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

by Scott, D. D.

  “After sixty years plus of marriage, first you die, Vitto, and now you’ve reincarnated yourself and are divorcing Granny V?”

  Vitto didn’t say a word, just raised his wine glass to mine, his eyes sparkling with mischief backed by what I knew to be a dead-serious determination to get back what his family had lost.

  And to this family, that was a lot more than money.

  Vitto and Granny had been forced to live apart for two-thirds of their married life. Their children had died for this scheme and these family wars. And now, their grandchildren were at risk too. They weren’t taking it anymore.

  Granny V wiped fish from the net made of her monster lips.

  How she ate with those things I’ll never understand, although I gathered she didn’t actually feel the food on them. Thanks to the super sweet, in-a-mafia don-kinda-way Vitto, who was constantly using his own napkin to wipe away remnants from her mouth.

  Now fish-free, Granny V giggled before speaking.

  “Something like that, Dear. First mafia dons disappear and reappear all the time, so that’s not a big deal. And, you see, if we also make it sound like we’ve agreed to divorce and split our considerable wealth equally, our financial people will have to look into where all our money is invested.”

  “The largest chunk of our family’s assets were invested with Bernie McCall. Now that we need that money coughed-up in cold hard cash for our divorce settlement, we’ll be able to track where all it comes from,” Vitto added, his eyes once full of mischief now turning into the darkness he shared with his grandson.

  “McCall’s minions, like Raj, will be forced to turnover billions, which will open-up a ton of floodgates of free-flowing cash to follow,” Roman cut-in, between bites of tomatoes and slices of fresh mozzarella.

  “Deals are done every day then, aren’t they, based on assumptions about what various assets are worth? Now we’ll see if those deals hold-up and where they’re held, right?”

  Vitto and Granny V simultaneously toasted me and my analysis. Maybe I could make it in this royal mess of a money pool.

  “Forcing these thugs to show us the money will destabilize all types of deals made with these same pools of cash. McCall’s empire is about to collapse at another level entirely. I don’t believe for a minute, he’s turned over all his accounts and assets. We’ve just got to find them.”

  I listened to Roman. His convictions and determination grew as dark in his eyes as within his reincarnated grandfather’s cold stare.

  The hunt for the accounts was on.

  Looking out toward the sea, beginning to settle-in for one last family night before the next round of deadly games began, I knew we were going to be making some tsunami-sized waves on our way to uncovering what were sure to be a gazillion off-shore accounts chock full of cozy cash.

  But before I could begin to count the huge numbers in my head, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a ton of movement, all in black suites, heading right for us.

  Vitto grabbed Granny V, and with lightning fast speed, they both dove under the table.

  I wonder how many times in their lives they’d eaten dinner, only to end up under the table before dessert?

  Without even thinking, I whipped out my Glock. I never left our suite without it now. And not even waiting for Roman or Vitto’s orders, I shot in the direction of the suits.

  I must have missed the suits, though, ‘cause I heard screams and felt the wind shift.

  Looking over the table, I watched as the giant chandelier in the middle of the room began to fall. It was as if we were in the middle of a slow motion action flick reel or on Broadway at a Phantom of the Opera production.

  Except this was no action flick or Phantom of the Opera performance.

  This was my new life. Diving under tables in expensive ristorantes while shooting chandeliers with my Glock.

  Once more, I peeked out from the side of our table, which Roman had effectively angled to block our attackers from shooting us.

  “Well done, My Duchess-to-Be,” Roman said, wiping-off some of the tomatoes and olive oil cascading over his suit’s lapels.

  Seeing six thugs knocked out cold underneath the chandelier, I had to agree with him. Not bad.

  I didn’t even see any blood.

  I’d taken out six turds without a blood bath. ‘Course they may be suffering from some small cuts and scrapes from the broken glass of the chandelier’s fixtures, but that was their own damn fault for hunting us down during family dinner time.

  Nobody pissed with this Duchess-in-Training when I was hungry!

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Talk about mutual mistakes…

  In contract law, The Doctrine of Mutual Mistake is a much adjudicated principle allowing for the cancellation of contracts. So, in Granny V and Vito’s about to be well-publicized divorce, each of them can call for a cancellation of their divorce agreement, and raise all sorts of hell throughout the financial industry plus spawn many copycat actions, based on the fact they were both innocently mistaken about the value of the assets McCall was holding.

  But an even larger, and more immediate mutual mistake was the one the six thugs made by walking under La Pelago’s chandelier on their way to take us out.

  I had yet to finish my scrumptious pumpkin squash ravioli. And no one messes with me and my pumpkin squash ravioli. That was one of my fave dishes, and I’d take out anyone threatening those yummy little pieces of pasta from hitting my waistline.

  While The Family’s security staff jumped into action and corralled the hit squad, R appeared as usual, out of close enough recesses I knew we were never really in danger, and whisked us away from the crazy scene. This time, in another line of dark SUV’s heading straight for the private slips, where I was told more getaway-in-a-hurry, royal hydrofoils were waiting.

  Evidently, we had some unfinished business with The Hedge Fund Temptress.

  And, oh boy, it was more than time to see how The Mom Squad was adjusting to life on a floating mansion with a captive under their control.

  The Hedge Fund Temptress may be used to obtaining and moving large sums of cash, but I’d wager all I was worth, which wasn’t a tenth of a percent of what these people were, that she’d rather die at sea and die broke than live another day under Mom Squad Watch.

  The only temptation she probably now faced was when to jump!

  Needing a quick, light on the ‘ole psyche diversion from the supersonic speeds R was taking our hydrofoil, I took out one of the tabloids Granny V was keeping me well stocked with on The Making of a Princess.

  Thank God for Kate Middleton, Duchess of Cambridge, or I’d be clueless as I stepped into my own glass slipper.

  I flipped through the rag’s pages and settled for a spiel on Fairy-tale Weddings to begin to prepare for my own.

  Reading that a former Olympic swimmer had become the world’s newest princess when she recently married Prince Albert of Monaco, I suddenly wished I was also an Olympic swimmer…just in case, Grams and The Mom Squad decided to blow-up another hydrofoil and I’d have to swim back to Positano.

  I tried to calm my queasy stomach as R piloted our boat above the waves for the most part, but I could still feel ‘em crashing against the hull with fierce intensity. What was I to do except temporarily escape into The Swimmer and Mr. Monaco’s fairytale?

  The article boasted how the couple had bucked tradition by getting married in the prince’s backyard — okay, yes it was his palace’s courtyard, but that WAS his backyard, right?

  So, note to self, screw the chapel, go for the backyard, but with a custom-made Armani Prive gown, including a sweeping train embellished with more than 40,000 Swarovski crystals and 20,000 mother-of-pearl teardrops.

  It also appeared as if, from this tabloid’s scoop, I could expect to spend sixty-five million cozy cash bucks on a four-day lavish affair that could include an Eagles concert.

  All this, while as a couple, the rag suggested we keep a “low-key charm” by winking at each
other and happily giggling throughout the event.

  How is it low-key charm when you’re spending sixty-five million bucks plus have a private Eagles concert in your backyard instead of a barbecue?!

  Oh! And don’t forget the fifteen-foot-tall-red currant-and-vanilla cake!

  Roman came into the boat’s salon, where I was ripping through pages with gusto, and sat down beside me.

  “Learning anything?”

  I slammed shut the magazine’s cover and chucked it into the trashcan underneath the desk in the salon.

  “We are not having a private Eagles concert or a fifteen-foot red currant cake at our wedding! I’m drawing the line somewhere!”

  “Okay…I think. Whatever floats your boat. And speaking of which, before we get to The Mom Squad’s floating nuthouse, I’ve got something for you.”

  He shook his head while his silly little boy grin began to grow at home again on his sweet lips. And damn, I was so glad that bit of humor was starting to come out of him more and more during our adventures.

  Reaching into the breast pocket on the inside of his coat, which was still stained with tomato juice and olive oil, he took out a small velvet box.

  “I want you to have these. They were my mother’s,” he said, popping open the box.

  Inside, were without-a-doubt, the most drop dead gorgeous pair of sapphire and diamond earrings I’d ever seen.

  “I had them remodeled into drop earrings as I thought those suited you better,” he said, his hands trembled just a tad as he removed the earrings from the box. “These were one of my mother’s most prized sets of jewels. Well…these earrings and this too…”

  He reached back into the pocket that held some beyond amazing treasures and pulled out a ring of all rings.

  As he slipped the humungous and regal sapphire and diamond ring onto my finger, I choked back tears. I’d never been through a proposal like this…for a fake marriage and fake throne I couldn’t wait to make reality.

  Okay…a false reality…but my false reality, none the less.

  “Will you pretend marry me?” Roman asked.

  Although I swore, just for a moment, he wasn’t pretending at all.

  He never looked at people like he was looking at me now. And I felt a distinct thrill and honor to be on the receiving in of this moment.

  “Of course I’ll be your fake bride. How could I turn down that kind of genuine offer?”

  At my joke, his cheeks blushed a brighter crimson red than the tie he wore and the tomato juice stains on his white dress shirt.

  “I hope you find the job as delightful as I think I might,” he said, lowering his head to stare at the hydrofoil’s bouncing floorboards.

  I lifted up his chin with my quivering fingers and matched him…uncertain look to uncertain look.

  “I know I’ll give it my all to fit-in as you need me. It’s gearing up to be the best job I’ve ever had,” I said tousling the black curl that always seemed trapped on his right eyebrow.

  I then planted a quick smooch on his nose.

  Hey, if you can’t kiss your pretend prince, than what’s the point.

  And at least my prince, I’m quite sure, had never been a toad.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The making of a princess aboard a floating castle in the sea — that’s what the next few days felt like to me.

  There’s a ton to learn to being a princess, and with Granny V’s guidance, I, along with The Mom Squad too, was just getting started.

  I was used to styling glamazons, but often on just a dime, with a five dollar pair of earrings off-setting a multiple thousand dollar borrowed ensemble.

  Not your version of Hollywood?

  Ahhh…let me guess…you still think all the starlets own the clothes they wear off and on Red Carpets, right?

  That’s sooo not the way it works!

  For every stylist, there’s a team of delivery drivers who spend the better part of each of their days making the rounds to all the boutiques picking-up and returning whatever has been loaned out just to get their names beside the glamazons in the rags we all read.

  What I was not used to was having all these clothes at my disposal and in an ownership position as well.

  When I was just Zoey Witherspoon, Stylist to The Stars, I was running before, with or after the fast crowd, their loaned-to attire in carefully labeled garment bags.

  Now, those garment bags were in my floating castle’s closets, all labeled and ready for me when I stepped off my hydrofoil and back onto Italian soil as The Duchess of Something.

  Note: I didn’t yet know what my official title was to be.

  My fashion icons and inspirations had always been Armani, Jackie O., Audrey Hepburn, Coco Chanel, Louis Vuitton and Badgley Mischka too.

  But never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d own those pieces and be preparing for life as a princess while wearing ‘em.

  ‘Course I also never imagined that a killing machine could be made out of the lipstick red soles of my Louboutin’s either. But R had proven me wrong there with our Thug Guard, blow-dart extravaganza in Milan.

  And speaking of Milan, how I’d gone from going into my fave Jiffy Mart in Music City for just an all-things-green Naked Juice to now being on a palace-sized yacht in the sea off the Amalfi Coast studying-up to be a princess was one wild, wild unimaginable fantasy. Even for me. And I have what I’d like to think is a very creative and active imagination.

  I stole a quick peek at Vinnie who was curled up in his sleeping bag chomping on a slice of apple I’d just tossed him. What I wouldn’t give to be worried about just my sleeping bag and an apple. I shook my head, still amazed that something as simple as a sleeping bag could make a pot-bellied pig sooo damn happy.

  The fact we could only find a Sponge Bob sleep sack onboard the yacht, which the captain’s grandkids had left behind on their last visit, was rather hilarious.

  Although actually, I think Sponge Bob scares Vinnie. At least that’s why I think he practically had his image scuffed off the fabric in just a few short days.

  With Vinnie snoring and gurgling on top of what was left of Sponge Bob, I went back to my studies.

  “Well one thing for sure your wardrobe’s missin’ out on is fur,” Grams interrupted my daydreams of where I’d been and where I was going.

  “Fur?”

  “All mafia chicks wear fur,” Grams said, nodding her head as if she were damn sure she knew what she was talking about. “I saw it on Mob Wives.”

  Granny V laughed, along with the rest of The Mom Squad.

  “If you saw it on Mob Wives, Grams, then you’re definitely in-the-know,” Aunt Tulip agreed, unable to keep from laughing out loud again.

  “Make fun uv me all you want, but you know some of my Mob Wives’ scoop has come in handy while we’ve been babysittin’ the slutbag,” Grams said, pouting while sitting next to Granny V, trying, no joke, to stick out her lips enough to match the size of Granny V’s monster mouth.

  “Her name is The Temptress,” Tulip cut-in, now doubled over damn near gagging from Gram’s nonsense.

  “Temptress. Ho. Tramp. Whatever. She does tricks for cash, right? Sounds like a Super Slut to me,” Grams said, now pulling out her bottom lip as far as she could then looking cross-eyed to evidently try and see if she was a match to Granny V’s permanent pout.

  In unison, Lily and Kat slapped Gram’s arms.

  “Ouch! Now what did ya go and do that for? Look at the size of them things?!” Granny said, pointing at Granny V’s lips, almost touching them with her bony fingers.

  Luckily, Granny V had sort of a sense of humor about her over-botoxed issues. She just rolled her eyes at Grams and batted away her hand.

  “Can you still feel anything with those pieces of meat?”

  “Grams!” Lily and Kat shouted in unison.

  This time, Tulip simply dropped to the yacht’s salon floor and curled-up in the fetal position still laughing so hard she was now crying too.

  Spe
aking of fetal positions, I could also use a brief respite in one of those. It had been awhile since I sought solace there with my knees curled into my chin.

  “There’s not much feeling there, Grams. Not much at all. But how ‘bout we get back to going over our plan?” Granny V answered Grams then, thank God, changed the subject.

  “I didn’t imagine you could feel much with those swollen puppies.”

  “Grams!”

  This time we all chimed-in, which got us all an incredulous “what” look from the Mob Wives’ Number One Fan.

  The only thing I could do to save my future grandmother-in-law from Grams was dive head first into Princess-Training. So that’s what I did.

  How does a relatively shy girl, raised by parents who swear they’re Mr. and Mrs. Claus, become a polished princess about to help bring down the mob as well as the world’s biggest Ponzi-scheming Kings?

  All I know for sure is it’s gonna take a big ‘ole dash of humor, the love of my quirky-crazy Mom Squad, my BFFs, who were set to arrive onboard via helicopter any moment, and my prince charming too.

  Every newly minted royal, from what I’d read, had a team of advisers and entourage at his or her beck and call, but none, that I knew of, had the likes of The Mom Squad as their ladies-in-waiting.

  These blue-hair Charlie’s Angels didn’t wait for anybody for anything. They did whatever they wanted to do, however they wanted to do it, and for as long as it took to get the job done…their way…on their terms.

  After styling Hollywood for a decade, I may be a bit sassy and confident, but The Mom Squad took sassy and confident to an entirely new level.

  We were all business women in our own rights — Kat running one of Music City’s hottest saloons and dance halls, Lily managing one of my BFF’s and her daughter Roxy’s fashion apparel empire, Aunt Tulip the Sex Therapist Extraordinaire and now Aphrodisiac Produce Queen, and Grams a Meat n’ Three Diner Entrepreneur. But each of us had our own style. Each of us were beyond ballsy but different in how we wore ‘em and when and where we showed ‘em.