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“I can’t believe we had to go through such a rigamarole to get court documents about the judge’s water-drinking habits,” Julia grumbled.
Alana clenched her fist. “Is there nothing about Marcia in this first file?”
“Hmm.” Julia scanned the words with her fingers. “Nothing. But don’t you remember? Marcia left the island in autumn 1996. She was nowhere near the trial when it happened.”
“Very sinister,” Alana breathed.
“Here’s a conversation with Dad’s old friend, Gregory Puck, when he was on the stand,” Julia said, flipping the page over so that Alana could read it.
“Who’s Bethany Sampson?” Alana asked, eyeing the other person in conversation.
“She was the island’s lawyer,” Julia explained. “The prosecution.”
BETHANY SAMPSON: Walk us through your relationship with Bernard Copperfield, up to the day that you realized he’d stolen your money.
GREGORY PUCK: Bernard and I met at the sailing club about twenty years ago. He’s just started his residency at The Copperfield House and was incredibly idealistic about his future, about the way he would help writers, artists, and filmmakers get started on their artistic journeys. Me, being an appreciator of the arts, I got caught up in it. I often told him if there was any way I could get involved to tell me.
BETHANY SAMPSON: And did Bernard ever come to you for help?
GREGORY PUCK: A few times in those first few years. He and Greta struggled with money at first, and oftentimes, their grant money wouldn’t come in quickly enough to support their artists. My wife and I pitched in when we could.
BETHANY SAMPSON: And did Bernard pay you back for these loans?
GREGORY PUCK: Always. That’s what’s so strange about this. That’s what makes me think that something shifted in Bernard. That he was hungry for another life.
BETHANY SAMPSON: Did anything else give you this idea?
GREGORY PUCK: He’d taken up with a younger woman. Beautiful and intelligent, the sort that really could distract a man like Bernard.
“Urgh,” Alana groaned, remembering Marcia’s face on the news segment, discussing the “cultural moment” that her wine-stained painting represented. “I hate her.”
“Me too,” Julia agreed with a sigh. She leaned back, rubbing her elbows. “I think we have our work cut out for us. Do you mind spending some time going through these documents with me? We won’t get anywhere just reading conversations with Gregory Puck over each other’s shoulders.”
Alana knew Julia was right.
They created a strategy to attempt to organize the files by date. They pieced them out across the desks in the study with different colored post-it notes above each, labeled with dates and any relevant people who appeared in conversations. They also made a separate section for the evidence that was included in the files, including, to their excitement, copies and copies of emails that “Bernard Copperfield” had apparently sent to his friends and acquaintances.
“This is it!” Julia cried as she leafed through the emails. “No way in hell that Bernard Copperfield sent an email back in 1996. He hardly touches that computer upstairs even now, in the year 2022.”
Alana leaped over to dive through the email documents, her heart buzzing.
The first was an email written in April 1996.
Greetings Margaret,
It’s spring again, and with the turn of the season comes a whirlwind of new events, fresh ideas, and gorgeous conversations with the artists and writers at The Copperfield House.
Being me (and don’t you know that, given our history!), I always want to push boundaries, to follow the proverbial rabbit hole down one of my artist’s thought processes.
Unfortunately, for this fresh and top-secret project, we need funds— funds that the traditional art grants will not allow for.
“Who is Margaret?” Alana asked.
“I sort of remember her,” Julia muttered. “Always wore expensive French perfume and talked about Proust.”
“Read the next one,” Alana instructed.
“Okay. This one’s from May 1996.”
