Griffith Tavern (Taryn's Camera Book 2)

by Rebecca Patrick-Howard

  When the white Buick turned off the highway and ambled towards her down the drive she was curious, but not concerned. She assumed it must be one of the members of the organization but when the overweight man in khaki pants, white buttoned-down shirt, sports coat, and red tie emerged she wondered if she was going to be subjected to a talk by a Jehovah’s Witness. He held a black notebook in his hand and had a Canon slung around his neck, though, so she figured she was safe from any religious spiel.

  “Hello there,” he called, walking towards her.

  He must be sweltering, she thought to herself, and as if on cue he whipped out a handkerchief and started mopping at his neck. It wasn’t that hot but the sun was bright and when it shone down without any protection from the clouds it got pretty warm in the field.

  “Hey,” she hollered back, rising to her feet and dusting the cookie crumbs off her shorts. “If you’re trying to sell me something then you’re at the wrong place. I’m broke.”

  The man smiled and ran his free hand through his thinning black hair. She pegged him to be around forty-five years old, although with the extra weight it was hard to tell. “No, no,” he shook his head and pointed to his camera. “I’m just here to take some pictures and record some measurements. I’m from Longhorn and Reed.”

  The development company, she sighed. It seemed like she was always dealing with one no matter where she worked.

  “Well,” she tried to smile. “I won’t bother you. I’m just here painting. I don’t guess I’m in your way.”

  “No, no, you’re fine. It’s a nice drawing, if I may say so.” He walked the few feet until he was in front of it and shook his head in approval. Taryn folded her arms and waited while he inspected her brushes and palette. “You do good work.”

  “Thank you.” Since he sounded sincere she tried not to hold his profession against him.

  “I know those kids who hired you want to make this place solid again, but the whole building’s a wreck. Anyone could see that. Structural damage, rotted boards inside, termites, and even the brick’s crumbling in a few places.” He used his notepad like a stick, pointing out weak spots from a distance while he talked. “The whole thing just needs to be torn down, in my opinion. The money it would take to fix it, if it even can be fixed, is more than anyone around here is going to come up with.”

  Taryn bit her tongue but managed to flash him a quick smile out of southern politeness. “Well, they’re optimistic it can be done. I’ve seen a lot places with more wear and tear than this rise up from the ashes. So you never know.”

  Shooting her a condescending look, he shook his head. “When the exit ramp comes, this is going to be a highly developed area. We’re looking at three restaurants, a Kohl’s, a Target and that’s just for starters. Give the people in this area a lot more options than what they have now. How far do you have to drive to get to any shopping around here? A Mexican restaurant? Half an hour? Trim that down to about ten minutes. Will totally revitalize the community.”

  Or evaporate it all together. And why can’t the old and new coexist with one another? Taryn wondered. “Maybe. But you’re also losing a valuable piece of the area’s history in the name of progress.”

  “Sometimes that just can’t be helped. Casualties and all. With so many of these small towns drying up, sometimes you have to make hard decisions for the good of the community.”

  He said it with a tone of regret, but she didn’t buy it. He didn’t look like he minded making those hard decisions. He’d barely looked at the tavern at all, except for when he was pointing out its flaws. He didn’t see the same things she did, the same things she knew Daniel and the rest of them saw. “If we continue to demolish our past, how are we going to remember it?” she asked.

  Wiping at his neck again with his handkerchief, he studied her drawing without meeting her eyes. “It’s not such an important place, really, when you think about it in the scheme of things. Just a stop on a route used more than a hundred years ago. Nothing noteworthy happened here, no vital part of history. It’s just a small place. Of course it’s important to save the bigger places, and I donate to a lot of preservation causes. But this? In the scheme of things it’s insignificant.”

  Probably not to the people who owned it and made their lives here, Taryn thought as she watched him walk away, his camera held out in front of him. It wasn’t insignificant at all.

  With a click of her mouse, Taryn sent the last of her money to pay her monthly payment on her Capitol One credit card account. “Well,” she announced aloud. “It was good to have it while it lasted.” Now, her checking account wavered at exactly $21.56. She hoped that was enough to get her back and forth to the tavern for a few days until more money came in. Her previous client, a salt box job in Massachusetts, still owed her around $400. And the Griffith Tavern folks would pay the remaining balance when she finished her job there. Most of that money would go to bills.

  “Miss Dixie, our ship’s gotta come in sooner or later, right?” But Miss Dixie just sat on the B&B room dresser and looked at her, stoic as always.

  There wouldn’t be any eating out this week but she was ready for that and had gone to the grocery and come back with more sandwich meat, crackers, Hot Pockets, and Cokes. It would last her for a few days. She didn’t have much of an appetite at the moment. Thankfully, the room had a microwave and a small refrigerator. The breakfast was pretty big, too, and she could always smuggle some bananas or muffins in her bag.

  Feeling depressed, she fell back against her pillows and stared up at the popcorn ceiling. Had there ever been a time when she wasn’t concerned about money? Now, it seemed to constantly be on her mind. How much did she have, how much did she need, and where was the next paycheck going to come from? She wasn’t frivolous with cash by any means. The jean shorts and T-shirt she was wearing came from a secondhand store and cost her approximately $4. For both. The biggest payment she had, other than her rent, was her health insurance and she needed it. But it always felt like she was struggling.

  She could get rid of her storage unit. That was costing her $75 a month and the money would be nice. But the idea of doing it made her ill. Andrew’s stuff was in there and even though he died years ago and the pain wasn’t as fresh, she still wasn’t ready to face it. The last time she’d opened the unit his scent had hit her like a ton of bricks, washing over her in waves. The almost air-tight unit had sealed it in like chicken in a freezer bag. She’d closed the door as fast as she could and made it back to her car before she collapsed on the blacktop, crying a hideous amount of tears, her reason for going completely forgotten.

  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.

  Since 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 h
er 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.

  Her 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.”

  Chapter 5

  The 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?