Jekyll Island: A Paranormal Mystery (Taryn's Camera Book 5) (6 page)

A
lthough
curiosity was nearly killing her, she figured hunger might get her first. Taryn needed to eat. Since she’d done so well eating cheap so far she decided to treat herself to the main dining room at the hotel. She couldn’t afford to eat there every day, but a few times wouldn’t hurt.

Steve, the young valet she’d met on her first day, was standing at the front of the building when she pulled up on her golf cart.

“Hey,” she laughed when he jogged down the steps to meet her. “You don’t have to park me or anything. I just can’t figure out where I’m supposed to dock this thing around here.”

Steve smiled, a charming dimple revealing itself. She made him out to be around twenty-four years old. “I’ll do it for you,” he offered. “It’s slow.”

As she climbed out and grabbed her purse, he noticed Miss Dixie slung around Taryn’s neck. “You here for the big event?” he asked.

“Your camera,” he pointed. “I thought maybe you were here for the convention.”

“Oh, no, I always carry her with me. What’s going on?”

Steve shrugged. “It’s the big ghost convention.”

“Ghost convention?” Taryn immediately had an image of a bunch of spirits kicking back in chairs, listening to a demon do a Power Point presentation.

“Yeah, people come here and stay the weekend. Listen to people talk about ghosts and hauntings and stuff. At night they investigate the hotel, take their cameras with ‘em and see if they can spot any orbs or whatever,” he explained.

Taryn knew such things happened but had never actually been to one. From the way he described it, though, her
life
was a ghost convention. “Sounds fun.”

“Yeah, well, they’re usually good tippers. They don’t bother me any,” he shrugged again.

“You ever see a ghost here?”

Steve grinned. “Yes ma’am. Wouldn’t be Jekyll Island if there weren’t a few ghosts running around.”

A
fter
lunch, Taryn made her way over to Adena Cottage. She had to start there, of course. If the house was showing her and Miss Dixie its former glory then it obviously had something it wanted them to know.

After staring at the images of it fully restored it was a shock to her system to see it in person again, leaning to one side and half its roof missing.

“Poor old girl,” Taryn mumbled as she set up her easel and high-back stool.

She sang to herself as she unwrapped her charcoal pencils and set up her canvas. She would sketch the front of the cottage first and then move to the back. She wouldn’t start painting for at least a few more days. She knew some artists who dove right into it but it took Taryn a little more time. She still enjoyed painting, even though it was her vocation and no longer just a hobby, and she liked to have fun with it.

In the hours that she worked trolleys traveled past her, guides dictating narratives over loudspeakers to red-faced tourists. There was one every hour and by the third time it stopped she knew their spiel about Adena by heart. Nobody paid her any attention; she blended in with the scenery after awhile.

When she got too hot or tired she’d stop, put her pencil down, and root around in her small cooler for a drink. She took several walks around the cottage, studying its walls and what was left of its windows. The cottage was quiet today, content with the fact that it had already done its part in revealing itself.

Taryn found herself staring at the lawn and trying to envision the pathway flanked by flowers, like what she’d seen in her pictures. Now it was just an empty expanse of grass–mowed and trimmed but otherwise unremarkable.

As she was wrapping things up for the day another trolley rocketed down the road and came to a stop in front of the cottage. She listened again as the guide, a young man in a top hat and tails, recited the history:

“If you’ll look out the window to your left you’ll see what’s left of Adena Cottage. Adena was built in 1898 by Lowell McGovern. He owned a fleet of cargo ships out of New York City and, during his time, was one of the wealthiest people in the world. His daughter, Georgiana, was his only child and often accompanied him to their summer house here on Jekyll. When he passed away the house fell to her and she lived here full time for many years. Unfortunately, she didn’t marry or have any heirs and when she died the house fell into disrepair. It’s the only cottage that hasn’t had any renovations done on it but that will change this fall.”

As they picked up their speed and carried on down the road, Taryn looked up at the cottage and studied it again. Was it Georgiana who haunted it or Lowell? Or maybe someone else altogether? And what did they want from her?

Taryn sighed and carried the first load to her golf cart. She didn’t know what they wanted but, as history had taught her, she’d probably learn soon enough.

After what had transpired during her job at Griffith Tavern
Taryn hadn’t been able to keep much of a low profile, at least not in the paranormal world.

The Friends of Griffith Tavern, the nonprofit organization set on saving the old stagecoach inn, had used her story to further their cause and gain publicity–as well as donations. She couldn’t blame them. At least it meant the old building got saved.

However, it also meant that her name was suddenly showing up on paranormal blogs, in magazines, and in random supernatural-based forums. She’d been asked to appear on a few podcasts and radio shows as well, but had so far demurred. She knew that there was supposedly no such thing as “bad publicity.” Still, she didn’t think becoming an infamous psychic would do much for her freelance landscape painting career.

Still, despite her rise in popularity, sitting in the coffee shop at the Jekyll Island Club Hotel and getting ready for her day was the last place she thought she’d be recognized.

“It’s Taryn Magill, right?” The man who towered over her had to be in his mid-to-late thirties but had a voice so deep and powerful that it made her table vibrate.

Assuming he was someone from the hotel, and probably someone she should know, she looked up and smiled politely. “Yes I am. Hello.”

“Jerry Guillen ma’am,” he said in that booming voice again, and stretched his hand to her. It was warm and soft but massive; it swallowed Taryn’s tiny hand and she watched it disappear in fascination as he held onto it. “I’m a big fan of yours. Big fan. Just love what you do.”

“Huh?” Completely confused now, Taryn was afraid he might have her mixed up with someone else. Unless he was into oils and watercolors and historical architecture she doubted he’d seen much of what she did. “My paintings?”

“Your
photography
!” Jerry grinned, wide-eyed. “Most of us in my field spend our lives imagining the past. The fact that you’re able to
see
it is incredible.”

It became clearer then and Taryn nodded. He still hadn’t let go of her hand. “Oh, yes, well, it’s…pretty incredible to me too sometimes,” she finished lamely.

“I’ve read everything about your story that I can find,” he said enthusiastically. “
Everything
! I know all about it.”

She highly doubted that. Nothing, for instance, had been written about her time at Shaker Village of Pleasant Hill and people knew very little regarding her involvement in northern Georgia and the case of missing teenager Cheyenne Willoughby.

“Well, thank you. I think.”

“Listen,” Jerry began with marked enthusiasm, finally releasing her and pulling up a chair. “I’m one of the event organizers this weekend and we had a guest speaker cancel. Would you be interested in filling in maybe?”

Taryn paled. She wasn’t terribly good at talking in front of crowds. The brief teaching stint she’d done had been awkward enough. “Um, I don’t really have anything prepared for that kind of thing.”

“Oh, you don’t need anything formal! Just show up with some of your pictures. We’ll hook you up to the computer, and you can do a slide show presentation or whatever. People will
love
it,” he promised.

“Oh, I don’t know. I am here on a job, and I don’t know if that would be a conflict of interest or anything,” she hedged.

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll talk to the manager. We could
really
use the help. People pay a lot of money to come to this and we strive to give them the best experience we possibly can. So, are you in?” He’d barely given her a chance to think about it.

Feeling pressured, Taryn caved. “Okay. When do you need me?”

“How about 9 o’clock tonight? We have a ghost hunt at 11:00 pm so you’d be finished in about an hour. And then you’re welcome to come with us on the hunt. See if your camera can pick anything up?” he asked hopefully, looking like an eager puppy.

Taryn smiled. “Okay. I’ll see you tonight. I can’t promise that I’ll be very good, though.”

“You’ll be terrific,” Jerry assured her. “I have a feeling this will be the highlight of the weekend.”

Taryn remained unconvinced.

Ivy
House remained unimpressed by her presence. Taryn was bound and determined to make friends with it by the time she left but, at the moment, it was doing all it could to snub its nose at her. And it knew exactly what she was trying to do.

If she attempted to sketch the edge of the porch, a clump of Spanish moss would fall from the roof above and land on the exact spot that she was attempting to draw. If she noticed a particularly beautiful pattern of shadows across the curve of a column then the moment she began capturing them, clouds would suddenly block out the sun, and she’d lose it.

“I know what you’re doing and you’re not going to drive me away,” she called out to the house, wagging her finger. “I need the money too much.”

A crash rang out from the inside in answer.

When the tour groups with their history and ghost tales filed by, the house snubbed its nose at them as well. She imagined it crossing its arms and turning its back on everyone. Unlike Adena Cottage, Ivy House didn’t yearn for attention or preen under watchful eyes. It wanted to be left alone.

Taryn didn’t envy the people who would eventually have to work inside it for the restoration.

By the end of the afternoon she had a rough sketch of the front of the house and she was quite pleased with herself. While she worked, she’d stood under a large oak tree that offered plenty of shade, making the experience a tad more comfortable than the open lawn of Adena.

When she finished, she turned the sketch around and showed it to the house. “See? I think I did you justice.”

The house seemed to consider her canvas for a moment and then, suddenly, a beautiful configuration of shadows fell across the front, providing mesmerizing contours and contrast.

Taryn laughed. “Well, you’re welcome then.” A woman passing by pushing a stroller with a sleepy toddler stopped in her tracks and glanced at Taryn before shaking her head in worry and quickly moving on.

“It’s okay, ma’am,” Taryn wanted to assure her. “I was just talking to the house.” But she kept her mouth shut. If they couldn’t hear it, they probably wouldn’t understand.