Tuesday, October 11, 2011

A Sneak Peek at FLUID FULFILLMENT - Mom Squad Mini-Mayhem Mystery #1

FLUID FULFILLMENT – Mom Squad Mini-Mayhem Mystery #1 - features Roxy's mom Lily Vaughn, who some say is now fairly gifted in Jujitsu. Think Victoria's Secret meets Kill Bill.

I’m Lily Vaughn.

Well actually, Lily Vaughn-McKinna.

By now, you know my Bootscootin’, apparel-designing-daughter, Roxy Rae. And you might also remember I’m recently divorced from Roxy’s dad Steve Vaughn, a globe-trotting gigolo who runs a fashion empire on the scale of Salma Hyak’s husband, Francois-Henri Pinault. What Francois does with French luxury brands like Yves Saint Laurent and Gucci, my ex does with Italian luxury brands.

I must say, during the years I was Mrs. Vaughn, I learned to run a cutting-edge, dynamite-and-then-some fashion empire, and I’ve now built the same for my daughter’s Raeve Boutiques. Think of us like the Vaughn version of the Kardashian’s Dash stores. I’m Roxy’s business manager, AKA the Kris Kardashian of my daughter’s international fashion empire.

But this isn’t my only job...or what they call a gig out here in LA.

I’m also a member of The Mom Squad, a slightly older version of Charlie’s Angels, who fights international crime along-side one of Roxy’s BFFs and Hollywood stylist to the stars, Zoey Witherspoon.

Actually, we fight crime with Zoey, now the Duchess of Caserta, and her husband the Duke of Caserta, Prince Roman Bellesconi Umberto-Vittorio Emanuele Vanvitelli of the Royal House of Savoy.

And yeah, what a mouth-full, right?

But anyhoo...

Why aren’t you reading about the Duke and Duchess or their Bootscootin’ BFFs?

Well, trust me, we Mom Squad Members cause plenty of our own mayhem.

Take my brother Wayne McKinna, for example. Wayne is waaay over his older-guy-but-still-perfectly-fit head and body, and in super-deep Dutch with the Hollywood mob, thanks to another Mom Squad wanna-be...our Aunt Dodie.

So with the Duke and Duchess on stand-by, ready to assist as soon as my stubborn brother admits he needs them, we’re hunting down the Hollywood mob.

Here’s the scoop...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As I stood in the doorway to my brother’s office, I still couldn’t imagine him behind Uncle Lewis’ dark cherry desk. But there he was. Wayne McKinna...in his Southern Cal, golden boy flesh.

Okay...back-up a minute.

I suppose I can’t ignore the obvious. Now that Wayne and I are both in our late 60’s, I suppose he looks more like the dashing and mysterious Sir Sean Connery in his legendary Louis Vuitton ad.

Golden Boy or Sir Connery, either way, Wayne was trying to get comfortable in Uncle Lewis' leather chair. He tipped back the chair then kicked up his legs but couldn’t seem to let them relax over the edge of the desk.

I knew he was craving his beat-up metal desk with the perfectly etched coffee rings, not the slick, cool glass that covered Uncle Lewis' pricey antique collector’s piece.

Wayne just didn't belong in this decorator-perfect room, marking up the rugs and the once clean surface of Uncle Lewis’ desk too, with his old, chipped coffee cup. The usual streams of messy spills were now sloshing over the top and running down the sides.

Hell, he didn't belong here period!

Nothing about Deville 1300 Inc, a manufacturer and distributor of ladies' intimate accessories, was related to my brother. Or to me. Except the owners.

Childless, Uncle Lewis and Aunt Dodie had always looked after us with great pride. There were no boundaries to their affections. For that reason, they’d been kind enough to allow Wayne to set-up this farce of a job in order to accomplish the objectives of his real occupation.

But honestly, Aunt Dodie also thrived on helping Wayne with his career as a private investigator. She did have the eye, actually the nose, for his line of work. And on many occasions, she had helped him find the missing pieces of cases that had, up to that point, eluded him.

In fact, it was her good-natured meddling that was simultaneously indispensable and irritating as hell.

But despite our closeness to Lewis and Dodie, we would never have asked to use their company as a false storefront.

And yes, I most definitely said ‘we’.

Actually, Aunt Dodie and I had formulated the plan as a way for Wayne to appear to be settling into the neighborhood. We had reasoned with him that by accepting an Inventory Manager position at Deville, he'd have the cover he needed to find the person his latest client had hired him to locate. Since the person he had to find was also one of Deville’s best customers, Aunt Dodie and I were basically geniuses.

In the meantime, I’ve gone from helping locate missing cozy cash, in my Thug Guard and Lip Glock adventures, to now searching for missing people.

Okay, I’ll admit it. I may have gotten my nose for trouble from Aunt Dodie’s gene pool. But regardless, she had asked me to come home and help her with this job, so here I am.

Besides, I’ve learned a whole new repertoire of investigative skills, thanks to Roman and Zoey and Roman’s QuarterMaster R, and I am rather anxious to try them out.

Wayne pulled his Mac from its silver case and positioned it in the center of the desk. While he waited for it to power-up, he flipped through the paper file he always created on each new client.

Of course, Aunt Dodie and I had already snuck into his briefcase and perused the file, so we knew exactly what it contained.

Luke Branson's press shot slid out of the folder and onto the glass.

Wayne searched the man's face as if his intense study of it would cause the turd to appear right here in the flesh, ready for interrogation.

After adding Luke Branson to my Turd Roster, I couldn’t help but harrumph all to myself. I just love our Cozy Cash Adventure terms. For example, there is “vic” for victims and “perp” for perpetrators.

But by far, my personal favorite is “turd”, the name Roman, Zoey and R use for the money-hungry thugs we’ve been busy rounding-up. And wow, after spending most of my adult life on the posh Upper East Side of Manhattan, I’ve sure never been able to spout-off about turds.

Now then...back to our current turd on the loose.

Luke had the dark features of an Italian god. His black hair cascaded down around his shoulders in the first photo, but was severely pulled back in the second shot. In both, his raven eyes bore holes right through you.

The photos offered no room for misinterpretation. Luke Branson was a force to be feared, and he wanted anyone looking at him to have no doubts they should be afraid...very, very afraid.

Labels: Fluid Fulfillment, Sneak Peek Samples, The Mom Squad, The Mom Squad Mini-Mayhem Mysteries

posted by Unknown at 2:00 AM

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Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Sneak Peek at THUG GUARD, Book One of My New, Cozy Cash Mysteries

CHAPTER ONE

I walked into the Jiffy Mart at the corner of Pike’s Place and Sweenie Avenue. All I wanted was a bottle of my wheat grass-included, all-things-green Naked Juice. What I got was a dead man – yeah, as in who knows how he got that way but he sooo was – a dead man in the passenger seat of the Range Rover parked next to me.

This guy wasn’t just merely dead, he was most sincerely dead. And no, I’m not the Munchkin Land Coroner. I’m Zoey Witherspoon, just another wanna-be Stephanie Plum about to call for back-up.

My back-up, Roman Bellesconi - my very own Walker, Texas Ranger - was not gonna like this at all.

Thinking the dead guy situation probably deserved my more immediate attention, I coached my sugar-deprived body to hold tight for its much-needed burst of Naked Juice.

Calling Roman’s cell, I waited for his rugged-rough, this-had-better-be-good voicemail greeting, wishing just once he’d think I was important enough to answer the damn phone.

“Yep. You know the drill. Leave a message,” his voice mail not-so-warmly invited me to do.

“Roman. It’s me. Pick-up if you’re there,” I said, taking a yoga-deep breath, knowing just as I was about to cuss a blue streak, then make a second attempt at maintaining my never quite calm demeanor, he’d answer.

“What’s up, Zoey? Or do I even want to know?”

Roman’s way sexy, ultra deep voice - a cross between Stallone and Pacino’s Italian, drool-worthy accents – cut-off his voicemail prompt.

The clank of his barbell echoed through his Blue Tooth after what was sure to have been one helluvan impressive bench press.

I mean really. Who answers the phone while bench pressing 325 pounds?

Roman does. And I’ve seen him do it. He actually has enough extra muscle gravitating to his shoulders that he can move those wads of steel against his Blue Tooth’s answer switch. Yeah. Incredible, right?

Honestly...who could even talk period while lifting that much weight?

I rolled my eyes, which I tend to do a lot when thinking about Roman’s antics.

Although, I may have been secretly contemplating what else he could do with those kinda muscles. But a woman doesn’t have to share all her secrets...so I’m savoring the detail of that one for a bit...and just tossing it out there for a conversation-building “what if”.

And speaking of conversing, hell, I do well to walk and talk at the same time.

Some days, in the kinds of shoes my real job demands, that feat, in and of itself is damn near impossible. Today’s gorgeous, buff-colored Louboutin platform pumps...yeah, well, you get the toe-breaking, heels-wobbling picture.

But not my Roman in his Italian, hand-crafted loafers. He’s the super-shoed and super-fit, hot Sicilian version of a kick ass Christopher Chance of Human Target fame, although with the height and killer body of international cover model Jimmy Thomas.

My Roman isn’t exactly like my Jimmy, who I’d recently used in a couple of my New York Fashion Week Runway Shows, and who, by the way, has the personality of a big and brawny teddy bear. Oh no. Sooo not Roman-esque.

Roman Bellesconi has something dark, very dark, deep inside his super beefed-up torso. Totally, the Sicilian Christopher Chance through-and-through...just add more beef.

I hadn’t figured out what that dark something was or how it got there or why it was hanging around. But I’m hell-bent on getting to the bottom of all that beef, just give me a couple more cases to work with him, and I’ll have some answers.

“You still there, Witherspoon?” Roman asked.

His voice indicated my ability to zone in and out of conversations amused rather than irritated him. At least for the moment.

“Oh sure. Yeah. Sorry. I haven’t had my Naked Juice yet, so I’m not quite up to speed,” I said, knowing I could no longer avoid sharing this soon to be breaking news.

Plus, if I gave Roman the slightest chance to catch his breath, post bench press, he was sure to pop-off with some smart ass comment about my need for Naked Juice speed.

“So I’m here at the Jiffy Mart. You know, the whole swamp juice thing. And there’s this Range Rover parked next to me,” I said, looking through my latest couture sunnies straight into the eyes of the dead man.

“I’m not real interested in this story yet, Witherspoon. You got anything else?” Roman asked as he hit the button on his blender, making his own swamp juice.

“Oh, you’re gonna be interested. There’s a dead man in this Range Rover,” I baited him, noticing that his blender was no longer blending.

“You’ve got my undivided attention now, Plum Puddin’.”

Hearing the smart ass but kinda hot way he pronounced the pet name he’d recently christened me with, I could feel heat flush my cheeks.

“Unfortunately for you, perhaps, I’ll have your attention for awhile longer, Italian Stallion. As in...our first official case longer,” I said, so hoping he’d let me tag along for this investigation.

“I’ll be the judge of when and if you work another case for us,” Roman said.

Lucky for me, I could still hear amusement in his tone so I figured I’d better keep striking while the time seemed sort of right to maintain my spot on the U.S. Marshal’s and SEC’s payroll.

“I think the dead man in the Range Rover,” I said, looking over the crisp lavender edges of my Louis Vuitton sunglasses one more time, just to make sure I’d made the proper identification of our vic, “is none other than Ludwig Kohn.”

I heard Roman take a deep, very calculated and measured breath, never uttering a word. The precise thing he did when that dark side of his was about to take control.

“Ludwig Kohn, as in Sonja Medici’s henchman.”

“I know who Ludwig is, Witherspoon,” Roman said, his Dark Knight-ness now clearly taking over his voice.

“So I take it he survived his little run-in with Alexandra, me and her minivan?” I asked, still pissed Roman and his Marshal Monkeys refused to tell me what exactly had become of Ludwig after he’d been run over by Alexandra and me in the Hobby Lobby parking lot.

“He didn’t survive for long did he?” Roman asked, an icy edge to his question.

“No, I suppose not. But I do assume you now get that I will be on this case with you? Our first official job as a dynamic duo.”

Even saying that made me feel giddier than going to any of the London, Milan or Paris Fashion Week’s coming soon.

“You know the assume adage, don’t you, Witherspoon?”

Yeah, I did. But I wasn’t letting him off the hook that easy, even if he was back in his cranky pants, dark-guy mode.

“What I know is that you can’t make any bigger ass outta me than I can make outta myself, if that’s what you’re referring to,” I said, tickled with my own witty response.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said, punching the high-speed option on his blender.

What a chicken shit, I thought. He didn’t have the balls to listen to my comeback on that one, so he’d chosen his blender instead.

But I swore I heard him say something to the effect that he’d be right there so for me to just sit tight.

Like what was I gonna do? Just leave poor Ludwig stiff in his seat?

I may have pretty much fallen into my last gig with Roman. But I’d earned the right to work this one. I’d found my first dead man. So until Ludwig was stuffed into a body bag, I wasn’t goin’ anywhere.

I was officially on this case. Well, sort of officially.

But I’d built my fashion empire by creating buzz, buzz based on me sort-of, already being in demand by potential, high-powered clients. I’d always acted “as if” I’d already made it. And that approach had more than served me well.

So why change tactics now?

People want what they think others already have. So you’ve got to make sure they know what they’re more-than-likely missing.

Although, I was freaking out a bit that Ludwig here was now missing a life force, and I was definitely holding out hope I’d soon be free from my first dead body. Because why? Keeping with my philosophy, I wanted what others already had...my God damn Naked Juice.

My sugar was already plummeting dangerously low. And seeing Ludwig out-for-the-count sure hadn’t raised my blood sugar levels. My adrenaline yeah, which meant I now needed even more sugar I didn’t have.

But sugar levels aside, this new kinda rush, based on discovering bodies, was quite intriguing.

Maybe I was finally in the right career field. Talk about a calling. How many people could just find a dead body? And a dead body they could identify no less?

When Roman had been protecting my dear friend and client Alexandra McCall – yes that Alexandra McCall, the daughter of jailed Ponzi-scheme King Bernard McCall - I’d been, at first, nothing more than the McCall family’s stylist.

But I’d soon gotten involved in Roman’s case, as an intelligence officer of sorts.

Okay, so maybe I was just a well-respected inside informant. As in a wealth-of-information source. Simply because I knew more about Alexandra and her family than Roman possibly ever could.

Cut to the fantabulous chase, I’d plucked my golden apple when it fell from its money tree then gone-on to prove my worthiness to the Fed’s entire Cozy Cash Operation.

Yeah. That was the code-word for the Marshal Monkey’s McCall Operation...Cozy Cash. Clever. And catchy too.

But this time, there’d be no little ‘ole me just falling into a crime-busting gig.
Since Roman and I’s last partnership, I’d done the time. Well, not time as in jail time. Hello? I’m on the good team. I’d done time by studying my ass off and earning my P.I.’s license.

Now...I could officially play with the big boys.

I held up my badge, declaring my name and my new part-time gig – in a rather poorly done and cheesy-font monogramming. But regardless, I still love how the brilliant sunshine gleams off the cheap metal.

The badge is nothing like the radiance I’m accustomed to from the high-end, one-of-a-kind jewels I frequently pick-up from designers who loan their pieces to my clients. But I love my new badge, and what it stands for, more than the biggest and best of borrowed, Cartier diamonds.

Thanks to Ludwig Kohn’s well-dressed corpse, I, Zoey Witherspoon, P.I. – oh, and still a Stylist to the Stars and Fashion Designer too – was back in business.

But now, it had nothing to do with what people were wearing.

No more Red Carpet Events. Or Runway Show Spectaculars. Rather, at this unique stage in my life, it was all about who would rather bury my clients beneath the carpet.

Well, in theory, but I’d still promised to stay in Music City long enough to take care of one last client, which was another one of the reasons, besides my whole borderline diabetic issue, that I had to get my hands on that Naked Juice.
My last client was a real pistol. One of those bitches who made you not only wanna buy a pistol, but then also learn how to shoot the damn thing too. I needed all the extra nourishment I could get to deal with this diva.

I peeked in at my first dead body one last time before Roman’s circus started. Once he and all his Marshal Monkeys arrived, I probably wouldn’t get another shot at the body.

The whole eyes rolling back in the head was a very strong clue I was definitely calling this right. Plus, there was that surprised open mouth thing, but you get the picture. I reaffirmed my initial decision that Ludwig really was more than quite deceased.

He was no longer on Earth anyway. Perhaps in Purgatory. Trying to cross the River Styx. Or maybe already in Hell. Ludwig Kohn was a bad dude. A really, really bad dude. Straight to Hell was probably a fairly good guess as to his current whereabouts.

Remembering my new training required I always be aware of my surroundings, I looked around the parking lot. So as to be more discreet, I kept my Louis’s in place.

Frankly though, I must already be quite proficient at the whole surroundings awareness bit, since I’d only had my P.I. license a week and already discovered my first dead body.

Not seeing any other Jiffy Mart customers in the area, and thinking, since I was the car parked next to Ludwig, that no one else would have any need to be between my door and his, I figured I could probably make it both into the store then out, with my Naked Juice, well before Roman and his Monkey Squad arrived.

Damn, I needed that juice.

It wasn’t every day that a girl in Vuitton, Armani and Louboutin, on her way to style the soon-to-be divorced wench-of-a-wife of a superstar comedian, got held up at a Jiffy Mart, by a dead man in a Range Rover.

Hollywood Stylist to The Stars Zoey Witherspoon is a wanna-be Stephanie Plum, and to that end, she’s now moonlighting as a badge-toting P.I. But on her way to style one of her infamously diva-esque clients, she discovers her first Dead Guy in a Range Rover parked next to her. And this isn’t just any dead guy. It’s the guy with a Russian mob connection, who her former client, Ponzi-scheming King Bernard McCall, hired to knock her off.

Bond, James Bond-style Double Agent Roman Bellesconi is hell-bent on bringing down Ponzi-scheming King Bernard McCall. Why? Because (1) that’s his job. But also because (2) he’s got a lot more at stake than job security. If he doesn’t bring down Bernie, his family’s monarchy will be destroyed.

As the dead guys keep piling-up around ‘em, Zoey may be damn sick of Roman’s deep and very dark secrets, but, she’s also convinced that perhaps, like Roman’s been reiterating, it’s only because he’s keeping those secrets, they’re both still alive. But is there a way for their cover to be blown, Roman’s secrets thus revealed, and each of ‘em live to tell about it?

Labels: Sneak Peek Samples, The Cozy Cash Mysteries, Thug Guard

posted by Unknown at 2:30 AM

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