Griffith Tavern (Taryn's Camera Book 2) (20 page)

“Don’t worry about me. Work. I want to be able to tell everyone one day that I know someone who has traveled to outer space.”

“I’m not an astronaut, but I will go up at least once,” he agreed.

“And I’ll be there to wave you off. And see you come back.”

“If I come back at night, don’t bother,” he advised. “I’ve seen a ship land at night and it’s not nearly as interesting as you think it would be.”

She laughed. Only Matt could find something boring about a spaceship landing.

Later in the conversation she told him about the letters, about her visit to the cemetery. Matt was quiet while he listened.

“Do you think that’s it, then?” she asked when she was finished. “That maybe Permelia just wants her child and maybe herself to be known, acknowledged? That maybe it will stop now and she’ll be at peace?”

“I don’t know,” he answered with hesitation. “It seems to me if that’s all she wanted she would’ve asked for it a long time ago.”

Taryn felt the same; she just didn’t want to admit it.

“Maybe she didn’t know how. I don’t know what else to do. I also have something else to share…” She briefly told him about the dream she’d had a few nights before. It still shook her to think about it.

“You’ve always had bad nightmares,” he pointed out. He knew she didn’t like to sleep alone. When they were together she even slept with him, though in a purely platonic way.

“This felt different. I didn’t know I was asleep.”

“Do you think it’s connected to what’s going on?”

“Maybe,” she answered. “Something didn’t feel right. I didn’t feel like myself. I could feel it, but I was also watching it.”

“Can you send me the letters?” he asked. “I’d like to take a look at them myself. Maybe you’re missing something and you just need an extra set of eyes.”

Taryn agreed. There was something else playing at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

M
att texted her twice the next day and called her once but she didn’t hear from Jamie at all. She didn’t hear from Jamie the next day, either, although she sent him a text and tried to call. Her call went straight to his voicemail. She was disappointed he hadn’t contacted her since the tavern caught on fire. He
had
to know about it; it was the biggest news in town. She’d seen more people come out to the property and wander around since the fire than she’d seen the whole time she’d been there. (And not just at the tavern, but period.) Now that it was threatened it felt like the townspeople were actually concerned about what might happen to it.

She’d been right about the reaction, too. Daniel’s campaign was now up to a whopping $32,184. He was over his head with excitement, texting and emailing her every time a new donation came in.

She worked feverishly day and night, now, attempting to finish not one painting but two.

The B&B was quiet. A couple with young children stayed the weekend and seemed to wear Delphina out. She now moved with less energy, almost sluggish, her mind appearing to be somewhere else. When asked if everything was alright, she blamed the forthcoming bad weather that would undoubtedly show up in a few weeks. “This time of year just gets me down I guess,” she explained, sadness creeping into her voice. “I can feel the cold in my bones more and more every year.”

She
did
express outrage over the burning of the tavern, shaking her head wearily and asking what the world was coming to. “Teenagers, probably,” she’d muttered. “I just think kids are more destructive than they used to be. We’ve always had troublemakers but these days it feels like there’s just more of them and the things they do are twice as bad.”

Taryn had only been to the tavern twice since she’d visited the cemetery, but so far things were quiet. Maybe everything she had done
was
enough.

T
aryn was expecting the package from the attorney, but it was still a blow when it arrived in the mail. She read through the documents three times before sinking down to her knees on the floor, the loose pieces of paper fluttering around her.

Her Aunt Sarah had been much better off than she’d expected. She didn’t leave Taryn a fortune, but in total, she was almost $100,000 richer than she was the day before. Sarah had apparently been collecting stocks and bonds for years. She’d cashed them out a few months before her death.

The pictures the attorney sent of the house showed it was in a sorry state. The beautiful stately historical home, once white and glistening, was dingy gray with peeling paint and a sagging porch. Weeds were choked in the yard, trees in desperate need of pruning. A window was boarded up, the glass missing. Sarah had been living there alone? More than one hundred years before a fire had ripped through the house and burnt a section so now it looked asymmetrical. Taryn didn’t mind that, but in its neglect it made this stand out even more.

The house was Taryn’s now.

Closing her eyes, she remembered being a child there, running up the mountain behind the house and losing herself in the dark, deep woods; always mindful of bears. Black bears lived around Sarah’s house. You could see them sauntering across the dirt road that wound around the property. They were slow and lumbered, almost comical, but Sarah taught her not to underestimate them. “They’re quicker than they look,” she’d warned young Taryn.

She remembered slipping on one of Sarah’s antique flannel nightgowns; she must have been about seven. It dragged to the floor and she had to lift the front with her fingertips when she walked. She had a guest room to sleep in but Sarah always welcomed her into her bed and, together, the two of them would snuggle down under the covers and watch movies or read books while a wood fire roared a few feet away. Sarah always had a fire going. Said it made her feel peaceful.

And then there was the Sarah who was always gardening, sitting outside in the dirt, her light-colored slacks stained from grass and mud. That silly floppy hat perched on her head and a dollop of sunscreen on her nose. She didn’t mind most of her body getting burned but she didn’t like a red nose. “Makes me look like Rudolph,” she’d giggled. “Or a wino.”

“What’s a wino, Aunt Sarah?”

“Um, never mind. Don’t tell your mother.”

She was gone and that big, beautiful, mysterious house was all Taryn’s. The house with its wide front porch, attic big enough to hold a dance in, old-fashioned kitchen with its pump and farmhouse sink. The house with its drafty bedrooms, winding staircase, little balcony on the front, and water that was always either too hot or too cold. The house with so many smells Taryn could never distinguish all of them–some sweet with perfume, others pungent like the earth and trees around it, and some smoky and mysterious. “This house holds time,” Sarah had told her one night. “It clings to everything and remembers it.”

But Sarah was gone now. And Taryn was alone.

B
y Wednesday the secondary painting was finished. She’d spent all afternoon working on it and now it stood in a corner of her room on its own easel, proudly staring at her bed. She stretched out and looked at it, studied it. The room may have been empty, but there was life and movement present. It felt like everyone had just stepped outside for a moment and would be right back. A feeling of anticipation hung in the air, expectancy. She didn’t remember trying to paint that. The tavern was dark and dusky, shadowed. Yet the lanterns and lamps filled parts of it with a warm, welcoming glow. If you stared at it long enough you felt like you might be able to walk right into it, through the doors and to the bar.

She was pleased.

Her telephone clanged, causing her to jump. It was Matt.

“I think I may have something,” he panted, excited.

“It’s almost midnight. What’s up?”

“I just got in from work but on the drive home I kept thinking about the letters. Two things jumped out at me and I couldn’t put my finger on them. Then it came to me!”

“What? You’d better talk real fast.”

“I’m trying! Okay. So in one letter she’s talking about the inn struggling, right?”

“Yeah,” Taryn nodded, even though he obviously couldn’t see her.

“And then she’s talking about building a pavilion. Doesn’t that seem odd?”

“Yeah, but that was at least two months later. Maybe business picked up,” she shrugged. “It could happen, especially in those days. Feast or famine and all.”

“But what happened
between
those two letters,” he asked with glee.

“I can’t remember. What?”

“The man, the drunk man? The one who died by falling into the ‘big hole’, which I am assuming was some kind of sinkhole.”

She could almost read his mind and it lit her up. “You think maybe Permelia or James killed him and made it look like an accident? And then took his money?”

“Sure, why not?”

“It could’ve happened,” she conceded. “Although they seemed like nice people.”

“Well, maybe they were. Maybe it was an accident. Or,” he said slowly, “maybe he deserved it.”

“How? How could you deserve to be murdered and have your body thrown in a sinkhole?”

“Your dreams.”

She might have been a little slow but she caught what he was saying loud and clear. “You think maybe he’s the same man who attacked Permelia and then either she or James killed him and disposed of the body?”

“Yes. And took his money.”

“Geeze, that’s cold. But, I’m sorry, good for them,” she smirked, remembering the fear and pain she’d felt. The tearing.

“Not saying there wasn’t some justification there,” he agreed. “But that
may
be your mystery.”

“It wasn’t long after that she got pregnant and miscarried. And then, a year later, her baby died. I wonder if she felt guilty, if she felt like she was doing penance for what they did to the man.”

“Life doesn’t work like that, Taryn,” Matt chided. “Whatever higher power there is wouldn’t take something out on an innocent child. I don’t believe in the whole ‘sins of our father’ thing.”

“It wouldn’t matter if that’s the way life really worked or not,” she pointed out. “What would matter is how Permelia felt about it. That doesn’t have to be based on logic.”

“She felt responsible over his death and felt guilty, especially after she lost her child, is that what you’re saying? And that’s maybe why the letters stopped?”

“Yes,” Taryn whispered. “She couldn’t face anyone from her past anymore. Her dad’s anger and shame at her for marrying the way she did, her own guilt at what happened…She was punishing herself.”

“But nobody would’ve blamed her,” he said. “Not her. Things happened
to
her. She didn’t make them happen.”

They were both quiet, understanding they were no longer talking about Permelia.

T
aryn paced around her room like a caged animal. She felt in her bones that Matt was right. Her dream was Permelia’s reality. She’d wanted Taryn to know what happened to her, to feel her fear and terror. And, somehow, the man had died. Either Permelia or James had killed him or he really did accidentally fall into the sinkhole. But the subsequent money rush couldn’t be a coincidence. Maybe they’d robbed his pockets or robbed his room after finding him dead. Or maybe she’d killed him in self-defense yet still feared for her own safety. They could hang a woman back then, and did.