What She Saw - 4

Sloane

Dawson, Virginia

It wasn’t the first time I’d visited the small town of Dawson, nestled in the mountains of Central Virginia. Located twenty miles northeast of Interstate 64, between Charlottesville and Waynesboro, Dawson was a favorite stop for history buffs, wine enthusiasts, sightseers, or anyone looking for a burger or a bathroom break.

The town’s year-round residents hovered around five thousand. But during the summer and fall tourist seasons, when visitors filled rental properties tucked in the hills and valleys, the population swelled to four times that.

I’d arrived during a “shoulder” week. Summer vacationers had left because public schools and colleges were back in session. And it would be two weeks before Labor Day, when the fall hikers arrived. Basically, rents were lower right now.

I’d rented a mountain cottage so far off the beaten path that, even in high season, few wanted it. My budget liked small, rustic cabins in hard-to-reach places.

I found the rental office on Main Street and parked my Jeep in front. Midday was slow in Dawson, but the pace would pick up a little around the dinner rush.

Out of the Jeep, I shouldered my backpack and crossed to the rental office. Agencies usually sent me an entry code, so I didn’t have to bother with check-in. But when I’d rented the place, I was told there was no electronic lock on the cabin. Too much trouble to change the batteries. Okay. Not ideal, but I was here to work, not play.

Bells jingled as I pushed open the door to an office. Two empty desks greeted me. The walls were covered in images of homes far nicer than I could ever afford. My little cabin wasn’t featured in any framed print.

I walked up to the front desk and rapped my knuckles against faux wood. “Hello?”

Footsteps shifted and a toilet flushed. Seconds later, a woman in her late forties emerged from a restroom, drying her hands. Her blond hair was styled into a ponytail, and makeup enhanced handsome features. She wasn’t tall, and her figure looked as if it were carrying a few extra pounds under a cotton top that skimmed over designer jeans narrowing to custom boots.

I had interacted with rich folks when I’d been hired for a couple of ghostwriting gigs. With rich people, it’s not the clothes or cars that are the tell, but the attitude. One woman who came from old tobacco money wanted her life story told but didn’t “like worrying over the details.” Another trust funder who looked homeless wanted his vision for the future enshrined on the page. I could have told them both their stories wouldn’t sell. But I didn’t because the money was good. Both had liked my final product, but to my knowledge, neither book had been published.

“Well, hello there,” the woman said. She tossed her paper towel into a trash can and extended her hand. “I’m Bailey Briggs Jones. What can I do for you?”

In the weeks after the concert, Sheriff CJ Taggart had interviewed Bailey Briggs, who’d been seen at the concert with one of the Festival Four victims, Debra Jackson. Bailey had admitted under oath that she’d seen Debra at the concert, and they’d chatted about high school. She’d been very calm when she testified that she’d left the concert via the fire road around 1:00 a.m. and hitchhiked home.

“I’m Sloane Grayson.” I hoisted my backpack higher on my shoulder. “I rented a cabin and need to pick up the keys.”

“Pick up the keys!” Bailey laughed. “That’s a blast from the past. We have two rentals like that now. Seeing as the Sawyer place is already rented, you must be after the Taggart cabin.”

“Taggart, that’s right.”

“We haven’t had much interest in that cabin for a while, and his great-nephew is on the verge of selling it.” She opened a drawer at the first desk and removed a set of three old keys on a ring. “The locks are old, but they work.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Bailey gripped the keys in manicured hands before she dropped them in my calloused palm. “You’re here for two weeks?”

“That’s what I’ve paid for, but who knows? Is the cabin rented after my stay?”

“Lord, no. You could keep it all September.”

“Good to know.”

“Why would a young gal like you want to hide away in an old cabin in the woods?”

“A quiet place to work. And I’m on a deadline.”

“Are you one of those true crime writers?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“The only people who’ve ever had any real interest in Taggart’s cabin were into solving crimes.”

If I feigned ignorance, I learned more. People loved to talk and prove they were in the know. “What crime?”

“Taggart was the sheriff in Dawson for over twenty years. He investigated the Mountain Music Festival murders.” She spoke as if the facts were ingrained.

“I read something about that.”

“Who are you writing for?”

“I have a contract with a magazine. Circulation isn’t huge.”

“Why come here?” She shook her head. “We see hikers and mountain bikers in Dawson. Not writers.”

“Easier to concentrate if I don’t have interruptions.”

“You won’t get any at the cabin. It doesn’t have Wi-Fi. Or cell service. You’ll have to drive down the mountain to get your phone to work. The coffee maker is an automatic drip, so buy a bag of ground coffee. Clean sheets and towels are in the storage closet. There’s a television and VHS player. Taggart liked his westerns and old war movies.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“And how did you find our agency?” Bailey’s voice rose with the question.

“Dawson made the Top 10 list for ‘Out-of-the-Way Haunted Mountain Locations.’ Your agency is one of two in town.”

She nodded. “We had a ghost hunter stay at the cabin about two years ago. He didn’t stay but a couple of nights.”

“Is the house haunted?”

“Depends. Are you scared of ghosts?”

The dead never bothered me. Trouble tended to follow the living. “No. I figure once you’ve crossed over, you’re no real threat to me.”

“That’s very brave of you. I’m not so courageous. I’m sure the dead are watching, and I don’t like it.”

“Why are ghosts watching you?”

Gold beaded bracelets on her wrist rattled as she brushed back a wisp of dyed blond hair. “Unfinished business.”

Bailey’s smooth skin had the look of Botox and fillers, but her eyes reflected a distance that belied her pleasant expression. But I imagined when she was younger, she was stunning. “Fair enough. The living have their share of it, too.”

“Either way, I don’t like being around anything spooky. You’re one brave woman.”

“Ghosts, dogs, and I get along fine.”

She laughed. “Well, Sloane, enjoy your stay. Remember, no Wi-Fi or cell phone service, but if you need a signal or anything else, the convenience store at the bottom of the mountain is the place to go.”

“Thanks, Bailey.”

I’d learned long ago to play along, smile. Sooner or later, they’d figure out what I was about, but for now, I wasn’t interested in baring all.

“The cabin isn’t on my GPS,” I said.

“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 blue Taggart Cabin sign. 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 why someone who had no interest in people chose this location. No one ever dropped by here by accident.

As my Jeep engine strained up the hill, the red light on my gas gauge caught my attention. Bailey had told me to tank up, but I’d calculated I had another fifty miles of driving. If I didn’t press too hard, I could still make it if I coasted downhill back toward town tomorrow.

I spotted the last blue arrow and took another left. Minutes later, the narrow road opened to a small field with a log cabin in the center. Gravel popped under my tires as I drew closer to the porch, which looked as if a strong wind would topple it. I shut off the engine, knowing I didn’t have the gas to waste.

I reached into the back seat and grabbed my groceries. My stomach grumbled, and I fished out the box of Pop-Tarts and unwrapped a sleeve. I took a few bites, then climbed the three stairs to the porch.

I fumbled with the key and shoved it in the old lock. Door hinges groaned as I kicked open the door. The cabin was dark. The remaining daylight leaked through the thick canopy of trees and smudged windows. Bags slid to the floor, and I fumbled around the wall until I found the light switch.

The overhead bulbs didn’t give off much light. But it was enough to see a large stone fireplace, recliner, couch, TV/VCR, small round dining table, and galley kitchen beyond. Off to the left was a bedroom with a small double bed.

I set the groceries on the yellow countertop and finished off my Pop-Tart. I drew in a breath as the sugar, fat, and chemicals hit my stomach and brain. Whatever vague promises I’d made last week about clean eating were too much of a reach now. As soon as I settled, I’d order eggs and whole wheat toast at the Depot. Protein was brain food, right?

The refrigerator was working and the interior clean. I unloaded the carton of milk, deli meat, and bread before lining up the rest of the nonperishables on the counter. As a kid, I’d liked the look of a full refrigerator. The sight had eased the faint anxiety always in my belly. A full fridge promised that tomorrow was going to be a good day.

I moved from lamp to lamp, turning all five on. The extra light didn’t chase away the gloom, but there were fewer shadows for the ghosts.

Outside, I opened the Jeep’s tailgate and unloaded a single box filled with color-coded files. Most of my work was in the cloud. But I still made paper copies because when the dots didn’t connect, I pinned the papers on a wall, and the different perspective always revealed something new. From the glove box, I retrieved my holstered handgun, an accessory I always traveled with.

I set the box near the recliner. The kitchen table wasn’t large, but I dragged it to the center of the room. It would be my makeshift desk.

My life had been crazy when I was a child, and it hadn’t changed much since. To combat the chaos, I kept my physical world very organized. Because I traveled constantly for work, my life often narrowed to my desk and laptop. My happy place was sharpened pencils and a sunrise screen saver.

I closed and locked the front door and sat in the recliner.

Silence settled over the room. City life was filled with everyday sounds, but up here, there was nothing except the rustle of leaves and the chirp of birds. It was Taggart’s decompression pod.

Sheriff Charles James “CJ” Taggart had taken the job as Dawson sheriff in the spring of 1994. When he was hired, he’d recently left the marines, where he’d worked twenty-seven years as military police. Civilian law enforcement would have been a natural choice. He’d said in several interviews that he’d expected his duties would shift among speeding tickets, barking dogs, and the occasional drunk in town. He’d been looking forward to a slower pace because the work he’d done on the bases included rapes, assaults, and murders. Drunk marines found trouble easily.

When he’d first accepted the job as sheriff, he’d rented a house in town near the police station. From what I’d read, he’d adapted with ease. Originally from the area, he loved rural, small-town living.

The town council had approved the Mountain Music Festival six weeks before he’d taken the job. Mayor Mike Briggs, a tall, imposing man, made his money in construction and real estate. He had painted the festival as a well-organized, family-friendly event during Taggart’s job interview. The promoter, Rafe Colton, had a long, solid history of event planning. Taggart had told the sheriff’s search committee that he’d looked forward to working the event.

And a week after he was on the job, shit went sideways.

And his life was fucked forever.