Windwood Farm (Taryn's Camera) (15 page)

Taryn felt her heart sink.

“Why did they…”

The woman whom she had come to think of as the “bird woman” smiled at her. “It’s just a common thing to take pictures at funerals around here. And, with so many enemies, some people just wanted proof that he was really dead and not trying to get out of paying his debts. I know, honey, it might sound morbid, but he wasn’t, let’s say, the most popular gentleman in the county. We didn’t bring you in here to paint his house because we were fans of him, just a fan of the architecture.”

S
he replayed the conversation from the group at the Stokes County Historical Society over and over in her head and something about it just wasn’t sitting right for her. As nice as it would have been (okay, as gruesome as it would have been), Robert really was dead and in the grave in the Vidalia public cemetery. She had seen the picture taken at his public service. He’d been a portly, sallow fellow in death. But he’d definitely been dead as a doornail. Whatever that meant. He wasn’t buried beneath the house, either the standing part or the crumbled part. Someone still may have murdered the old dude, but he was where he should be. That didn’t mean he wasn’t haunting the house, of course, but it did mean their first theory could fly out the window.

Now there was something else bothering her, though. There wasn’t any evidence that pointed to the fact that Donald Adkins’ disappearance had anything to do with what had gone on at Windwood Farm. In fact, there wasn’t really anything to prove that anything other than simple tragedy had happened at Windwood Farm
at all. All of the deaths checked out. Clara and her mother almost certainly died of TB. Robert died of a heart attack or something natural and was buried where he was supposed to be. She and Matt had been wrong.

But she still had a feeling. Taryn trusted her gut more often than she trusted logic.

There was no reason to think Donald’s disappearance had anything to do with Windwood Farm. Nobody at the Historical Society could give her an exact date for his disappearance, only that was “sometime late in the fall” but they pointed her to the newspaper office. The Stokes County Daily had once been the Stokes County Herald and issues back then were sent out once a week instead of every day. Shirley assured her, though, that they should have the 1920s editions on microfiche. She, herself, had perused the old issues when doing her genealogy.

Taryn decided to start there.

She hated giving up such a beautiful morning when she should be out at the house, painting, but she knew if she didn’t get this out of her system, it would nag at her. Since leaving the meeting, she’d barely been able to think about anything else, but that was almost a welcomed relief. In fact, she’d actually experienced a good night’s sleep the night before. Most nights, she needed the help of at least one Tylenol PM, especially since she’d developed a nagging headache a few months back and it only seemed to be worsening in this heat, but last night she’d drifted off like a baby and hadn’t had a single bad dream. Matt sent her a text message and reminded her that a special was coming on about the Titanic, something she would usually make sure not to miss, but she’d slept right through it.

Before starting out that morning
, she made herself a jug of sweet tea and filled it full of ice using the machine in the hallway. She narrowly missed being accosted by the businessman she’d met in the pool the week before (what was
he
still doing there?) but she slipped out through the side door before he could catch up with her. She still wasn’t up for having lunch or dinner with anyone yet and he’d looked at her expectantly.

The clerk at the front desk
of the newspaper office was expecting her, thanks to a phone call from Shirley, and immediately greeted Taryn warmly and offered her something to drink. Taryn was anxious to get started, though, and with her tea in hand she told the friendly clerk that she was ready for action.

The newspaper office was in a large, squat building downtown that had once been somewhat of a grand hotel. As the clerk led her back through the offices to the archives room Taryn
still saw remnants of the once glorious past in the marble flooring, detailed cornices, and original woodwork. The printing room was formerly a ballroom of sorts, the clerk told her, and featured live music and dancing most Saturday nights during the summer. But that was many, many years ago, before the Depression. Now, it was dusty and the floors were streaked with ink and there was a slight musty smell to the air. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but the preservationist in her mourned for the building it must have once been.

Taryn asked for the issues from August until December of 1921. “Sometime in the
late fall” could mean anywhere from the middle of summer to Christmas. Luckily, since the paper had only been put out once a week back then, she wouldn’t have too many issues to sort through. She just hoped that Donald’s disappearance was considered big news for the time so that she wouldn’t have to go searching through all of the pages.

Once she was set up and got started, drifting back through Vidalia in 1921
actually proved to be fun, despite the fact that she had zero ties to the town or to the people. In particular, she loved the advertisements, and the stories which were all a little bucolic and sentimental by today’s standards. Very little national news was reported, but livestock reports and town gossip took center stage. She could have easily gotten lost in the history of the time period, just by reading through the local stories. What the reporters considered to be important and newsworthy said as much about the culture of the town as it did about the time period. For instance, even though there was a brutal murder in the next county over in late August, it barely got four sentences at the bottom of the second page of that edition. The cover story, however, was all about the county fair and which winners would be moving on to the state levels. Considerable pride was evident and shone through in the writing of the article, especially in regards to the livestock.

She could have spent a lot longer reading through each and every edition but she had to remind herself why she was really there.
With time short on her hands, she did her best to read quickly and move on when she didn’t find what she was looking for.

There were quite a few stories about the Fitzgeralds, both Jonathan and his sister Lucy showed up more than once for their social status and volunteer efforts, but it wasn’t until the middle of
November that she finally found what she was looking for. The article was on the front page, though it wasn’t the feature story, and the headline claimed “Local boy missing.”

Local Boy Missing

Donald Adkins, of Sally Ann Farm, was reported missing last week by his father, George. Donald was last seen feeding the cattle at 6:00 pm on November 17
th
. When he didn’t return, a search commenced, but Donald was unable to be located. If anyone has any information on his whereabouts, please contact the police.

His story didn’t appear again until December 21
st
of that year. This time it was the feature and the headline read: “Arrest Made in Disappearance.”

Arrest Made in Disappearance

An arrest has been made in the disappearance of local resident, Donald Adkins. Stewart Evans, of Columbus, Ohio, was arrested near Fitz on Saturday morning. Stewart, who has been living on and off in Stokes County for the past six months, was taken in for public intoxication. Once contained, he admitted to not having a permanent home and claimed he had been staying in “abandoned houses and railroad cars.” When questioned about the disappearance of Donald, he at first denied any wrongdoing but later said he “might have seen him.” Evidence suggests that Evans might have had a hand in the young man’s departure.

Stewart Evans, drifter that he was, never got to stand trial for the disappearance of Donald, however, because a week later it was reported that he passed away in a jail cell in Vidalia from an apparent heart attack, most likely brought on by drinking (according to popular opinion).

Taryn was excited, and a little disappointed by the news. Of course, it was highly possible that this fellow from out of town had something to do with Donald’s disappearance. It was also highly probable that blaming the vanishing on a drunk that nobody knew was the easy route to take. So the stories really left her with more questions than answers. “Donald, Donald, Donald,” she murmured, “What happened to you?” The thing was, nobody was really even sure he was dead. The poor vagrant was arrested on suspicion of a crime that might not have even taken place to begin with.

There wasn’t any news of Clara’s death, however. A glance at the time told her that the office would close in less than ten minutes so she wrapped everything up and gathered her belongings. At the front desk, she stopped and talked to the clerk, a young woman who was busy reading a paperback romance.

“Thanks for letting me look,” she said.

The woman put down her book and smiled. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Sort of, but I was wondering if there was a way to look up obituaries. If that was something that I could do quickly,” she added. “I’ve got the name and year, I just need the date.”

“We have access to the office of Vital Statistics,” the girl answered. “Shouldn’t take more than a second.”

She got up and walked over to a row of computers against the wall. “What’s the name?”

“Clara Bowen, death year 1921.”

With a flurry of fingers, the girl typed it into the computer and then waited. “I’m here for my internship. This actually helps me. It’s always quiet on Saturdays and looking this up is just one more thing I can report having done.”

“Glad to help,” Taryn laughed. “I might have more later. If I do more digging.”

“Oh, here it is. Clara Bowen.” The girl leaned down and looked into the screen. “Says here she died on November 20, 1921.”

W
ith a heavy heart, Taryn traveled down the two lane road, past Windwood Farm, past the oak and maple trees that led to Sally Anne Farm, home of the late Donald Adkins. Now, more than ever, Taryn suspected there was a mystery on hand. Why she was the one who felt like she should solve it, she wasn’t sure.

Donald might be the key.

“Are you sure you’re up for something like this?” Matt asked her the night before. He’d been tentative in his question, gentle. He knew not to push at her too hard, but he was worried about her.

Taryn sat on her bed, the slippery generic hotel blanket under her.
She stared at her painting—it needed more work. She just couldn’t concentrate on it. The last time she’d been sidetracked was almost six years ago. The accident had happened then. Andrew and his car. For four years they’d been a team, the architect and the artist, traveling together and bringing the past alive to their clients. Ever since that job in Mississippi with the plantation home, when he’d heard the music inside the mansion, she’d known there was something about him that was special. Historical architecture had been his calling. She had been his passion. The damn Camaro had been his vice. Now she worked alone.

“I’m fine,
Matt,” she assured him. “This is important to me. I don’t know why it’s happening, but it’s important. You know, for the first time in a long time, I actually feel like I’m a part of the thing that I’m bringing alive for everyone else. I’m involved in it.”

“That’s a little of what I’m afraid of,” he said worriedly.

“But I feel okay,” she said truthfully. “I feel like I’m getting somewhere. Donald, Clara—these people are starting to feel real to me now. And not just in my imagination. I’m actually starting to see them and feel them. I think I’m supposed to do this and put this together. Maybe that’s why I was supposed to take this house, to figure this out.” She wasn’t sure that she was explaining it well, but
she
knew what she meant. Sort of.

“Yeah, well, if you ever start feeling like you’ve bit off more than you can chew, then let me know. I know people.”

The Sally Anne Farm was more than two hundred years old, making it slightly older than Windwood. The house
was a simple log cabin at one point, but was now a sprawling Victorian structure that had been added onto over the years with gables and more modern features that made it look like something out of the Addams family. It wasn’t to her taste, although it had a Gothic feel that made it look a little scary. She appreciated the southern horror vibe that was fitting to the mood she felt.

The gate was open
and bits of grass were poking up through the gravel in the long driveway. It hadn’t been repaved in what looked like years so her car leapt along, giving her jolts as she made her way toward the house, her ponytail bouncing up and down. The folks at the Stokes Historical Society told her the descendants of the original family lived in it, but didn’t have any money to speak of, that was lost years ago. The current couple worked as school teachers. It was after five o’clock now and a Saturday anyway. Someone was bound to be home.

One of those wooden swing set monstrosities
with a seesaw and garish yellow slide was in the backyard and clashed with the architectural “style” of the house. A green John Deere motorized child’s car was upturned on its side beside it. A sandbox was collecting water by the front porch. A cat was currently using it as a litter box. She parked her car next to a gray minivan with a rusted tail pipe and first rang the doorbell and then knocked on the door, just in case. Seconds later, a small dog began barking, followed by the shrieks of a toddler and the cries of a young boy. She was met by a frazzled-looking young woman sporting short cropped auburn hair and holding a crying baby.