Griffith Tavern (Taryn's Camera Book 2) (5 page)

No, she’d keep it.

There had been nothing positive about his death, deaths rarely hold a silver lining, but at least his insurance policy was paid up and Taryn was the beneficiary. She sold the house, the boat, and his tools. Between that and the insurance payout, she’d managed to stay afloat for awhile. Then the recession came and a lot of people, especially nonprofits, suffered. Her work had also hurt. For nearly two years she’d lived off the money from Andrew’s death, taking odd jobs at rock-bottom rates to supplement her income when she could.

All of that was gone.

Work was picking back up, but it came in spurts.

Taryn was disappointed she hadn’t bought something meaningful or even frivolous with the insurance money, something tangible she could look at and hold. Or at least taken a trip–something she knew Andrew would’ve approved of. Instead, it all went to bills and daily living.

Even if she had gone on vacation or bought a new flat screen, she’d give anything up to be able to go back in time and tell him not to leave, not to get into the car.

S
ince she couldn’t go out and eat and she was tired of feeling sorry for herself, after a few hours Taryn found her way downstairs to the “library” of the B&B. The library basically consisted of two bookshelves stocked with self-help, romance, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and local history books but she’d already read everything she brought with her and she was willing to give anything a shot. Taryn loved to read, even the back of cereal boxes. A large hardback boasting the history of the area weighed at least five pounds but she pulled it off the shelf and carried it out to the front porch.

So far, Delphina, the owner, was only accessible at breakfast time. Taryn wasn’t sure where she retired to for the rest of the day but she appreciated the fact the proprietress didn’t hover. She’d stayed at a few B&Bs where the owners wanted to follow her around, chat, and go out of their way to make her feel comfortable. While she did crave company from time to time, she felt awkward and uncomfortable when she was forced to constantly socialize. Sometimes B&Bs made her uncomfortable because she was constantly aware she was staying in someone else’s home and this made her nervous. Her own studio apartment in Nashville was the size of a postage stamp and the stairwells and elevator smelled, but at least it was hers. In a B&B she was always worried about oversleeping and missing a breakfast someone had put a lot of work into.

The front porch was wide and full of white wicker furniture, reminded her a little bit of “The Golden Girls’” living room. Taryn was still the only guest and had the place to herself. She chose a deep-seated chair, snuggled into the floral cushion, and started reading.

The book was fascinating, at least to her. She enjoyed learning about local history. The town was formally established in 1845 but settlers had been scattering there for several years before. When it became official, it boasted a general store, bank, blacksmith, stables, and the tavern. As an official stop on the stagecoach route, it wasn’t long before other businesses sprung up, too. An old, weathered photo from 1880 showed a busy Main Street with shops and houses, some of which were still standing. Other boarding houses came and went, too, but Griffith Tavern was the first and most popular. It was also the largest and served as a type of community center for parties, gatherings, and events. This, of course, was what interested Taryn the most.

The proprietor, a James Burke, was the name she was already familiar with. He was married to Permelia Ramsey of Boston. The book didn’t have any pictures of them, but several chapters mentioned balls, ice cream socials, and parties given by the couple. There were a number of pictures of the tavern and it had been a real beauty in its time, just like she’d figured.

When James passed away from a riding accident Permelia stayed on and ran the tavern until her death.

Taryn stopped reading at this point and closed her eyes. “Oh God, please don’t tell me she murdered him,” she whispered. “Please don’t tell me things are going to get weird because I have to figure out how and make things right.”

She didn’t need to worry, though, because in the next paragraph the author talked about the accident that occurred on a farm outside of town. He’d apparently been with a few other men and a snake had spooked his horse, throwing him to the ground and then trampling him. There were at least four witnesses and he died almost immediately from what appeared to be a broken neck.

Sorry James
, Taryn thought.

Nothing else was written about the tavern, except at the very end under “local legends.” Taryn read on, fascinated:

Not long after the Reynolds family purchased the property in 1919 stories about a buried treasure became popular. Millicent Reynolds found two gold coins in a flower bed. Two years later, while repairing the hardwood floors in a former upstairs guestroom, another gold coin was discovered by Stewart Reynolds. Little is known about Permelia (Ramsey) Burke but during her lifetime it was suspected that she was a wealthy woman and had brought a small fortune with her to Landon Crossing. Indeed, many improvements were made to the tavern during her reign. In 1981, a handful of gold coins were discovered outside when new electric poles were installed. However, it is assumed that the “buried treasure” story is merely that–a story. The tavern did go through droughts in which Permelia had to sell many belongings and even release employees, such as the stable manager and head cook, so it’s doubtful she had a fortune buried away.

Knowing more about it, and the people who had lived there, made her sad. It always did. The tavern was once a vibrant, lively hub of excitement and activity for the town. Now it was basically being reduced to a pile of bricks in the middle of a field. And the buried treasure? Fascinating idea. She was disappointed to learn there was probably nothing to it.

H
er room was chilly when she returned to it. The furnace by the window was warm to the touch; there wasn’t a reason why it should have been so cold. Taryn shrugged on her flannel robe and grabbed a pair of fleece socks from her dresser drawer. That helped a little.

Despite her misgivings about staying in a place that doubled as a private residence, she had to admit her room was cozy. The bed boasted a real quilt and patterned pillow cases, not the white ones a laundry service would just continue to bleach until the fell apart. The flatscreen television was new and modern and carried more than one hundred channels. The dresser and nightstand were antique and not massed produce pressed-wood, over-priced items from a chain store. She also appreciated the hooked rugs and brocade curtains. She’d peeked into all the other rooms and each one had a different look and design to it–no cookie cutter style here. 

Standing in the middle of the floor and looking around, though, had her scratching her head. She was almost sure she’d left Miss Dixie on her bed. But, there she was, resting on the dresser. And her laptop, which had been closed and turned off when she went downstairs, was now open and booted up. She highly doubted Delphina would’ve come in and disturbed anything. The woman was about as quiet and reserved as a mouse, almost timid. She’d barely said a word to Taryn since she’d been there and was even shy about entering the room and cleaning.

The room was growing colder by the moment. The cold air didn’t have a source she could find. Instead, it seemed to be coming from every direction. Taryn felt a full-body chill, from her toes to her scalp, and shuddered in its wake. She watched in fascination as she puffed out her breath and watched it hang in the air, a little cloud that slowly dissipated.

Something wasn’t right.

Pulling the robe tighter, she walked over to Miss Dixie and picked her up. The camera felt like ice. She clutched it tightly in her hand, but it was so cold it burned her fingers. She hoped there wasn’t anything wrong with the heat. It would be a pain in the ass to have to pack everything up and move to another room. With her teeth chattering and her hands shaking, she turned Miss Dixie on and aimed her camera first at the bed and then at the center of the room. Each flash cut through the cold air like a knife, leaving a ray of warmth in its wake. Taryn held out her hand, feeling the warm air dissolve as it was overtaken by the cold. This was no furnace problem.

“Hello?” she whispered, her voice unsteady. “Who’s here? What do you want?”

The quietness was mocking, unsettling. Somewhere far away was the sound of something hitting the floor, a thud. Taryn jumped.

Shaking her head, she walked over to her laptop and inserted the memory card. Seconds later, her first picture popped up on the screen. Taryn gasped, not surprise at what she was seeing, but still taken aback. Where her four poster mahogany bed should’ve been there was an armoire. It was partly open, revealing a shirt sleeve. Her dresser was gone as well, a small youth sized be replacing it. Several rag rugs were scattered on the floor. It was her bedroom, but it wasn’t her time.

Sinking into the closest chair she stared at the screen. “Oh shit,” she murmured, cradling her head in her hands. The coolness, her things moving on their own…it wasn’t a quirk of the house or her landlady. She’d been summoned, in a sense. “Here we go again.”

T
he dress was heavy on her and the fabric coarse against her skin. It rustled stiffly when she walked and scratched at her calves as she climbed the staircase. Her feet were sore. She cursed the boots she wore, a size too big, and the way they rubbed blisters on her feet. Her stomach heaved with sharp pains.

It would never be the same.

From a string dangling around her neck she produced a key and bent forward, placing it in the lock in the door at the top of the stairs. The room inside was cold and dark.

Using a match, she lit a lamp and watched as the room filled with a soft, warm glow. Outside, the wind howled and the tree branches lashed against the windows as though they were clawing madly to get in.

Standing in front of her bureau now, she removed the pins from her hair. One by one she laid them in a little row. Her dark hair fell to her shoulders, thick and heavy as her dress. As the sounds of the wind and rain drummed through the house, she gazed at her reflection in the cracked mirror. Her hair was dull, her reflection pale. Her eyes had never looked duller. 

“What have I done?” she murmured. A thin cry nearby shook her. She steadied herself on the bureau, ignoring the plea of the one who needed her. “What am I? What have I done?”

Taryn could still feel the dream, still felt inside it, even though she was conscious of being awake. She purposefully kept as still as possible, trying to remember every little detail. It was fading away quickly, already feeling more like déjà vu. She’d known the cold, heard the wind, felt the weight of the dress on her body. Felt the pain in her groin, in her stomach. It reminded her of horrible menstrual cramps. For a moment she’d known the other woman’s unhappiness, her regret, and something else she couldn’t put her finger on. But the reflection in the mirror wasn’t Taryn at all.

It was impossible not to feel a sense of intrusion, an invasion of her privacy. But she wasn’t scared, just curious. The house felt familiar, even though it wasn’t a place she’d ever been in before. It wasn’t the B&B, of that she was sure. Was it the tavern? Was the woman Permelia Burke? What could she want?

Taryn didn’t have time to dwell on it because her alarm went off seconds later and she needed to get up and get moving if she was going to make it to breakfast.

She slipped on a bathrobe and a pair of socks and didn’t bother running a brush through her hair or putting on any makeup as she headed down to the B&B’s dining room. As the only guest, she could afford to be lazy. There was a time when she would’ve applied her makeup evenly, curled her hair, matched her shoes with her outfit. It wouldn’t have mattered if there weren’t many people there to see her; it just would’ve made her feel good.

Those days were gone.

Now, she felt more comfortable with her hair loose, allowing it to fall where it would, or in a ponytail. She still wore skirts and dresses but they tended to be peasant ones that fell down around her ankles or prairie skirts with cowboy boots. Her cheap sandals from Target were getting so old they flapped when she walked but her toes had worn perfect grooves in them and she hated to see them go.

Delphina had already set up the breakfast bar with donuts, eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, and cereal. Cursing herself for not bringing a purse or something to stash some extra donuts in for later, Taryn loaded up her plate and sat down at the table. It was slightly awkward to sit at a table meant for ten people when you were by yourself, but at least she didn’t have to make conversation with people she didn’t know. Her dream had worn her out.

“I’m trying out a new recipe on the donuts,” Delphina called from the kitchen. Her voice was brittle and an onlooker might think her wiry seventy-five year-old body was frail, but Taryn had seen her gardening, cleaning, and even moving furniture around with the gusto of someone half her age. “I’m attempting to make yeast instead of cake.”

“They’re really good,” Taryn replied, her mouth full of eggs. “I took three.”

Delphina entered the dining room carrying a pitcher of orange juice and refilled Taryn’s glass. “Honey, take them all. I’ll bring you a plate you can take up to your room. If you don’t eat them I will and I don’t need the sugar.”

“Thank you,” Taryn replied, grateful. She was still short on cash and could use all the extra help she could get in the food department.

“I don’t have diabetes yet, but they say I have ‘pre-diabetes,’” she continued sociably. This was the most she’d spoken. “I’m not sure what that means. It’s not enough to give us actual diagnoses anymore? Now we have to diagnose it in advance? They seem to have a name for everything these days.”

“I guess I know what you mean,” Taryn chuckled. “My grandmother told her doctor once that unless it was going to kill her she didn’t want to know what it was.”

“Did you hear the storm last night?” Delphina moved around the room, straightening knickknacks and removing invisible dust with a rag. She was almost always cleaning something when Taryn saw her. Taryn had never seen her relax. “It rained something awful.”

“I must have slept through it,” Taryn answered.

“We don’t get too many here at the end of summer. Mostly in the fall or early spring. Sometimes we get a doozy though. Good for the garden and grass,” Delphina shrugged. “I just don’t sleep like I used to.”

“Neither do I,” Taryn agreed. Had she just incorporated the sounds of the storm into her sleep and created a dream around it? She didn’t think so, but it definitely seemed possible and she couldn’t rule it out.

“Are you getting a lot of work done up there at the tavern?”

Taryn nodded. “It’s going well. It’s pretty. I’ve only been there a few days and I’m already dreaming about the place, the people who lived there. Occupational hazard I guess. It’s not the first time. I get pretty involved. I hope the kids get their money so they can buy it. I’d hate to see it torn down.”

“Oh, Lordy; me too honey. Me too. I can remember, back when I was a little girl, it was a house. They held meetings there for the Kiwanis. And my daddy went there for men’s business,” Delphina added primly. “The owner was mayor here for awhile,”

Taryn smiled at this reference to drinking. “Was it a nice place back then?”

“Oh, just beautiful. They’d get it all decorated for Christmas and at Halloween the owners would hand out the best candy. But then the money dried up and the poor old place has just been empty; goodness, I don’t know how many years it’s been now. People just don’t have the money to keep a place like that up anymore and then it gets handed down to another generation who don’t know what to do with it.”

“It’s the first stagecoach station I’ve been to,” Taryn admitted. “I’ve been reading about it in your books here.”

“My daddy could’ve told you some stories about it, my granddaddy too. They would remember it when it was open as an inn. They used to have all sorts of parties there, weddings, and all kinds of guests.” Delphina pulled out a chair and sat down across from Taryn. As the sunlight streamed in through one of the windows, it landed on top of her curly gray head and gave it an almost bluish tint. Her fingers tapped on the embroidered tablecloth, a set of rings sparkling. “My family has been here since the beginning of the town. This house here? My great grandparents built it. Been in the family ever since.”

“It’s a beautiful place. I love the tavern, too. It must have been something,” Taryn prodded. “And run by a woman for a long time?”

“Oh yes. Mrs. Permelia. Shame about her husband passing when she was so young, and she not from here, but she ran that tavern well. She’s buried on up the road here.”

“I guess it wasn’t easy running a business by yourself back in those days if you were a woman,” Taryn mused. Then, realizing who she was talking to, she blushed. “It’s not easy
now
either, or I’m guessing.”

Delphina laughed merrily. “Oh, I can’t say I wouldn’t mind more help but I manage. My husband left almost ten years ago. Not a day goes by I don’t miss him. Mostly in the evenings when it’s quiet and everyone’s gone or in bed. I’d like someone to talk to. I reckon that’s the way Mrs. Permelia felt, too, running that place alone. And you! You’re by yourself, too, and a working girl!”

“I don’t mind it most of the time, being alone, but you’re right about the evenings. And the early mornings…” She let her voice trail off and ran her finger around the rim of her orange juice glass. “Sometimes I want to tell someone about my day or something interesting that happened and then I remember I can’t.”

Delphina smiled, a soft one that lit up her face. “I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t realize you’d lost someone too. I should have seen it on your face. We women, we usually know these things.”

“My husband,” Taryn conceded. “He’s been on my mind a lot lately. The anniversary of his…passing…is coming up soon. In a few weeks. It gets a little harder this time of the year.”

“It was sudden then?”

Taryn grimaced. “A car crash. It will be six years this year. Sometimes I still feel like he’s out there, working, and just hasn’t come home yet. We worked together and spent most of our time together. It’s been hard to…adjust.”

“My husband and I also worked together. It was his idea to open this place. This was my family’s home and I’ve lived here all my life. Jerry, my husband, worked for the railroad. When he retired his pension didn’t go far. I didn’t work, you see, but we did alright. Then, with prices gone up on everything from food to gas, we needed the money. So any rooms in this house we thought we might make good innkeepers. We always liked having company!”

“I’m sorry, what happened to him?” Taryn asked. “Did he pass away?”

“Oh no,” Delphina sighed. “Something that makes me look much more foolish than the average woman. Jerry left me to have his adventures. I shouldn’t have been surprised when he left; for years he’d talked about going out west or down south. Maybe getting one of those big RVs and selling the place. He could talk a good talk! I could never see myself selling, though. It was my home. It was hard enough for me to go on vacation for a week and leave it behind. So, one day, he went off on his own adventure. With him gone it’s hard but I manage.” Delphina’s face grew a little darker, her smile tighter. “I manage.”

“It’s all we can do, right?”

D
espite her full breakfast, and the fruit and donuts she’d hoarded, Taryn was still hungry and stopped at the Frosty Freeze on the way to the tavern. A turkey and cheese sandwich would keep in her cooler and a Coke on ice would get her motor running. She was dragging more and more. She tried to tell herself she was still recovering from being poisoned, maybe more than once, and a concussion but part of her was still worried. Shouldn’t she be feeling a lot better by now? The exhaustion never really went away and the headaches were getting worse, if anything; they were definitely not getting better.

The little building was crowded when she pulled up. Half a dozen people wandered around, waiting for their orders. A small group of teenagers sat on the red picnic table, looking at one boy’s smart phone and laughing. They ignored her.

Taryn smiled to herself. Some things didn’t change. Technology might get better, teenagers might feel wiser, but the lure of milkshakes and hamburgers would always be strong.

After she placed her order, Taryn walked back to her car and perched on the hood. She replied to a text from Matt (just asking her how her morning was going) and checked her email. After that, there wasn’t anything to do but wait. She didn’t have a smart phone and could only perform basic functions on hers. The glare made it too bright to read. Still, it was a nice, warm day and the beat of the sun on her bare arms and legs was soothing. The lull of conversation around her, everyone seemed to know each other, was comforting. She could almost take a nap.