Page 25 of Nantucket Gala

“Was it a murder?” Greta asked. “You sound so sure of yourself.”

Henry suddenly felt as though his grandmother was playing a game with him. He took a breath and searched her face for signs of the truth.

“Will you tell me everything you remember about that night?”

Greta rolled her head in a circle.

Henry wanted to say she knew he was coming here to pester her with questions!

But finally, Greta began to tell him what she remembered.

“It was a really hot day in June. Quentin had a sore throat.”

I can’t use that in my script, Henry thought dully.

“Sophia wanted me to meet her before the gala, but I was running around, trying to tend to something for the residency and pick up Quentin’s medicine,” Greta said. “Tons of wealthy people were coming to the island for the gala. Everyone wanted to contribute to Francis Bianchi’s next big production.”

“Sophia Bianchi’s,” Henry corrected.

“Well, sure. But we didn’t know that till recently, did we?” Greta smiled.

“Anyway. What I remember of the gala is that everyone was overdressed, and everyone was trying to impress each other. Everyone was fawning all over Francis Bianchi. Bernard was wearing a tuxedo, and I had a very small stain on my dress from when Alana played with my makeup without asking. Hm. What else? The food was dreadful, although I’m pretty sure it was quite expensive.”

Henry continued looking at his grandmother, waiting for something he could put into the script.

Finally, it came.

“There was a scream, and everyone ran out behind the hotel to find Natalie Masterson. She was dead. But I couldn’t get close enough to see her.”

Henry wanted to ask if she saw the body.

“Did you see Sophia or Francis after that?” Henry asked.

Greta shook her head. “Not that I can recall. Bernard and I were needed back at home. Like I said, Quentin was sick, and Ella was only five years old. I was needed here. I was needed at home.”

Henry leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He felt his grandmother had conned him into coming back to Nantucket.

She knew I wanted to interview her. She knew she didn’t have anything up her sleeves.

Unless she was keeping something from me.

But why would she do that?

“Why did people think Francis did it?” Henry asked. “And why wasn’t he convicted?”

Greta raised her shoulders. “Apparently, the situation was fishy.”

“Was he cheating on Sophia with Natalie?”

“That is conjecture,” Greta said.

“Come on. Can’t we make a guess?” Henry pressed. “Sophia was Francis’s third wife. He’d cheated on his second one with Sophia. He’d cheated on his first with his second. I’m sure there were plenty of other women in between.”

Greta’s eyes sparkled. “You’re writing a story, Henry. You don’t need to get bogged down in the dramatic details of real people’s lives. You can write whatever you want.”

Henry sighed.

“But I’ll take you there if you want,” Greta offered. “The Hutton Hotel. It was truly spectacular back then. Strangely enough, I haven’t been back since.”

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