Page 8 of What She Saw
“No, it wouldn’t be. As far as the satellites are concerned, that part of the world doesn’t exist.” She reached for a phone in a rhinestone case and texted me a PDF. “Follow those directions, and you’ll find it. Download it now.”
I selected the attachment. “Will do.”
“Make sure you’re gassed up and have your groceries. It’s a thirty-minute drive to the cabin. And that’s in good weather.”
“I’ll stop on the way out of town.”
Her head tilted as she stared at me. “Well, I hope you enjoy your stay, Sloane Grayson.” She hesitated. “Grayson? You have family in the area?”
“No. Thanks, Bailey. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
Out the front door, I settled in the Jeep and hooked the cabin keys on my ring. I drove down Main Street, absorbing the feel of Dawson.
What had initially put the place on the map was the railroad. In its heyday, the old farm town shipped produce to restaurants as far north as Washington, DC, and New York City. Some visitors had come to Dawson looking for healing springs promising cures for a variety of ailments. Others had come in search of gold in mines that were quickly played out.
Little old Dawson had enjoyed good times for about forty years. And then the interstate was built, and goods shifted from rail to tractor trailers.
The town hit hard times in the late ’80s and early ’90s. Dawson leaders had hoped to turn their hamlet into a hub for music festivals. They’d enjoyed a little success. Then the mayor had booked the Mountain Music Festival thirty-one years ago. That event was supposed to cement Dawson’s reputation.
And it did. But not as anyone expected.
As bands played through the night, four women vanished from the festival.
Almost immediately, expected profits evaporated. And the town was gripped with worry and fear as the sheriff searched for the killer. The killer was caught. But the women were never found. Not a win-win, but justice had been satisfied.
Still, even after the sheriff arrested his man, vendors stayed away from Dawson for at least fifteen years. Restaurants and inns closed. Many Main Street businesses shuttered.
And the only tourism came in the form of reporters and thrill seekers drawn to the newest “Murder Capital of the South.”
The locals made peace with their dark past. And everyone agreed to keep it buried along with the women. Memories faded, and the names of the missing were forgotten.
Discount real estate prices attracted investors, vineyards, and a new wave of festival events. Having fun and making money trumped old fears. For the last five years, music festivals had become a major moneymaker for Dawson. The town had thrived.
Now the little town’s two-hundred-year-old buildings were fit for any tourism brochure. Brick establishments that had serviced failed gold mine offices, railroads, banks, and feed stores now housed tony clothing boutiques, cafés, and bars. At the end of Main Street was the Depot Diner. Untouched since the ’50s, the Depot was the lone holdout to change.
I parked in front of the grocery store, grabbed my backpack, and hurried inside. I somehow picked the one cart with a bad wheel that turned backward as I moved up the center aisle. Mac and cheese, cookies, soups, luncheon meats, coffee, and Stove Top stuffing were my go-to travel work foods. I always argued that carbs fueled my brain when I was pulling a lot of facts together. I grabbed a box of strawberry Pop-Tarts and a six-pack of soda.
At checkout, the clerk rang up my purchases. She was in her mid-fifties and had pulled her gray hair back in a ponytail, unable to contain all the flyaway hairs. “You have any coupons?”
“No coupons.”
She looked up at me. She’d pegged me as a tourist. I expected no privacy in a small town. If this lady didn’t ask questions about me, Bailey would.
“If you come back on Thursday, we have a five-percent discount.”
“Great. I’ll keep that in mind.” I swiped my credit card and said a small prayer that I’d not hit the limit.
The transaction went through, and she handed me my receipt. “Where are you staying?”
“Up the road.”
“One of the old properties or a new one?”
“Old.” Before she could ask anything else, I grabbed my groceries and left the store. Maybe if I’d come during the high season, I’d have blended better, but the shoulder-week rates were hard to beat.
With Bailey’s directions pulled up on my phone, I drove west toward the mountains. I passed the convenience store and took the right up the mountain road. But I almost missed the blueTaggart Cabinsign. My tires kicked up dirt as I stopped and took a right onto a narrower road.
For another mile I wound up the road curving around the mountain. The pitch grew steeper, and in several spots the shoulder half slid off the mountain. It didn’t take many guesses to figure out whysomeone who had no interest in people chose this location. No one ever dropped by here by accident.
