The Entitled Read online

  Praise

  for nancy boyarsky’s

  nicole graves mysteries

  “full of page-by-page surprises”

  –Kirkus Reviews

  “…nail-biting adventure whose thralls are difficult to escape”

  –Foreword Reviews

  “a hold-onto-the-bar roller coaster of a mystery”

  –RT Book Reviews

  “Nicole Graves is the best fictional sleuth to come down the pike since Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone.”

  –Laura Levine, author of the popular Jaine Austen Mysteries

  “a charming and straight-shooting heroine”

  –Foreword Reviews

  “Well written, non-stop, can’t-put-it-down suspense.”

  –Charles Rosenberg, bestselling author of Death on a High Floor

  “Well developed characters in a rich English setting brings ample twists throughout and all the way to the final pages.”

  –Eric Hoffer Award Gold Medal Winner 2018 for The Swap

  Title Page

  The Entitled

  a Nicole Graves mystery

  Nancy Boyarsky

  Durham, NC

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2020, by Nancy Boyarksy

  The Entitled

  Nancy Boyarsky

  www.nancyboyarsky.com

  [email protected]

  Published 2020, by Light Messages

  www.lightmessages.com

  Durham, NC 27713 USA

  SAN: 920-9298

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-61153-324-8

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61153-360-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020937293

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without the prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Contents

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Nicole Graves Series

  Dedication

  For Bill, always

  One

  Nicole struggled to get her seat to the promised flatbed position so she could sleep. The seatback was stuck at a forty-five-degree angle, as was the extension that was supposed to support her legs. The airplane cabin was dark, and at 1:00 a.m. Los Angeles time, everyone else appeared to be asleep. She wondered how that was possible when the man behind her was snoring so loudly. Each breath involved a deep rumbling sound followed by an exhaled whistle.

  She decided to stop wrestling with the seat. Even if she could get it flat, she’d never be able to sleep with all that noise. With some effort she adjusted the seat to its upright position. After a while, the snoring eased up. She was just closing her eyes when the plane hit a bank of turbulence. Each time it bucked, her stomach dropped. As often as she flew, she could never get used to this.

  She wondered, not for the first time, the reason for this assignment. Jerry Stevens, her boss, had explained it, but not to her satisfaction. As a private investigator, she’d occasionally flown to distant cities—London, Paris, Rome, and once to Marrakech—to pick up someone for the firm where she worked, Colbert & Smith Investigations. These requests came from established clients of Colbert & Smith, mostly law firms and big corporations. The pickup might be the runaway child of an important client, or someone extremely old or disabled, who needed help getting to L.A. to appear as a witness, plaintiff, or defendant in a legal case. Runaways were the most trouble and usually involved a great deal of drama and persuasion. These were Nicole’s least favorite assignments.

  Her last babysitting job had ended so disastrously that Nicole had refused to take on anymore. But this case just involved a short hop across the pond to London and back. She hoped it turned out to be as simple as her boss had promised.

  She was to retrieve a teenage girl and bring her back on a return flight. Abigail Fletcher was in a special program for high school seniors at King’s College London, one of the world’s top universities. During Christmas break, she’d had enough smarts to make a trip home and back on her own. Now it was March, nowhere near the end of the academic year, and Abigail’s parents wanted her back in L.A. as soon as possible. They were willing to pay a hefty fee to have someone else escort their daughter home. But why? The only explanation Nicole had gotten was that the girl was a handful.

  Jerry had strolled into Nicole’s office the previous afternoon, dropped into a chair, and put his feet on her desk, his default sitting position.

  “How would you like to visit London again?” he began, before filling her in on the few details he’d been given about Abigail Fletcher.

  “Can I have the parents’ number?” Nicole had said. “I’d like to know little more about the girl and the family dynamic. Why isn’t she flying on her own, since she made the round trip alone at Christmas? And why are they bringing her home a couple months before the school year ends? Most importantly, did she agree to this, or am I expected to talk her into it?”

  “Too many questions,” Jerry said. “You’re giving me a headache.” He sighed and was quiet a few beats. “As far as I know, she agreed to come home. They sent her a ticket, but she never boarded the plane. That’s why they hired us. Obviously there’s friction between daughter and parents. Maybe they figured a neutral third party would have better luck.”

  “Do you know anything about the parents?”

  “Not much. Their names are Gene and Serena Fletcher. He’s some big muckity-muck in finance—your typical L.A. billionaire.” Jerry waved a fat brown envelope at her. “Your tickets and trip information are here, along with contact numbers and a photo of Abigail. There’s also a phone number for her roommate. When the Fletchers delivered their daughter to King’s in the fall, they arranged for the roommate to keep tabs on Abigail and report back to them.”

  “You mean they hired another student to spy on her?” Nicole said.

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “Wow! They really don’t trust her, do they? When do I leave?”

  “Tomorrow at 8:00 a.m.”

  “For God’s sake! What’s the rush?”

  “No idea.” He shrugged. “The parents said they wanted her home as soon as possible. This was the first flight we could get for you.”

  Nicole checked her watch. It was 4:30 p.m. She was supposed to meet her sister for dinner. Stephanie was having boyfriend trouble yet again, and said she needed Nicole’s advice. In Steph-speak, that meant she wanted someone to listen to her rant. Nicole found this tedious. But she loved her sister—her only living relative—and felt it was her job to listen and hand out advice. Not that Steph ever followed it. Now their dinner would have to be postponed.

  Nicole stood. “I guess I’d better go home and pack.”


  She was still curious about the girl and in what way she was a handful. Was she spoiled, or was it just normal teenage angst? Maybe she was the sort of kid who was always in trouble with authorities. For that matter, she might have been kicked out of the King’s College program for high school students.

  Jerry handed her the envelope. “First class was full, I’m afraid. So you’re flying business. Sorry about that.”

  Now here she was, in her broken seat, the plane bumping toward what was once her favorite city. She wondered about the other people in the cabin who seemed to be sleeping so soundly. Who were they, and why were they going to England? She was insatiably curious about people. Every person on this flight had a story, and Nicole would have loved to know all of them.

  Earlier, during dinner hour, she’d learned about the man in the seating pod adjacent to hers. In the pause between drinks with hors d’oeuvres and the meal, he’d been working his molars with a toothpick.

  He pulled it out and turned to Nicole. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?”

  Nicole had given the most obvious answer. “Flying to London. And you?”

  He answered her question in full, telling her all about himself through dinner, a cheese course, and dessert. After that he’d ordered a double brandy. He described himself as an H.R. troubleshooter for a giant corporation, and explained that his job involved traveling to company offices all over the world.

  “So you spend a lot of time telling people they no longer have a job. Is that right?” she said.

  “Pretty much.”

  He wasn’t bad-looking, in his late forties perhaps, his hairline receding, his face puffy, probably from all the alcohol he consumed on these international flights.

  “What’s that like?” she said.

  “Oh, you get used to it. I love flying, life on the road. So it’s worth a little unpleasantness once in a while.”

  He went on about his experiences in various airports, tricks he’d learned about dealing with flight delays and cancellations, and all the travel miles he’d amassed.

  Once their plates were cleared, he said, “You know what would make this a perfect meal?”

  “What?”

  “A really good cigar.”

  She had nothing to add, since her only thought was how much she detested cigar smoke. Besides, he wasn’t interested in her opinion. He hadn’t asked her a single question about herself.

  Then out of the blue, he said, “You know who you remind me of? That cute little actress in old movies. What was her name? Oh, I remember—Shirley Temple.”

  Nicole was taken aback. Shirley Temple? At what age? When she was five? “It’s the dimples,” she finally said.

  “And that sweet smile. You’re a remarkably good conversationalist, you know that? Most women aren’t that much into conversing with strangers.”

  “Thanks. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get a little work done before I get too sleepy.” She pulled up the partition that separated her from her neighbor, and got out Laura Levine’s latest mystery. Shirley Temple my foot.

  Nicole reached the hotel at 7:00 p.m. The Dorchester was one of London’s swankiest, several cuts above the accommodations the company usually provided. The lobby was strikingly opulent, although, to her taste, over the top. The long room was done up in pinks and corals, with extravagant bouquets of flowers everywhere. Around the perimeter were pink marble columns topped with gilded Corinthian crowns. Large lantern-shaped fixtures hung from the ceiling, with a cascade of smaller sparkling lights inside.

  When Nicole unlocked the door to her room, it turned out to be a large two-bedroom suite, sumptuously decorated but in a more conservative style than the lobby. The centerpiece was a white marble fireplace with carved bas-relief garlands and fruit. There was also an impressive chandelier. The gold damask drapes were pulled shut.

  The bellboy placed her suitcases on a luggage rack in the foyer closet and pointed out the room’s amenities. Once he was gone, she sat and pulled out the list of people Jerry wanted her to contact. Her first call was to Abigail. The phone rang about ten times before Nicole hung up. There was no voicemail. On the other hand, Abigail was a teenager, and teenagers were into messaging. She took a minute to send a text message asking when they could meet.

  The next contact was Sacha Bahar, who was listed as Abigail’s roommate. This time voicemail picked up and Nicole was able to leave a message. A third number was for Abigail’s personal tutor at King’s College, Dr. Lisa Gooden. Gooden was the faculty member who’d been assigned to help Abigail with any problems she might encounter. A recorded message said, “King’s College is closed. Please ring back during normal office hours.”

  Now that she’d fulfilled her first obligation, Nicole kicked off her shoes and flopped down on the couch. She intended to close her eyes for just a moment. She woke with a start and looked at her watch. It was 11:00 p.m. She retried Abigail’s phone.

  This time a young woman answered with a tentative, “Hello?”

  Nicole explained who she was and why she was calling.

  “Oh, yeah. My parents told me. We’re supposed to meet up and arrange my trip home.” Abigail’s tone signaled her indifference toward such a meeting or anything else Nicole might want to arrange.

  “Exactly,” Nicole said. “Just tell me where you are and I’ll get a cab.”

  “No. It will be easier if I come to you. Where are you?”

  Nicole filled her in, then waited while the girl tapped something into her phone.

  “There’s a pub not far from you,” Abigail said. “It’s called The Cooked Goose. Ask the concierge for directions. I’ll be there in a half-hour.” Without waiting for an answer, she hung up.

  Nicole got up, brushed her teeth, and ran her fingers through her hair. She put on her coat and shoes and dropped the room key off at the front desk. On the walk to the pub, a freezing wind blew against her, making her shiver. The Cooked Goose wasn’t much different from other pubs Nicole had visited—noisy and too warm from all the bodies packed in too little space. The interior was extremely modest, despite its location in fashionable Mayfair. It was furnished with mismatched chairs clustered around battered wooden tables. The walls were dingy, covered with calligraphed quotations about drinking, drunkenness, and hangovers that extended from baseboards to ceiling.

  She paused to read a few. Reality is an illusion that occurs due to lack of alcohol, was attributed to anonymous. W.C. Fields, famous for jokes about his drinking, said, What contemptible scoundrel has stolen the cork to my lunch? On the ceiling was Oscar Wilde’s famous, Work is the curse of the drinking classes.

  Nicole looked around at the crowd. The clientele was paired off into couples or clustered in groups, and there was no sign of a girl who matched the photo Jerry had given her. She ordered a cappuccino, found what appeared to be an unoccupied table except that it had two beer bottles on it, one still half-full. She moved the bottles to a corner and sat down to wait.

  A half-hour passed while patrons—most in their early-to-mid-twenties—entered and left. Every opening of the door brought in a gust of cold air that did nothing to lower the pub’s temperature. All at once the door burst open and hit the wall with a loud bang. It was hard to tell if it had been flung open by the wind or by the young woman standing in the doorway. The sudden crash and her startling looks grabbed the crowd’s attention and silenced the room.

  Abigail Fletcher was much more striking in person than in her photo. She was tall—perhaps six feet—and arrestingly beautiful. She was dressed in a white coat with a fluffy white fur collar. The coat ended above her knees, so a good portion of her long legs were exposed between the coat’s hem and her black ankle boots. The girl gave a practiced toss of her long ash-blonde hair, flicking it back over one shoulder. She closed the door, then gazed around the room in a knowing way. Clearly she was aware that everyone was looking at her, and she seemed pleased by the attention.

  Nicole waved at her. Abigail spotte
d her, gave her hair another toss, and headed over. By now the crowd had lost interest, and the roar of conversation resumed.

  Abigail sat by Nicole. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

  Up close she was even more beautiful, her perfect skin so fair it glowed. She had sharp cheekbones and an upward slant to her jade green eyes.

  “Not at all,” Nicole said. “Do you want something to eat or drink?”

  “No, thanks,” Abigail said. “The plane tickets—they left the date open, right?”

  “The date is open. I thought I’d make reservations for tomorrow if seats are available. If not, the next day.”

  “Here’s the thing. I have to do something before I leave. Tomorrow won’t work.”

  “Okay. How about Friday?”

  Abigail looked away and seemed to be thinking it over.

  “Maybe,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Your parents reserved a suite for the two of us, at the Dorchester. We can walk back there together.”

  “Whoa!” For the first time, Abigail’s expression—a rolling of her eyes, a downward twist of her mouth—made her look like the teenager she was. “They don’t want you to let me out of your sight, do they? Well, guess what! Before I move anywhere, I’ve got to pack. It’s pretty late, so that has to wait until morning. Tomorrow, when I’m ready, I’ll Uber to your hotel. Oh—I almost forgot. I borrowed money from a friend, and I have to pay it back before I leave.”

  Nicole frowned. Her agency had a strict policy against giving money to people they were assigned to escort.

  Although Nicole had no intention of handing it over, she said, “How much do you need?”

  “Five hundred pounds. I didn’t get my allowance this month. I had to borrow enough for meals and—uh, stuff I needed for school.” Abigail’s cheeks turned pink, a clear indication she was lying.

  Nicole paused, wondering if Abigail was really planning to return home or if she just wanted to use her as an ATM.