by Kasi Blake
* * *
I sat back on the futon, blinking at the screen, as the warmth of my laptop eased against my legs. I popped a cheese-and-Triscuit combination into my mouth, pondering what I had just read.
John’s writing was rough, but showed an intense enthusiasm for the subject at hand. He had laid out what growing up in the late fifties and early sixties had been like in delightful detail, from the sound of Elvis on the radio in the living room to the flowered wallpaper which filled their kitchen with color. He had been a precocious child, riding his bike pell-mell all around the back roads of Sutton, splashing in Lake Singletary in the summers and sledding down the hill at the Baptist church in the winter.
The story had been cut off as John was entering his sophomore year of high school, fully entwined with his three “hobbit” friends. Sam had been right about his role in the group, and John had pulled no punches. He teased his friend endlessly for being the dullard of the bunch, trapped in a stagnant mire he would never escape. He was much more complimentary of the other two boys and their dreams of college and a future.
I tapped a finger to my lips, looking at the screen. Did that mean the trouble spot was during those high school years? Could they involve the girl who had drowned? Or could it be something that was coming later, either when he was traveling through Asia or when he had returned to Sutton?
There was no way to know. Joan was right, though. We had narrowed the field down somewhat, and now we would simply have to keep poking and prodding to see what we could learn.
Charles and Richard. Of the two, Charles seemed the easier to tackle next. He had retired from banking several years ago and apparently belonged to the local Lion’s club. I found his name on the local website, with an email address. In a moment I had sent a request to meet.
My name is Morgan Warren. I am working on John Dixon’s biography, with his son Jeff’s permission. I would like to have dinner sometime when you’re free.
It was only a few minutes later that a response appeared in my inbox.
Would love to share thoughts on John. He was a good man. On Friday I’m scheduled to play a round of golf at Blackstone National, if the snow melts in time. How about we have dinner there, at six?
That sounds perfect. See you then.
I stared at the document before me for several minutes before shutting it down. We would see what Charles had to say about his high school years, and if he had the same reaction Sam did to questions about the tragic death of their friend.
