alike “R” could conjure up from couture accoutrements.

  I had a feeling when he was done, both the British Secret Service, and my Secret Bond, would be most impressed with our super-cool arsenal.

  “I know you don’t appear to appreciate jokes about your work, R,” Roman said, pointing to the antique motorcycle directly opposite the door, “but I’m thinking that thing might be perfect for me.”

  “You can’t drive a proper auto, Double O Roman,” R said with a quite quick harrumph to booster his most assured bravado, “let alone that beauty.”

  I was really starting to enjoy Roman and R’s Bond-banter. And they sure seemed to have all the best lines and timing down. A funny pair they were. And in the thug-centric world I was now a part of, I figured I was damn lucky to have ‘em both on my side.

  “I’m good on a bike,” I offered, but then thought twice about the kamikazes we were up against, let alone the way the paparazzi and security police drove their motorcycles and Vespas throughout Europe.

  Not as if I had to think twice about my offer either, judging by the frowns framing both SB and R’s rather cocky countenances.

  Quite frankly, I just didn’t care for their attitudes…at all.

  They may not be too convinced about my prowess behind a bike’s handlebars, but they were about to enter my vintage comfort zone, and they’d soon see exactly the kinda talent I was made of. Talent, they’d be relying on to catch our thugs.

  “I sure hope you don’t plan on returning any of this merchandise,” R said.

  He whistled as he rifled through the closest price tags hanging from two fabulous, flapper-style, crystal and bead-studded dresses. “You know our boy Roman here isn’t too careful with either the stuff in my lab or in the field.”

  Roman tossed back his head and laughed, filling the room with his robust confidence and tons of super hot pheromones too.

  “Hey, you’re the guy all about making sure that number one, no one ever sees me bleed, and two, that I always have an escape plan. I can’t help I rely on your equipment to see to it that both YOUR goals are achieved.”

  “Nice try, but that was Q’s advice not mine,” R said, following Roman to an antique set of golf clubs tucked inside a gorgeous Louis Vuitton bag.

  “My bad. I forgot. Q’s gone. And I’m stuck with R, his ever-faithful assistant,” Roman said, while both he and R held-up golf clubs, each smiling, as if knowing the other agreed they’d struck gold.

  Well, golf clubs may have worked for the real James Bond, but we weren’t gonna have time to hit the links on our whirlwind, European runway tour.

  Watching these two, fun-loving on the surface—although super capable of a 007-style kill—goons at play, made my impending Spring Fashion Week trip suddenly take on a very National Lampoon element.

  I perused the vast collections before us, letting the boys continue to play, ‘til I stumbled upon just the right piece to begin our search for the perfect, gadget-worthy, fashion accessories.

  We didn’t need fancy watches with two-way cameras hidden inside ‘cause we already had my brooch, which today held my vintage Hermes scarf around my neck.

  I combed the clothing racks lining one of the gorgeous natural brick walls of the boutique. One-of-a-kind pieces, normally catering to fashion’s top stylist, Hollywood celebrities like my client lists, film, television and theatrical productions, and top designers too who found muse inspiration amongst and amidst these historical gems, would have entirely new roles.

  These historical relics would now be catering to the best scientific and spy-cific minds of whatever super-secret world Roman and R really came from.

  Too bad we couldn’t browse the attached five thousand square foot, rental-only archive. I was too afraid to agree to be responsible for any of those treasures, knowing damn well, with Roman and R’s wheels spinning, none of those pieces would come back in the same shape, form or condition as when we signed ‘em out. We’d have to buy whatever we needed.

  Suddenly, I hit my very own golden jackpot.

  I moved my fingertips along the graceful, hand-carved lines of a gorgeous pair of silk and satin stilettos.

  Ideas began bouncing across my temples, like the light from the elegant chandeliers overhead ricocheting off the pointed toes and heels of these fancy pieces of footwork.

  Not only could you perhaps put a real hurtin’ on someone with the pointed tips of these things, what if…yeah, what if some kind of weapon could be encased inside the heel?

  Next time Roman and R had me propelling outside tall buildings, crash-landing then sprinting into the back of a limousine barely on one side of its wheel-base, I was gonna remember to take off my shoes first. There was no way any good P.I. should wear the kinds of shoes I was used to. Too bad Sketchers weren’t vintage.

  I’d definitely be able to grab some sort of life-saving device outta the heels of my shoes first. Then jump.

  R might even approve of this plan.

  In fact, as I took in a wonderful wall full of beautiful old wardrobes, their doors open and jam-packed with all sorts of accessories, I knew exactly what kinda Bond Girl wanna-be I was about to become.

  Narrowing my vision first on two terrific, heavily beaded and studded, over-sized belts, followed by an abundance of spectacular hats arranged on stands covering the tops of the bureaus, I knew my weapons of choice.

  For now, screw the Glocks, I was going to become a new kind of steward of fashion footwear and accessories.

  Being able to wear many of these items was already to-die-for chic. So if the lack of comfort in donning them didn’t kill you first, why not actually be able to use ‘em to kill thugs and mafia dons too?

  Yes…yes…of course, I argued with my subconscious. Only if I needed to kill ‘em.

  But trust me, I coached my id, ego and superego, if any of you laid eyes on Ludwig, and now his brothers Larry and Lowell too, you’d be thinking killer designs and vicious vintage too.

  And it sounded like their sister Lucinda wasn’t gonna be my new BFF either.

  So yeah. I was coming at my new job from a totally new angle. My clothing and accessories would now be much more than showstoppers.

  Blame it on The Brooch.

  But I was one Stylist to The Stars who wasn’t about to be the first one seeing stars after being taken out by mafia thugs.

  No way.

  I intended on givin’ ‘em all the boot…and speaking of boots…I wonder what R could do with these terrific, vintage cowboy boots?

  Hopefully spurs were “in” this season.

  Chapter Twelve

  With R arranging and finalizing the purchase of all our vintage couture garments…soon to be armaments, Roman and I had some intelligence gaps to fill-in and decided to do so at a fabulous café on Graben Square.

  We were sharing a fantabulous sliver of dark chocolate, flourless cake and sipping our afternoon espressos on one of the most beautiful streets not just in Vienna, but perhaps in all of Europe. Graben Street.

  A street whose name means ‘ditch’ or ‘trench’, although the only thing remotely ditch-y or trench-y about it would be the reason we’re sitting here, trying to dig ourselves outta the Cozy Cash Operation trenches, before we’re the next ones left in some European ditch to die, compliments of the Russian mob.

  Famous for its elegant houses, monuments, shops, cafes and cake—no kidding on the cake either, the Graben area cafes are famous for their cakes, and I must say, the slice Roman and I were devouring made good on their claim to fame—let’s hope the trench built by the Romans, that had been filled-in during the 1100s to become the street on which our cute and quaint wrought i
ron table sat, fortified our Cozy Cash trails like it was our stomachs.

  More than comfortably seated at our table, a brilliant red umbrella shading us from the late afternoon sun, Roman and I began to talk shop. And no longer shop of the vintage couture variety. Try Dead Guy Scoop.

  “So here’s what we know,” I said, in between bites of dark chocolate flourless ecstasy, “by playing the spread, I think that’s what you called it, we’ve now got two dead guys.”

  Roman sat back in his seat and gave me this little, well-ain’t-that-cute, I’m-the-Bond-you’re-not, but-how-amusing-that-you’re-trying grin.

  And yeah. I’m not sure I was really into his attitude, but at least I had his attention.

  “Ludwig Kohn who we last saw quite dead in the Range Rover parked next to me, and my unfortunate friend Frederick Zicower, whose last dip in the pool did him in.”

  Funny how now that I’d found two dead guys and not just one, I didn’t even flinch spouting off the facts of our case. Maybe I was cut-out to be more than a celebrity stylist.

  “So what’s next?” I said, fortifying my resolve with another quick shot of espresso.

  “You mean who’s next,” Roman said then toasted me with his espresso cup, his huge and strong hands looking quite disproportionate to the fine china of the ultra tiny cup.

  Who’s next?

  That little tidbit did cause me to flinch.

  I swallowed my espresso and put down my cup, unable to stop the tremors shaking the thick as syrup liquid still left in my afternoon pick-me-up.

  “You know they’re counting on killing us off next, right?” Roman asked, although he had to know by my rattled state that no, I had not thought that ‘til he’d just enlightened me to the idea.

  “Why us? We didn’t have anything to do with any of ‘em losing each other’s money,” I said, and really did think that.

  Why would they want us?

  I mean, okay, I know they’d chased us down in the limo, their guns blazing, but I really thought they were just trying to scare us off. Not kill us.

  “We might be the only ones who can help them get their money back,” I offered-up, kinda surprised at the, dare-I-say, confused look now shadowing Roman’s face.

  “Fair enough, I suppose. But we’re also out to bring ‘em down or at least expose them for the criminals and thugs they are.”

  “I suppose it really doesn’t matter if you get your money back…if you’re in prison or worse after that accomplishment.”

  “Oh the money still matters. Trust me.”

  And I knew from the dark shadows clouding his eyes, darker than the espresso covering the bottom of our cups, he meant it.

  Money always mattered. No matter where you were in life.

  “So who are the ‘they’ looking to make us the next two dead guys…or dead guy and gal?”

  “Now you’re thinking like a real P.I.,” Roman said, nodding his head, making one thick lock of unruly heaven drop over his sun-kissed forehead.

  I didn’t say a word, letting my eat-shit grin do the talking for me.

  “The way I’ve got it figured, we’ve got a short-list of the following suspects,” I said, taking out my Izak Zenou notepad from the vintage hobo bag I’d found during our gadget-in-the-making shopping spree.

  I still couldn’t believe R was going to make me a look-a-like version of the bag that would act as my personal, bullet-proof shield. How cool was that?!

  “We’ve got Ludwig’s brothers Lowell and Larry. Their sister Lucinda. And perhaps the lovely banking-fraud queen herself Sonja Medici. Maybe she’s capable of more than the conspiracy and wire fraud she’s charged with.”

  “Not a bad list for starters,” Roman said, although he seemed to be pre-occupied with something evidently more worthy than my suspect list.

  “So that leaves why. Why would each of these want us dead? What’s in it for them? What are their motivations?” I asked my questions, sooo very much impressed with my sleuthing skills but really quite irked that Roman was no longer paying me a bit of attention.

  At least I didn’t think he was listening to me.

  “Yes. Motivation is always key. But right now, I need you to do something for me. And don’t ask me anything else. Just do what I tell you, and stay focused on me. And I mean, stay focused on me this time, and just keep moving your mouth as if you’re talking to me.”

  Now that major flinches were racking my entire body as if I were suddenly epileptic, I did as Roman instructed and started moving my mouth as if I were talking, although nothing audible came out.

  Although, if someone were leaning-in close, they could probably hear my muffled attempts at shouting ‘wtf’ and ‘f-me’.

  “I want you to rip your page out of your notebook and start to hand it to me, but first look around, out towards the street, as if you’re watching to see if anyone is looking at you.”

  Too stunned to do anything but exactly what my Secret Bond said to do, I ripped out the page, then did my best wanna-be spy look-see.

  At a café across the street from us, I swore I saw Lowell and Larry—Lowell’s Mutt to Larry’s Jeff—their dapper suits, perfect for the mobster thugs they were and certainly personally cut for each of ‘em by a mighty fine tailor.

  Sure their eyes were on us, not the newspapers they held in front of their faces, but still thinking perhaps I was just imagining them there, I handed my notebook page across the table.

  I sat back in my chair, mouthing to Roman, ‘now what’?

  To which he said, his voice never going either up or down in tone, just flat-as-flat-serious as he could be, “Stand up and keep facing me.”

  He took a wad of cash out of his pants pocket, dropped it on our table, then removed a lighter from that same pocket, lit my notebook page on fire and dropped it on his empty espresso cup saucer.

  “Let’s go. Now. Take my hand. We’re out of here.”

  I heard people gasp at tables next to us and caught who I now knew were Lowell and Larry for sure, dashing across the pedestrian-friendly street.

  What I wouldn’t give for a big ‘ole tour bus to squash our thugs like bugs on a windshield. But no such luck.

  “Nice move,” I said between pants, while trying to keep up with Roman which was difficult since I was wearing a chic, tight suit and Louboutin’s.

  “Is that one of R’s tricks?”

  “Nope. I saw it on The Tourist.”

  Great. My Secret Bond was taking his play book pages from Hollywood instead of from real-life secret service getaway arsenals.

  It was okay for me, a complete newbie, to get my ideas from books, TV, and movies, but I certainly wasn’t feeling very secure knowing my thug guard got his game-on that way too.

  We descended a huge, dangerously pitched set of stairs into the depths of the Vienna subway system.

  When R magically appeared right before we hit the last step, I was not surprised.

  “This way,” he said, leading us to the nearest subway train ready for immediate departure.

  As the doors to the car closed behind us, leaving Lowell and Larry who knows how far away, I couldn’t help but think about all our Cozy Cash suspects.

  Where does this kinda cash lead?

  All I knew for certain…there were definitely a few more “dead ends” ahead.

  Let’s just hope it wasn’t us.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The entire flight to London, I played with each of our suspect’s motives in my head, unsure which of my thoughts and hypotheses were based on the facts as we knew ‘em or fantasies from some piece of fiction fluff either I—or hell, Roman too, for that matter—had watched.

  The only thing I knew for sure was that our Cozy Cash Operation was turning out to be not-so-cozy, but rather damn scary. And that was being totally subtle.

  ‘Course, being as I was bedecked in all the glam and drama of the late Alexander McQueen, to kick-off our London Fashion Week with paparazzi-worthy fashion statements, I wasn’t too int
o subtle today.

  So “yeah-yeah” as the super-cool Steven Tyler was fond of saying on his first stint as an American Idol judge, or to quote fellow Idol judge Randy Jackson “I was in it to win it”, and I was about to get a big ‘ole J. Lo-style “check” for my grand entrance onto this season’s London Spring ‘11 Fashion Week.

  I stepped off our private plane and into Heathrow looking like the chic and cool Hollywood stylist I was supposed to be for my full-time gig. But truthfully, I was fighting hard, trying to keep underneath my billowing McQueen-designed, cream dress and rib-hugging black tuxedo jacket, that I was also now moonlighting as a super-sleuth with my very own Secret Bond in tow.

  Just like the designer whose memory I was keeping alive in my outfit, my life was turning out to be quite complex, despite my gifts to dress the part for both myself and my clients.

  Some artists, like McQueen, took their dreams and demons out on the runways they dominated. Others, like me, apparently needed Bond-style thug guards and lethal gadgets.

  I checked my watch, realizing we had just enough time to make it to St. Paul’s Cathedral for the grand memorial service for McQueen I’d been invited to attend. Several of my clients were attending as well as many of my dream clients like Sarah Jessica Parker and Salma Hayek, plus superstar designers like Stella McCartney and mega fashion industry financiers like Hayek’s husband PPR chairman and chief executive Francois-Henri Pinault.

  Lost in my McQueen Reverie, I nearly stumbled right over a woman in front of me, wearing, I must say a gorgeous Lanvin, tangerine-colored, full, evening skirt and matching plain T-shirt, one of the hot new, Sex and The City 2-inspired looks I thought for certain would be very successful on all the Spring Runways we were about to see.

  Whoever dressed this woman knew what the hell he or she was doing.

  “Darling, I thought your plane would never land,” raved The Tangerine Queen.

  What I wouldn’t give to have a high-tech juicer at my disposal.

  WTF?!