The Entitled: A Nicole Graves Mystery

By Nancy Boyarsky

"Vibrant street scenes, swift pacing, and Nicole's steely nerve make The Entitled an entertaining adventure." Foreword Reviews

"Nicole Graves is the best fictional sleuth to come down the pike since Sue Grafton's Kinsey Millhone." Laura Levine, bestselling author of the Jaine Austen Mysteries

Travel to London and retrieve Abigail Fletcher, a 17-year-old in a study abroad program at the prestigious King's College in London. The assignment sounds simple enough.

But Abigail's return is put on indefinite hold when she's charged with the murder of her boyfriend, a former student at King's. Nicole believes Abigail has been framed, but the victim's tight-knit circle of friends and relatives are most unwilling to talk to an American detective. Further complicating the case, is Abigail's defiant and uncooperative demeanor.

As evidence stacks up against Abigail, Nicole discovers that she herself has become the next target. Nicole's first solo case abroad as a private detective has just turned a lot more deadly than she ever anticipated.

The Nicole Graves Mysteries have been compared to the mysteries of Mary Higgins Clark

• Language: English
• Publisher: Light Messages Publishing
• Release date: Sep 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781611533606

Nancy Boyarsky

Nancy Boyarsky is the bestselling author of the award-winning Nicole Graves Mysteries. Reviews compared The Swap to the mysteries of Mary Higgins Clark and praised Nancy for contributing to the "women-driven mystery field with panache" (Foreword Reviews) as well as for their "hold-onto-the-bar roller coaster" plots (RT Book Reviews). Kirkus had special praise for The Bequest, concluding, "Boyarsky's weightless complications expertly combine menace with bling, making the heroine's adventures both nightmarish and dreamy." In Liar Liar, Foreword Reviews falls once more for the "tough and likable protagonist Nicole Graves" and Midwest Book Review praises the "exquisite tension" throughout the story. Before turning to mysteries, Nancy coauthored Backroom Politics, a New York Times notable book, with her husband, Bill Boyarsky. She has written several textbooks on the justice system as well as articles for publications including the Los Angeles Times, Forbes, and McCall's. She also contributed to political anthologies, including In the Running, about women's political campaigns. In addition to her writing career, she was communications director for political affairs for ARCO. Her debut novel The Swap-book one of the Nicole Graves Mysteries-won the prestigious Eric Hoffer award for Best Micro Press Book of the Year. In response to the controversial and incendiary themes explored in Liar Liar, Nancy Boyarsky was invited to present at the American Library Association Annual Conference in 2018 on "Women-Driven Mysteries in a Post #MeToo World." In her latest novel, "Boyarsky's imagination serves up a court case that plays with expectations during an era where we push to believe women, resulting in some real bad baddies whom it feels good to root against." (Foreword Reviews). Liar, Liar is the third Nicole Graves novel, following The Swap ,The Bequest and The Ransom, each of which can be read as a stand alone. Readers are invited to connect with Nancy through her website at nancyboyarsky.com.

Book preview

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 spotted 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.

Sorry, she said. I’m not allowed to give you money. But I can go with you and pay your friend. My job is to take care of anything you need until you’re back with your parents.

Abigail stood, towering over Nicole. Fine. She flushed, but her tone was cool and indifferent. I’ll work it out. She started to leave, then turned back. "They’re not really my parents, you know. They picked me out of a lineup at a Ukrainian orphanage when I was six. They had the idea that rescuing a poor little orphan would give them some kind of bragging rights. She said this in an aggrieved tone, as if her adoption was on par with child abuse. I’ll see you tomorrow." She started to walk away.

Wait! Nicole called after her. Your cell phone doesn’t take messages, and you didn’t respond to my text message. Isn’t there another way I can reach you?

Abigail stopped and looked back. No problem. I promise I’ll be at the Dorchester tomorrow by noon. And if you call me, I’ll pick up.

Don’t you want me to come with you and pay back the money you owe?

Abigail hurried out of the pub and slammed the door so hard it was a wonder the glass didn’t break.

Blimey, someone shouted, eliciting a roar of laughter from the crowd.

A few seconds later, the girl passed the window and disappeared from sight.

Nicole thought this was one willful girl. She was used to setting the agenda and getting her way. For whatever reason, she was angry with her parents, very angry. Nicole didn’t blame them for sending someone else to deal with her.

Nicole slept soundly that night and didn’t wake until almost 10:00 a.m. On her way to breakfast, she left a message for Abigail at the front desk, explaining where she was in case the girl showed up while she was away from the suite. By the time Nicole finished eating a full English breakfast—eggs, sausage, bacon, mushrooms, and grilled tomato—and catching up on her email, it was past 11:00. When she asked the desk, the clerk said there had been no word from Abigail.

Nicole stopped by the gift shop and bought several newspapers that embraced the spectrum from traditional to tabloid, and went up to her suite to wait. When she finished reading the papers, she put in a call to her sister, who wasn’t in. She fidgeted and paced for a bit, then turned on the TV and channel surfed. At 2:00 p.m. she decided it was time to give Abigail another call. Just as before, the phone rang and rang. So much for Abigail’s promise that she’d answer her phone, much less be at the hotel by noon.

She called the girl’s roommate and once more had to leave a message. Next she tried Abigail’s tutor at the college. She wasn’t available either. Nicole doubted she’d know the girl’s whereabouts anyway. Even if she did, it was unlikely she’d give such information to a stranger over the phone.

By 5:00 p.m. Nicole was both annoyed and worried. She had a strong hunch that Abigail wasn’t going to show up. She blamed herself for not insisting the girl spend the night at the hotel, and accompanying her to the dorm to make sure she packed. But Abigail had made it clear she wouldn’t go along with such a plan. And Nicole had no authority over her. All she could do was use her powers of persuasion, which were no match for the force of Abigail’s willfulness and sense of entitlement.

The only thing left to do was make the trip to Abigail’s dorm in hope of finding her or someone who might know where she might be. Glancing out the window, Nicole could see rush hour had already begun. Traffic was at a standstill. Checking the map on her phone, she saw that the dorm was a good distance away. She’d have to wait until traffic eased up before she went out and hailed a cab. Instead she decided to kill time by taking a walk in the neighborhood surrounding the hotel. After leaving another message for Abigail at the desk, she started out.

In early March, London was much colder than she’d anticipated. Her coat, with its zip-in lining, was heavy enough. But for such a short stay, she hadn’t bothered bringing the boots, gloves, or knit hat that would keep the rest of her warm. Across the street from the hotel, Hyde Park, an enormous expanse of green, looked inviting. But she could see that people strolling its paths were properly bundled up against the cold.

Instead of choosing the park, Nicole turned left and wandered along a series of nearby streets lined with buildings that offered some protection from the wind. The shops she passed displayed luxury goods in their windows. She went into one, and ignoring the price tags, bought a fringed cashmere shawl and a pair of lined leather gloves. She put them on before she left the store. Warmer now, she passed a variety of shops, some featuring antiques and jewelry. There was a Dean & Deluca and a place where men could order handmade shoes. Another shop window was filled with beautifully decorated cupcakes. When she reached the red door of an Elizabeth Arden spa, Nicole turned back.

Several times drivers honked at her when she inadvertently stepped into their paths. She kept forgetting that traffic ran on the other side of the road. What made it truly frightening was that drivers here didn’t stop for pedestrians the way they did at home. They might swerve to keep from hitting her, but they didn’t slow down. Pedestrian right-of-way seemed an alien concept for the otherwise polite and accommodating Brits.

Nevertheless Nicole managed to make it back to her hotel. She ordered a light dinner through room service. Once she’d eaten, it was 7:00 p.m. and Abigail still hadn’t appeared, nor had the roommate returned her call. She’d have to go to Abigail’s dorm. After she put on her coat and gloves, she wrapped the shawl over her head and around her shoulders and headed out. In front of the hotel, she had the doorman summon a taxi. When they arrived at Wolfson Hall, as the dorm was called, Nicole was surprised it wasn’t the quaint historic structure she’d imagined. Instead