Griffith Tavern (Taryn's Camera Book 2) (24 page)

T
aryn sank back into the soft pillows and sighed. “Now
this
is fancy.”

“I told you I aimed to please,” Matt smiled. “I’m glad you came back to Florida with me.”

“And I’m glad you bought a new couch. That futon had to go. And, besides, I’m not ready to be alone again. I’ve been alone for a long time.”

“You’re never alone, Taryn,” he said adamantly, stroking his finger across her cheek. “Never.”

“They’re talking mental hospital for Delphina,” she sighed. “Maybe because of her advanced age and maybe because nobody can believe that an old woman could actually do the things she did. At least, not one in her right mind.”

“You kind of draw old, psychotic women don’t you?” he teased.

She smiled. “I don’t think Delphina was psychotic, though. Maybe a little misguided. I’m going to keep in touch with her. She helped me. I think she could use a friend about now. I have a feeling that small town isn’t going to be generous to her.”

“Do you feel like you finished this?”

Taryn considered his question before answering. “She wanted my help. Help to save the tavern? Help in understanding her? I think I did both to the best of my ability. But I also think
she
helped
me
.”

They sat together in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Matt flipped through some paperwork in his briefcase while Taryn read a page in her Nora Roberts book three times before she realized it.

“I got another job,” she professed at last. “It’s different this time.”

“Yeah, what is it?” He put down his papers and gave her his full attention.

“Teaching. In Georgia. They want me to come down to a community college and lead a month-long workshop on painting. Kind of a historical ‘fill in the gaps’ deal.”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “That’s different. How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know. It’s what I do but I’ve never tried to teach before. The money is good. That burden has been lifted a little, okay a lot, but I still have to think about it.”

“It sounds like something you might enjoy. Be a good change. Quiet.”

“I know,” she agreed. “Already I’m getting a ton of emails from people wanting me to come solve mysteries for them. And I don’t want to be known as the woman with the magical camera. I enjoy painting, I enjoy my job.”

“Everyone changes, Taryn. Maybe this is just a new phase,” Matt suggested. “Something different.”

“You know they’ve already got people wanting to come stay at Griffith Tavern and it’s not even completed? They’re already taking reservations.”

“Like I said,” he laughed, “the paranormal sells.”

Stretching out, she laid her head in his lap. He stroked her hair, his fingertips brushing her ear.

“Tift Merrit’s ‘Bramble Rose,’” she mumbled.

“What?” Matt asked absently.

“Permelia, me, Delphina. Delphina said we all had skeletons. Okay, so she and Permelia had literal ones. But it’s more than that. We were all women, intrinsically
good
women I think, who nobody knew. Maybe that’s why I ultimately felt connected to them.”

“I know you,” he stated firmly, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. “And I am here, no matter where you go next. Ghosts or not.”

HERE BE SPOILERS!

The people in this story are entirely fictional. However, there are a few things that inspired the actual story, although I took a great amount of liberty with the actual details.

There actually was a Griffith Tavern. It was located between Georgetown and Cynthiana in Kentucky. I saw it in person several times. By the time I discovered it, it was in poor condition. Unfortunately, it has since been torn down. I do not know its story. I simply borrowed its name and some details of its exterior (I was never inside).

Stage coach inns, of course, are real. I did extensive research on them before writing the story. Many contained both taverns and inns which is what I made Griffith Tavern out to be.

The inspiration for the actual story came from two places. When I was a child my mom and I drove to Indianapolis to visit family one Christmas. It was cold and snowy and we got down to a snail’s pace on the interstate. Bored, and a little scared of the bad weather, I asked my mom to tell me a story. I liked it when she made one up on the spot. From the interstate we could see several farmhouses off in the distance. They all had their lights on and looked inviting. So, my mom started making up this story about us getting stranded on the interstate, walking to one of the farmhouses, and seeking shelter. The story took a turn in a different direction when our new hosts poisoned our hot chocolate and locked us in a bedroom. Next door, we could hear people scratching on the walls. They were also locked in their room.

That was the seed for the main part of this story. However, a second story kind of finished it out. While doing research on
Haunted Estill County
several people told me about a woman who used to take in oil workers as boarders. She apparently killed some of her boarders and threw their bodies in a sinkhole. Later, another person told me that wasn’t the real story, that the woman had an affair with a slave and when her husband came back and found a mixed racial child HE turned and killed the man and the woman. Still, the sinkhole story stayed with me.

Of course, I have to thank my mother for this story. Without her input it wouldn’t have been possible. I’d also like to thank Tammy Rose for telling me the first story about the boarding house woman and the sinkhole.

There were many people along the way who offered a lot of encouragement. Steve Young of Pickers Paradise in Irvine, Kentucky and his wife Connie are not only some of the nicest people I’ve met but are also extremely supportive. They’ve held a book signing for me and continue to keep my books in stock.

I received lots of support online in the writing of this story. Some of those folks include: Carrie Shields, Lauren McCord, Mandy Reichert, Cheryl McHauer, Tori VG, Carla Tenorio, and Rebecca Powell.

Special thanks also go out to Anne and Fletcher Gabbard. Without them and their hospitality, I couldn’t have finished this book.

As always, I have to thank Ashley Kirk and the late Jim. There’s nothing the three of us liked doing better than driving around and finding old houses to explore. One of my fondest memories is of being pregnant with my first child and Jim and I trying to figure out if we could hoist me in through a window of an abandoned mansion without hurting anything.

As the radio blared George Strait’s “Check Yes Or No” Cheyenne stood in front of the full-length mirror, gazing at herself as she adjusted her tank top and shorts. She was glad she’d used the self-tanner from Bath & Body Works, even if it did make her a little orange. Orange was better than white. She needed to get to the tanning bed, and soon. She’d already straightened her hair and now it hung down to her waist in a long sheet of molasses, not like the frizzy mess it usually was. Her eyes, encircled with liner and dazzling with glitter eye shadow from Maybelline, stood out from her pale face. Still watching herself, she sat down on the laminate bedroom floor amidst the rejected piles of clothes and tugged on her red leather cowboy boots, a Christmas present from last year. She continue to hum with the radio as the song changed from George to Jason Aldean.

School was out–for good, too. With graduation being three days ago this would be her first official weekend as a free woman. Sure, college was starting in the fall but that was months away. She had the whole summer to hang out, enjoy herself, not have to listen to anyone’s rules. She didn’t even have to go to college in the fall if she wanted; she could take some time off and just earn herself some money. She’d thought about that.

But tonight…tonight was what mattered.

There were three hundred people in Cheyenne’s high school and every one of them would be at Chris Hinkle’s party. Or, at least, everyone who
mattered
. Like Evan. Nobody cared what they did out on that farm. Some of the kids were even talking about skinny dipping, even though the creek would be freezing. Then there was the booze. She had free clearance to stay out all night, if she wanted to. She didn’t even have
that
at prom. But she was an adult now. Today was her birthday and eighteen couldn’t have fallen at a better time.

A gaggle of giggles echoed down the hall and soon the bedroom door was filled with a handful of teenage girls, each one prettier and younger than the other. “Have you seen my straightener?” Krissy, a leggy redhead, demanded with a pout.

“It’s in the bathroom,” Cheyenne said absently. She stood up, turned around, and looked at her backside in the mirror again. It was important to make sure you looked good from all angles. She was almost ready. Being May, it was still a little too cool for her top so she grabbed a jacket, just in case. Her blood was pumping, the anticipation of the night almost more than she could take.

In just about half an hour she’d be sipping on a Bud, dancing around the bonfire, talking to Evan. In just about half an hour she’d be starting her brand new life.

And, by the end of the night, she’d be dead.

Rebecca Patrick-Howard is the author of several books including the first book in her paranormal mystery trilogy
Windwood Farm
. She lives in eastern Kentucky with her husband and two children.

Rebecca’s other books include:

Windwood Farm (Book 1 in Taryn’s Camera)

Dark Hollow Road (Book 2 in Taryn’s Camera)

Four Months of Terror

A Summer of Fear

Haunted Estill County

More Tales from Haunted Estill County

Coping with Grief: The Anti-Guide to Infant Loss

Visit her website at
www.rebeccaphoward.net
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