Griffith Tavern (Taryn's Camera Book 2) (9 page)

“No,” with a wave of her hand Delphina pooh-poohed the idea. “They’re all the way in the basement and I won’t have my guests playing maid to me. It was time for me to take a break anyway.”

“I don’t mind,” Taryn tried again.

“Nonsense. I should keep them up here in the shed anyway. That will teach me. I’m probably getting too old for this kind of thing. One day I’ll get down and won’t be able to get back up. Now, what were you asking me?”

The moment was gone, though, and she didn’t want to bring it back up. “Never mind. It wasn’t that big of a deal. We’ll talk about it another time.”

“Are you sure?”

Taryn nodded. Before she got in her car, however, she stopped and called back. “Delphina? Have there ever been any stories about…this house?”

“What do you mean, dear?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Taryn tried to reply lightly. “You know, like a ghost story?”

Delphina chuckled. “I’ve never seen a thing here. Why, dear, have you?” A slight frown lined her face, but Taryn might have imagined it because it was gone in an instant.

“It might have been a dream,” Taryn shrugged. “I can have some bad ones.”

Once she was in her car and on her way down the road towards the tavern, she decided Matt must be right. With no history of hauntings, with no apparent mystery to solve, the only other thing Permelia’s ghost could possibly want with her was to stop the destruction of the tavern. But how in the world could she possibly do that? If Permelia knew of a way to get that accomplished, she was going to have to do a lot more than just show up in her window.

T
aryn passed the Anderson County Historical Society every morning and afternoon on her way to and from Griffith Tavern. It was a squat, brick building lacking any character or charm. The county jail was located next to it. The first few times she’d driven past it, she done so with a shudder. Historical societies were a little bit of a sore spot with her at the moment, considering her last experience with one, and while she tried not to hold the one incident against all of them; well, she was human.

If she was going to get anywhere, though, she would have to suck it up. The sign said “open” and Taryn wasn’t on any kind of timeframe. That was the beauty of being able to work for yourself.

A pleasant-faced, plump, middle-aged woman sat behind a desk. She was staring at a computer screen, her brown hair reflecting the virtual glow. Wearing a bright pink Branson T-shirt, cartoon cat earrings dangling from her ears, and nursing something out of an Elvis mug she was a veritable display of colors and visual arrestments. She looked up when the bells from the door chimed and sent Taryn a friendly smile. Her nametag said “Miranda.” “Hi there,” she welcomed. “You know who or what you’re looking for?”

“Sort of,” Taryn mumbled. “Well, not really.”

“That’s okay,” Miranda laughed. “We get that a lot. Tell me a few things about your ancestor and I’ll try to point you in the right direction. A lot of it’s online these days.”

Taryn, feeling guilty she wasn’t there to research some long-dead relative, pulled up a nearby folding chair and faced the woman. “I’m not actually here to look up someone for
me
,” she began. “I’m here in town painting a landscape of Griffith Tavern and, well, I’m trying to do a little bit of research on it. Get some more history.”

“Oh, it’s a wonderful old building, isn’t it?” Miranda actually clapped her hands with glee, her face lighting up. “Such a shame it’s in such disrepair and going to be torn down. And such a
hist
ory!”

“Yes, that’s why I’m here,” Taryn agreed. “And we’re hoping it won’t be torn down at all.”

“You know, they say Jesse James even stayed there at one time,” she whispered confidentially, even though Taryn was obviously the only one there and Jesse had been dead for, well, a very long time. If Jesse James had actually visited every single place that claimed he’d stayed there, he would have never had the time to commit all the crimes he was accused of.

“You never know…” Taryn agreed, resisting the urge to debate Jesse’s past. And, who knows, he might have.

“Have you read the history book about the county?” She leaned backwards and plucked a book off a shelf beside her and held it out to Taryn. She was disappointed to see the same volume she’d already read at Delphina’s.

“Yes, I read through it. Unfortunately, it didn’t have a lot to say about the tavern.”

Miranda sighed, shaking her head in exaggerated regret. “Yes, well, that’s about all that’s written about it. Of course, there’s a lot of
oral
history. That’s how most of us got our stories. Unfortunately, some of our older residents who would have remembered the tavern in its heyday are long gone now,” she added sadly.

“Right.” Taryn was frustrated, realizing she was hitting a brick wall. What had she hoped to accomplish anyway? She was fumbling around in the dark and she knew it. “Well, maybe you can help me out. If I ask you some questions…”

“I can see what I know!”

“Okay,” Taryn rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “The treasure.”

“Just a local legend I’m afraid,” Miranda replied. “If there was some sort of buried treasure it would’ve been unearthed a long time ago. There was some work done on the tavern a long time ago. Or she would’ve used it herself.”

Taryn assumed “she” was Permelia Burke.

“Okay. How about any crimes she might have committed?”

“Who? Permelia?” The idea seemed to shock Miranda. Her cheeks flushed bright pink and she managed to look both appalled and scandalized. “Oh
no
. She was a lovely woman. The first female business owner in the county. You know, the couple who worked for her husband stayed on for years, even after he married her. And you know it’s hard to have two women in the household trying to run the show. Nothing bad was ever said.”

Well, damn. Then Permelia probably didn’t have anything she wanted Taryn to help her atone for. Taryn was at a loss.

With nothing but dead ends, she tried another tactic. “Has anyone tried to get the tavern on the historic landmark list? Especially since Jesse James might have stayed there and it’s one of the county’s original buildings?”

“Yes, I believe the paperwork is going through right now. Of course, it takes some time. In the meantime, there’s nothing that says it can’t be demolished. You probably know how those things work.”

Taryn sighed. She knew. Miranda leaned back in her chair and gazed at her quizzically. “Let me ask you something, dear. Is there a particular reason why you think this building should be saved? Obviously, it means a lot to us, but is there something about it we should know but don’t?”

Taryn smiled. “I wish I knew something you didn’t. I work with historical buildings as part of my job. People, mostly organizations and companies, call me in to paint pictures of them either before they’re torn down or restored. I’m a multimedia artist. As far as this one goes, if I told you, you might just think I was crazy.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You might want to try me.”

“It called to me,” she said shyly. Saying it aloud didn’t make her feel any less crazy. Miranda didn’t look fazed, however.

“Oh, that’s easy to understand. As someone who loves old houses and barns I’ve stopped many a time on the side of the road and pulled out my camera when something caught my fancy. Drives my husband insane. Interesting what calls to us and what doesn’t,” Miranda mused.

“It
is
interesting, isn’t it? The Friends of Griffith Tavern are doing everything they can. I don’t know if I can do anything to help them,” Taryn explained. “I don’t know the area, we don’t have a lot of time, and I certainly don’t have any money.”

“Do any of us anymore?”

Taryn laughed. “Well, I was hoping you might have some documents or really anything I could take a look at. I’m invested in this place now and I’d like to learn more.” She resisted the urge to tell her Permelia’s ghost was the one encouraging this side project.

“Well, we do have some of the old guest logs from the tavern here. You’re welcome to look at them, but they’re probably not going to be helpful. The truth is, the inn wasn’t that busy and not very profitable in the later years. Oh, it had its moments in the beginning. And during the war, of course, it was a hospital. But, just like a lot of hotels nowadays, it also had its moments of difficulties. I suspect the tavern was the real moneymaker.”

“I’d like to see those guest logs anyway, if it’s okay.”

A few minutes later Taryn found herself sitting on one of the low, floral pattern couches and flipping through pages and pages of signatures. The dates went as far back as 1835, which was impressive if you thought about it. She loved the feel of the old paper, the heaviness of the leather-bound records. Even the penmanship was sweetly antiquated. She lightly ran her finger across one name, signed with a flourish, and closed her eyes, considering the fact that she was touching something written more than one hundred years before. The signatures might not look like much, but they were trapped in time, proof someone had been alive.

Miranda was right, though; the inn had gone through dry spells. There were times when a week or more existed between the names. Most of the guests appeared to be single men, although there were a few families and couples. No single women. It would’ve been unlikely in those days that a single woman would’ve traveled alone, and so far, without an escort.

Taryn returned the books to Miranda when she was finished and stood at her desk, trying to formulate more questions. Unfortunately, nothing more was coming to her.

Tapping her long, manicured fingers on the particleboard desk, Miranda gazed ahead of her, lost in thought. Both women were at an impasse. Finally, it came to her. “I know! LeRoy Edwards at the Boain Center. It’s a nursing home,” she clarified. “He’s almost ninety-five years old and won’t remember her at all, of course, but he remembers everything else and his daddy would have told tales about her. He’s the man to talk to. Would you like to meet him?”

T
aryn cursed herself on the drive to the tavern. Okay, so a huge part of her was a little peacocked at the idea of suddenly gaining some kind of sixth sense on her thirtieth birthday, like Rob had hypothesized. But even she had to admit that at Windwood Farm she almost surely wouldn’t have felt as drawn to the house and events that took place there if she hadn’t felt somehow connected to Clara. Her own story with Andrew wasn’t equivalent to Clara’s suffering, but her grief was still bubbling at the surface and surely that had something to do with the house’s energy drawing out her capabilities.

She should have seen the same with Griffith Tavern.

Two single women trying to run their own businesses, both lost their husbands at a young age, both trying to make it in a man’s world (historical preservation and architecture was still a man’s world–regardless of the strides taken). She and Permelia: two peas in a pod.

“I’m not who you think I am,” she muttered aloud when the tavern came into view. “You’ve picked the wrong girl. I
can’t
help you.”

The tavern remained quiet. She attempted to paint, but she was too distracted to concentrate. None of her colors were mixing correctly and it was mostly her fault for not paying attention. Her hands were shaking and she messed up more than once. After the third attempt at shading a downstairs window, she finally gave up for the day and put her supplies away in frustration.

It was muggy and sticky and there weren’t even any cars on the road to break the monotony. She’d eaten all her snacks, mostly out of boredom and stress, and picked at a hangnail until it bled. Now she had nothing left to do. In a bigger town, she might take a day off and go to the movies or hang out at a book store. The closest town with either one of those was an hour away. The doctor she was seeing back in Nashville was treating her for depression and anxiety, sure those were causing her headaches and nerve pain. She could go back and pop one of those little pills and knock herself out for a few hours but that didn’t sound enticing, either. She didn’t get any kind of high off that like some people did and just woke up feeling disoriented and angry she’d missed out on half the day. And they didn’t even help the pain.

I even fail at being an addict
, she thought bitterly as she shoved her last duffle bag into the trunk. Taryn was feeling sorry for herself but figured she deserved it. A pity party was something she thought served a purpose on occasion and Taryn was down with that.

This was supposed to be an easy job, something that would be finished within a few weeks and help her catch up with her bills.

It didn’t help that since arriving she’d had Andrew on her mind a lot and her sleep hadn’t been the best. True, she’d never been what you would consider a good sleeper, but now her dreams were just stupid: a lot of running around and doing silly things. She felt worn out by the time she woke up. She couldn’t focus on her work. Even her painting wasn’t the best she’d done and painting was usually the one thing she could count on pulling through.