Page 81 of What She Saw
I tapped Fletcher’s shoulder. He whirled around, the trowel raised like a weapon. I stepped back, hands up in the air. I waited for him to focus on me.
He yanked out the earbuds. “Who are you?”
“Sloane Grayson. I left you messages,” I said. “I’m here to talk about Tristan and the Mountain Music Festival.”
He stabbed his trowel in the soft dirt. “We don’t have an appointment.”
“I’ve driven a couple of hours,” I lied. “Can we talk for a few minutes?”
“This isn’t a good day.”
I’d slipped my foot into the proverbial door. “I promise to be quick.”
He sighed. “Can we do this another day?”
I wasn’t leaving without an interview. “I’d like to learn more about Tristan. All my sources are media and old articles. No one’s talking about her anymore.”
His lips flattened into a level line. A muscle pulsed in his jaw. “I’m not fond of stirring up the past.”
“I like to dig into it. I like to see what crawls out of the shadows when I shine a light into the darkness.”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
My wry smile was calculated. “I’ve heard that before.”
He yanked off his garden gloves and rose as if his knees hurt. “Come on. It’s cooler in the house.”
I followed him inside. The interior was dimmer, and it took my eyes a moment to adjust. I moved into the kitchen, noticed wood-paneled walls covered with dozens of framed photographs. I was tempted to study each photo, but I was aware he would see my curiosity as a violation of his privacy. All the mementos and photos told me that this room was a memorial to the family he’d once had. An old golden retriever slept on a dog bed by the fireplace. The dog’s tail thumped, and he slowly rose and crossed to me. I held out my fingers and let him sniff.
Fletcher washed his hands, dried them, and replaced the dish towel back on the sink. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Water would be great.”
The dog retreated to his bed as Fletcher retrieved a glass from a cabinet and filled it with water from the tap. He set the glass on the counter and stepped back, as if being close to me troubled him. I was the knife poised to slice into old wounds.
I sipped the water, grateful for the cool liquid in my dry mouth. I didn’t get nervous when I interviewed anyone. I’d never been afraid totravel into prisons, back alleys, or crack houses. At moments like this, my mouth still went dry. Though I didn’t have emotional reactions to tough questions or answers, my body did. Maybe on a cellular level I had a semblance of a conscience. Maybe.
“What do you want to know about Tristan?” Mr. Fletcher asked.
“I’ve watched her performance at the festival. She was very talented. Did she always want to be a dancer?”
“She was dancing almost as soon as she could walk. Anytime there was a song on the radio, she was moving. Her mother enrolled her in dance classes when she was four. She took to it like a duck to water.”
I skipped my questions about Tristan’s mother because I knew she had died of cancer soon after her daughter’s disappearance. Few writers examined the damage done to family members. Like a bomb exploding, the initial blast killed some, but it also wounded more. Stress had killed my grandmother before her sixtieth birthday.
“She won quite a few competitions,” Mr. Fletcher said. Pride blended with frustration in his voice. “She was very ambitious.”
“That’s what it takes to make it in that world.”
“So many prizes I had to build a second set of shelves in her bedroom. She was so proud of all her accomplishments.”
“She had plans to study dance in New York, right?”
“She’d earned a slot at Juilliard.”
“What was it about the Mountain Music Festival that caught her attention?”
“She heard bands were looking for backup dancers. She wanted the stage experience with a large live audience.”
