Page 17 of What She Saw
Bottom line, insomnia left me with two hours to kill. I parked in front of the Depot. The red neon sign in the front window blinkedOpen, and I could see several of the booths were full of customers. I crossed to the front door. I hesitated a moment and then opened the door as bells jingled above my head. I found a seat at the bar and watched a waitress serve coffee to a group of young hikers.
I’d spent a few weeks digging into every detail about the town, the victims, and the killer. I had done a detailed background check on the Festival Four. They all shared one truth: Dawson was the last town they ever saw.
The victim foremost in my mind was Patty Reed. She’d shown up in Dawson thirty-two years ago. Eighteen years old and pregnant, she’d been fleeing an abusive boyfriend. She’d wanted a better life for herself and her baby when she’d taken a job at this diner. She’d worked until the day she gave birth. And two weeks later, she returned to work with her baby strapped to her chest.
Patty. Patty Reed.
My mother.
Taggart’s file contained interviews with people who had known Patty. Buddy, the Depot owner, had offered her 25 percent of the total food sales if she worked the tent at the festival. Despite Colton’s attendance estimates, she’d told Buddy she expected at least a thousand people at the event. She’d been hearing the buzz in town for weeks and sensed a large crowd.
Patty’s 25 percent would have amounted to about $3,500. A real nice chunk of change in 1994. The money would have paid past-due bills and tuition for an accounting class at the community college. She’d wanted more for herself and for me.
As I settled on a barstool, a heavyset man in his fifties walked up to me with a pot of coffee in hand. Without a word, he filled the stoneware mug in front of me. Most who worked the breakfast shift had been up by 4:00 or 5:00 a.m. and had few words. “Cream? Sugar?”
The sugar and fat sounded good. “Yes to both.”
He glanced at me, paused, then left me with cream, sugar, and a menu. The man returned minutes later, no pad or pencil in hand. “Made a choice?”
“Whole wheat toast, butter on the side, and berries.”
“Coming right up.” He glanced back at me. “Do I know you?”
“I’ve made a few short trips to Dawson, but I’ve never been here.”
He shook his head. “I could swear we’d met.”
My grandmother, Sara, had told me that I looked like Patty. Sara had precious few pictures of Patty, and the ones she’d had were grainy or out of focus. “I have one of those faces.”
“Oh, I know faces and names. I never forget any of them.”
“Don’t know what to tell you.”
He shrugged, put my order in, and got caught up in a rush of new arrivals at the bar. Ten minutes later, he set the plain wheat toast and blueberries in front of me.
“Do you have family in the area?”
“Not anymore.”
His eyes widened. “So you did have family in the area?”
“A long time ago. I was a baby.”
He hesitated, tapping his large fingers on the counter as if flushing out a memory.
“You look like someone I knew once.”
“Really?” I reached for a dry piece of toast, opened a strawberry jelly packet, and spread it.
“We were about the same age. I was learning the ropes from my old man, and she was a waitress. She was one of the hardest-working people I knew.”
“What happened to her?” I knew the answer, but I liked to watch people when they responded to questions like this.
Disappointment tightened his face. “That’s a long story.”
“I got a little time.” I wrapped chilled fingers around the warm mug, drawing in the heat.
“You ever hear of the Mountain Music Festival?” He asked as if he expected me not to know. For most it was ancient history. And few cared about history anymore.
