Page 36 of Nantucket Gala

Debra’s eyes flickered with interest. She flipped the headshot over to reveal another headshot underneath. Here was yet another beautiful woman in the late seventies, but this was one Henry knew well.

“And here, of course, is Sophia Bianchi,” Debra said. “The wife of Francis Bianchi. The wife who, according to several sources, never saw Francis again after the night of the Nantucket Gala. Why didn’t they get divorced? There’s the question of the hour.” Debra looked ravenous.

Henry laughed nervously. He considered telling Debra that he knew Sophia personally but thought better of it.Stop telling everyone everything, Henry!he scolded himself.

“Your question to me was did Natalie Masterson and Sophia Bianchi know each other before Natalie was cast inThe Brutal Horizon,” Debra recounted. “And I have my answer.”

Henry’s heart pounded. Debra hunted through her folders, her photographs, her newspaper clippings. Out poured photographs of Natalie during the early years of her career: performing on stage, doing stand-up, singing in a choir. Frequently, she was photographed with her arm slung around another actor or actress, smiling as though she was doing everything she ever dreamed of. She looked truly sensational, like the personification of sunlight itself. Henry felt himself fall in love with her. He felt within himself the great tragedy of her death.

And then from Debra’s pile popped a photograph of Sophia and Natalie—together.

Henry’s jaw dropped.

There they were: maybe twenty years old and wearing outfits and hairstyles that placed them in the 1940s. They were grinning madly as though they’d both had a little too much to drink, and Natalie had her arm linked to Sophia’s and her head on Sophia’s shoulder. It almost looked as though they were sisters.

“The year was 1977, and both Sophia and Natalie were fresh-faced actresses, trying to make it big. But they needed cash, and badly, which meant they auditioned for just about everything. That included this war-era student film. They were cast as sisters and rivals after the same man who ultimately died in the war.”

Henry gaped. “Did you find the film?”

Debra laughed. “Of course I did. What kind of historian would I be if I couldn’t find the film?” She pulled a floppy disk from a folder and set it between them. “You can watch it if you like. I have several other copies.”

Henry wasn’t sure how he would find a machine to read his floppy disk. It was 2025, and floppy disks looked like technology meant for the stone era. But he would have to try.

“But this means that Sophia probably introduced Natalie and Francis,” Henry breathed.

“I did some digging on that,” Debra stated. “It looks as though Sophia’s and Natalie’s careers fizzled after this student film. Both had been rising stars, but then—as it sometimes goes in Hollywood—something fell apart. Sophia had a gig as an extra in one of Francis’s films, and suddenly, she had that affair that changed her life.”

It changed Francis’s life, too, Henry wanted to say. He wouldn’t have had the same career without her.

“It’s likely that Sophia introduced Francis to Natalie in 1983,” Debra said, rifling through her folders to pull out newspaper clippings from parties at the Cannes Film Festival the same year. In them, Francis, Sophia, Natalie, and a handsome stranger were drinking champagne on a glorious French beach. Sophia was reaching for Natalie’s hand, and Francis’s eyes knew only Sophia.

“Who’s the guy?” Henry asked.

Debra pointed at the caption and read, “Dean Chatterly. He was Natalie’s fiancé. Incidentally, he died later that year.”

Henry’s eyes widened. Suddenly, a conspiracy came alight in his mind.

Had Francis killed Dean in order to get closer to Natalie? And then, had he had to kill Natalie because she wanted to ruin him?

Henry was speechless. Debra smiled proudly at her handiwork.

“You’re worth every penny, Debra,” he said after a long time.

Debra laughed as she gathered up the photos and clippings. “I like hearing that. Sometimes people hate me for telling the truth. But I suppose these aren’t your truths or your story. That makes all the difference.”

Henry put his face in his hands. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

But then a thought occurred to him.

“Who made the student film?”

Debra raised her eyebrows. “It was a female director, if you can believe it. Back then, they weren’t exactly common. Her name was…” Debra flicked through the files to remind herself. “Cindy Saucer. Cool name, right? Anyway, I already looked her up. She lives in Santa Monica.”

Henry took a breath. “Do you think she’d want to talk?”

“I don’t see why not,” Debra said. “Everyone likes to gossip about the past.”

When Henry left the library a half hour later, he had Cindy Saucer’s phone number and address listed on his phone. Within his heart, he felt the alienating sensation he was trodding through territory nobody else had before.

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