Page 8 of Nantucket Gala

Tugging his phone from his pocket, Henry googled Francis Bianchi.

He only had time to read the first few headlines. But based on just that, before Mrs. Bianchi returned, he learned two things about Francis.

Number one: Francis Bianchi was no longer living.

And number two: Francis Bianchi had quit making movies in the eighties for a reason.

He’d been ostracized. He’d been kicked out of Hollywood.

And the reason was just as startling as the result.

There was a chance Francis Bianchi had committed murder.

Chapter Three

June 1985

Nantucket Island

Francis’s assistant reserved the top-floor suite of the Nantucket Region Hotel for the last two weeks of June—the week leading up to the Nantucket Gala and the week immediately after. Following their departure from Nantucket, presuming they made enough money to filmThe Brutal Horizon, Francis and Sophia planned to fly to Rome and Paris to scout locations and make additional plans. Everything banked on the pocketbooks of others. Sophia shivered with anticipation. It felt as though everything was about to change.

Bernard dropped the married couple off at the Region Hotel and pulled the suitcases out of the back of his car. The bellhops gathered them to deliver upstairs. Apparently, the hotelier knew who they were by sight alone. Slender and tanned, he dropped out of the foyer and hopped down the steps to greet them. “Welcome to Nantucket, Mr. and Mrs. Francis Bianchi,” he said. “How was your trip?”

The hotelier looked at Francis and never at Sophia. But Sophia was accustomed to that.

“It was swell, thank you,” Francis said, drawing his hand around Sophia’s waist. “We sailed up the coast and spent last night at The Copperfield House. Bernard was my protégé a few years back, if you can believe it.”

“It’s hard to imagine Bernard working for anyone.” The hotelier laughed.

“He was hardheaded even then,” Francis said. “There’s a reason we couldn’t continue!”

“We’re glad to have him here,” the hotelier said of Bernard. “But we’re mighty glad he brings the likes of you around, Mr. Bianchi. I know I speak for all of Nantucket when I say your films are something special.” The hotelier’s eyes drifted toward Sophia. “And it’s wonderful to welcome your beautiful wife as well.”

I’m nothing but a pretty face to these people, Sophia thought darkly.

And then she reminded herself that that was what she wanted. She wanted to be regarded for her beauty. In the end, she wanted to be appreciated for the looks that had won Francis Bianchi's heart.

He left his second wife for me, she reminded herself.

The bellhops and the hotelier went upstairs to welcome Sophia and Francis to their suite with a bottle of champagne and locally made cheeses and bread. Sophia, who was on a strict diet to fit into whatever gown she decided for the Nantucket Gala, sipped her champagne and didn’t touch the cheese or bread. It felt like the hotelier and her husband wouldn’t stop talking for the rest of the afternoon. Francis was enjoying it, probably because the hotelier couldn’t stop fawning over him. Sophia’s stomach turned. She finished her glass of champagne and announced she was going to the pool.

“Of course, my dear,” Francis said.

“You have to work on your tan for the gala!” The hotelier winked. “My wife would be doing the same.”

That’s right. All wives are the same, she did not say.

Sophia changed into her bikini, wrapped herself in a white robe adorned with the hotel’s logo, grabbed her books and notepads, and headed downstairs. The rectangular pool was jewel-colored and glowing and empty. It was exactly what she’d pictured. Without hesitating, she dove into the water and swam back and forth. It felt good to use her muscles again.

Out on the deck, she dried off and laid around for a while, reading and thinking. But soon enough, her mind turned to thoughts ofThe Brutal Horizon. It was never far from reach. Quickly, she scribbled ideas to herself: how to change that particular scene in the third act, what the mother-in-law of the main character should really say in act two, and which sets were required for the entry into the story. So immersed was she in her work that she allowed a full hour to go by without applying sunscreen. The thought occurred to her like a bolt of lightning. The last thing she wanted was to look like a lobster at the gala.

Sophia got up and searched her bag for her sunscreen. Still, nobody was out on the pool deck. It was maybe four in the afternoon, and seagulls wove lazily through the blue sky. It occurred to her that Greta wasn’t missing anything in the outside world. Maybe Nantucket was the best thing there was.

Suddenly, she heard her husband’s laughter. It was coming from the other side of the fence.

Her spine tingled. She froze.

Like most wives, she knew the intricate patterns of her husband’s laughter. She knew when he was faking it. She knew when he was belly-laughing for real. And she knew when his laughter meant he was flirting.

---