by Scott, D. D.
For the life of me, no pun intended, I couldn’t begin to fathom what was so freakin’ funny about what I’d just said.
“I come from an Italian mob family, who also happens to be Italian royalty. I know a few things about gems and the smuggling of them.”
Oh. I guess I’d forgotten about that part of my prince’s past.
So maybe we could handle this.
There was only one way to know for sure...
And just like that, we left behind our Lake Michigan Winter Wonderland and were off on a journey taking us to the beautiful beaches of Brazil, and nothin’ but carats and coconuts.
Chapter Four
My parents may have been collecting and bequeathing gemstones for the world’s grandest museums for almost fifty years now, but the Brazilians have been dealing with ‘em since the early 1700’s. That’s when the Portuguese colonists who settled Brazil enjoyed their first “diamond rush”.
Although enjoy isn’t the word either the indigenous people of Brazil or I would use to describe the rush to pilfer the natural treasures on which their homes and lives were built.
I’ve always thought one local Indian Chief said it best when he told me, “I used to think that money was good, and that I wanted to be rich, but now I don’t. A little might be good, but a lot is not. It only brings problems and suffering, when what we really want is tranquility.”
So much for tranquility, Chief.
When you’re sitting on top of the largest untapped source of gem wealth known to exist on Earth, no one is gonna give you peace.
How do I know this?
‘Cause my parents have been trying for decades to bring about that kind of peace through socially responsible mining. And yeah, “socially responsible mining” is a total oxymoron.
I clicked through the pages of one of the Smithsonian’s gem books my parents had co-written. I’d downloaded it onto my tablet for our flight to Brazil. I couldn’t help but notice Roman was doing the same.
“Gems versus jewelry,” Roman said, perhaps out loud to himself, but I capitalized on it.
“That’s nature versus people and history right there.”
“Not always the best mix, right?” He asked.
I thought about my parents’ collections of both fine rough and cut gems and gem-quality crystals. They’d done so much good with their holdings, but I knew their good-will-based and socially responsible study of mineral crystals was indeed more rare than the stones they collected, studied, traded, sold, and bequeathed.
“You got that right,” I answered Roman. “In the world we’re about to enter, it’s nothing but carats in the form of conflict gems, basic survival, civil wars, genocide and international terrorism.”
“So much for our honeymoon,” he said, squeezing my hand tight as he looked out the window to catch a glimpse of the Amazon Rainforests, which we were now flying over.
My heart ached, effectively blocking my ability to form the right words to respond.
“It’s okay. It’s not like we’re really a couple,” he said.
The pain in his eyes must have been mirroring mine.
“I don’t know about that. But I do know I’m having an awfully good time as your pretend princess,” I said, shielding my heart with humor, just like I always did when the situation called for it.
“I guess all good relationships start that way, right?” He asked, with a hint of insecurity in his voice I wasn’t used to hearing and one that unsettled me to my core.
“So I’ve heard.”
As our pilot told us to prepare for landing, Roman took my seatbelt and re-buckled it. After fastening his, he captured my cheeks between his strong hands.
“You’ve got to trust me down here. I know this world. You and your family are in a ton of danger. You’ve got to listen to me, and my family, and let us help you.”
I wondered what all he’d managed to find out this time. And although I was a wee bit tired of all his top-secret background searches, I did trust him with all my heart, and knew he had our family’s best interests guiding his actions.
It still felt funny to consider us all one big happy family. But, we certainly were starting to act like one. Sometimes I wondered if there wasn’t actually more to our public charade than just a simulated relationship for the paparazzi to capture. And yeah, sometimes I hoped our show would soon become our reality.
I managed a small gulp before asking, “Your family is already in Brazil?”
“They’ve been here a few months now,” he said, taking his turn to swallow what I was sure was his own nervous gulp. “I sent them down here before the holidays.”
“But...”
“I asked you to trust me.”
And I did trust him, so there wasn’t a need for any more questions or explanations now.
Besides, we had a good seventeen-hour drive along the scenic Coconut Highway coming up, and that would be plenty of time to build our trust.
Chapter Five
Driving along the coastal road of Linha Verde is one of the most National Geographic photo-perfect routes in Brazil. Lined with coconut trees the entire way, it’s more than earned its nickname The Coconut Highway.
Dotted with fishing villages, patches of rainforest and miles of white sand beaches, it was hard to imagine we were only passing through and not on our honeymoon.
I knew the route by heart, but this time, my heart was a tad bit distracted.
Quartermaster R, who we affectionately call R, was back on the job and now chauffeured us south, past many sugarcane plantations, to Porto Galinhas, where we planned to rest-up for a day, while Roman and R tied-up some loose ends of their plan.
The translation of Porto Galinhas is ‘chicken harbor.’ For that reason, you see a bunch of chicken images around the town, along with totally funky-fun and quirky-to-the-max souvenir shops. Porto Galinhas has its own kind of unique charm.
Every time I pass through here on my way to our mines, I think of the rooster ornaments my mother insists we keep on all of our Christmas trees, one rooster for each tree. Why? The Legend of the Rooster is all about the triumph of light over darkness or good over evil. By including one on each Christmas tree, it’s thought to ensure that goodness will be victorious in the year ahead.
Let’s hope we have the chicken harbor - and all its roosters too - on our side.
After seeing to it that we were tucked safely into our pousada by the beach, Roman had arranged for a relaxing day of soaking up the sun on our patch of brilliant white sand. And mind you, my prince does not skimp on the details.
He’d thought of everything...including a huge white umbrella with a fancy canopy fit for the royal he was, plus super-comfy teak chaise lounge chairs with plush white cushions. A food table underneath a second large canopy was filled with every luscious tropical treat you could imagine.
He’d even placed on my lounge chair a gorgeous white floppy sun hat with the most beautiful of hand-beaded designs circling the stock, along with a pair of to-die-for Prada sunnies in a daring red color.
I’d just settled into my chair and he into his, when I heard the roar of an engine that sounded like it was from some sort of all-terrain vehicle.
I gazed over the top of my new sunnies toward the sound and then at Roman, who had a “what are you lookin’ at me for?” look on his face, which meant he damn well knew why I was looking at him. I then turned back to the approaching vehicle.
Why was I not surprised to see Roman’s grandparents – The King and Queen of Caserta - riding toward us?
Seeing them make their way to our grander-than-grand beach picnic in a dune buggy, however, was a bit of a surprise.
So much for horse-drawn carriages or motorcades being the preferred transportation for royals.
And so much for any chance of getting some much-needed R&R.
Chapter Six
“Welcome back to Brazil,” Roman’s Granny Veruschka said, smothering me with larger-than-life Italian kiss-kisses.
But that was Granny V’s style. Nothin’ but larger-than-life everything, which I suppose was second nature to a woman born into the Russian oligarchy, who became a world-famous runway model then married an Italian mob boss who also happened to be the King of Caserta.
Looking at her and then at her King, I marveled at how I was often more afraid of her than him, even though he was the mob boss of the family.
That probably had something to do with the fact it was she who’d, not too long ago, held me at gunpoint before drugging me and plopping me on a private jet bound for their Italian kingdom and castle.
But that was then. This was now.
And it did turn out that she had a good reason to kidnap me. She needed to use me to save her grandson. And what can I say? I like the guy...a lot.
Fast forward about a year, and thanks to the same grandson, the Duke to my Duchess, Granny V and her King Vitto were up to their necks in my family’s gem world smuggling fiasco.
How ironic to be welcomed back, by my in-laws, to a country I could probably consider my second home. Actually, more like my third home, since these days I’d basically adopted Italy as a close second.
From the looks of things, my Granny-in-laws must feel at home here too.
Now, that observation right there...did scare the hell outta me. They brought their own brand of trouble every where they went.
“So are you two lovebirds enjoying your honeymoon?” Granny V carried on with her all-social, cover-up conversation.
Too bad her cover was blown by first, my understanding of the danger that always followed her and her Godfather, and second, by the fact that I counted six bodyguard-filled dune buggies strategically stationed around us.
And to think in my life as a Stylist to The Stars, my clients freaked out about the paparazzi always being in sight. I wonder how they’d react to an entourage of their very own personal hit teams always at the ready to shoot off much more than their cameras?
“No honeymoon yet,” Roman said, while like his grandfather, never losing focus of our surroundings and the dangers we all knew were somewhere close by.
“Why don’t we sit and enjoy all this beautiful food?” Granny V suggested, practically shoving Roman and I into chairs around the feast-filled table.
What is it with Italian mobsters?
Every time they want to talk about the dangers of the family biz, they have to either be in a kitchen or a restaurant, the latter of which they secretly own. Or hell, now a super-sophisticated and regal seaside picnic station.
The mob thrives on food and foul play.
Apparently, satisfied his hit men were able to do their jobs without him long enough that he could eat with us, Vitto joined us for lunch.
“We brought you a little welcome back gift,” Granny V said.
I looked at Roman, who, judging by the intense look on his face, knew exactly what this gift was.
Vitto removed a small, and remarkably plain brown parcel paper package from inside the jacket of his linen suit.
Damn, the Italian mob knew how to dress.
Dress and eat...mob specialties.
“Did y’all know the Hope Diamond arrived at The Smithsonian in a similar package, having been sent by Harry Winston via registered mail and insured for just one million dollars?” I asked, enjoying the fact that little me could teach the mob something.
I used my thumb-nail to slice through the packing tape then opened the lid of the box.
Nestled inside a velvet lining was our Witherspoon Precious Aquamarine.
There she was...all one thousand carats of cut and polished, inorganic, solid, chemically-compounded natural beryl crystal, with a bunch of iron impurities in two different chemical states. And because of those impurities, she had all the incredible colors of the sea we now lunched alongside.
The best emeralds of natural beryl crystal are primarily from Columbia, but not the aquamarines. My family’s mine in Minas Gerais is by far the leading supplier of gem aquamarine.
“Did anyone die to get this back?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure what the answer would be, and I more than likely didn’t want to know.
“Not yet,” Vitto said in stereo with his grandson’s response.
They said it with the same matter-of-fact, cavalier cool as if they’d both simply asked for Granny V and I to please pass the sea salt for their cantaloupe.
“That’s comforting. I think.”
“Let’s just say gem smuggling works a bit differently here in Brazil than the operations I’m familiar with in Italy,” Vitto continued, his eyes lighting up as if he were enjoying this new type of danger-laden challenge. “I’m having to change-up my normal methods.”
I looked at Roman, who just shrugged his shoulders as if to say “what are you gonna do”.
“I think we’ve definitely discovered the source for the majority of the treasures in New York City’s West 47th Street Diamond District,” Granny V said, wiping a loose shred of melon from her over-botoxed lips.
I still had difficulty eating with her. I was always tempted to dab my napkin to my mouth as a silent suggestion for her to do the same to rescue the food trapped there. Food that she couldn’t feel.
But moving onward, from botox back to gems...
“You’re right. Most of the gems bought, sold and traded in those Diamond District stalls originate here in Brazil.”
“So tell us about your pink beryl,” Roman said.
I choked on my kiwi, and I didn’t have over-botoxed lips to blame.
Pink beryl, also known as Morganite, is named after financier J.P. Morgan, the backer of the famous gemologist George Kunz who named the crystal. It gets its unique color from trace quantities of manganese, and the world gets most of its Morganite from our mine.
“What do you want to know?” I asked, and yes, for the record, I knew exactly what he wanted to know, but I didn’t want that knowledge to put a price on his head.
“I need to know enough to keep our family safe,” Roman said, evidently unwilling to negotiate.
“Well, Morganite comes in shade ranges from pink and rose to peach. There are also some purple-pinks from Madagascar.”
“Cute, but I already know that. You and I also know we’re not concerned with Madagascar’s Morganite right now. Just the Witherspoon & Witherspoon Morganite, which oddly enough is right here, with us, in Brazil. Would you agree?”
I could tell from the short quips of his voice that he’d reached the limit of his patience.
“Perhaps I need to be more direct,” he said.
“That always works for me,” Vitto said, his voice so Marlon Brando soft, I barely heard it.
“No it doesn’t always work for you,” Granny V said in a sing-song scolding tone.
From the attempt she made at narrowing her eyes, although they wouldn’t budge much due to being cosmetically tied behind her ears, I had a feeling she knew something I didn’t.
“How much does Stanley know about your Morganite?” Roman continued, not bothering with his grandparents’ side tiff.
“Enough to get us all killed,” I said, then took a long swig of coconut water to give that thought time to digest.
“By who?” Roman asked, his upper body lifting and his pecs flexing like they did right before...shit, right before he cracked his neck, like he just did, meaning heads and bodies too were about to roll.
“Depends on who you ask,” I said, being completely honest.
“Sounds like we better start asking then,” Vitto said, raising his wine glass in salute to who only knew what kinda trouble we were about to stir up.
Chapter Seven
Back in my childhood home, which was now a Winter Wonderland along the fabulous shores of Lake Michigan, people had just finished celebrating the holiday spirit of over the river and through the woods to grandmothers’ houses they go.
But not so down here in Brazil, the land of Rio’s Carnival, carats galore, and now grandparents with mob connections.
There’s a ton more goin’ on along this surf and sand paradise than dancing the night away to the samba and world-class sea turtle conservation projects.
We were about to embark on our own version of over the river and through the woods.
We’d head over the Sergipe River by ferry. And after keeping up our energy for the rough journey ahead with some grilled fresh fish from one of the street stalls along the way, we’d be travelling much more than through the woods. We’d be heading straight into the Amazon Rainforest, the home of Stone Age Indians who made their livings from the land on which my family’s mines were built.
Indians who Stanley had royally pissed off by stealing from them what was theirs...not ours.
Somehow, I had to make all this right, before we ended up in a mass grave like the ones that held other gem thieves and smugglers.
I couldn’t think of a better way to save my two families - or Witherspoon & Witherspoon - than to seek the help of the rainforest Indians I’d come to love like family.
What I wouldn’t give, though, to still be safe inside my parent’s gem vault, buried deep beneath the snow-covered drifts along Lake Michigan.
People are always amazed by the beauty of the snow on its glistening-like-diamonds surface. But there’s an entire world buried underneath the snow-covered Earth, a world that has its very own razzle-dazzle. But along with that dazzle comes deadly games to procure then secure its brilliance.
And here in the land of carats and coconuts, I’m about to show you just how deadly that well-cut and polished dazzle can be.
Nothing means power, control, and unfathomable wealth like conflict gems.
And the world of smuggling that circulates those rock-sacks-of-riches is responsible for one helluva deadly, cozy cash caper.
I only hope we can stop it before it buries us first.
THE END
NOTE FROM D. D. SCOTT
I hope y’all have enjoyed A CUT ABOVE CRAZY – The Prequel to Cozy Cash Mystery #3 CARATS & COCONUTS, which will be released in January 2012.