Finally, she gave up and went back to bed where she slept through most of the night. Her underwear lay in a crumbled heap on the floor. They were just slowing her down anyway. She hoped there weren’t any embarrassing streaks on her sheets for her maid to deal with. She was sure she was throwing up stuff she’d eaten weeks before. Her vomit was pure stomach acid at this point. In fact, she thought at one point she might have even thrown up Tammy’s ice cream. It was that awful. The worst part was definitely the cramps. They finally died down but during the reigning terror of hell that happened around 6:00 am, she would have happily thrown herself into the reigning arms of whatever deity presided over the afterlife just to have done away with them.
She thought she might have even called out to her mother, something she hadn’t done since she was a very little girl—fat lot of good that had done her then. And then felt instantly sorry for herself and that made her cry.
Now she felt fragile but a little better. The thunder and lightning had stopped but there was still a drizzle. She didn’t feel like painting or drawing, so she consoled herself by playing around on the internet. It didn’t tell her much in the way of ghost photography. Many people over the years had taken pictures of what they thought were ghosts in houses, but most of these looked like, to her anyway, overexposures or tricks of the light. There was one creepy baby picture of a little one by a grave and she couldn’t take her eyes off of it but nothing resembled the shots taken with her own camera and the furniture.
On a hunch, she tried Googling “Donald Adkins” and tried searching through the 1920s throughout Kentucky and the surrounding states. Maybe, just maybe, if he had up and left the county and settled somewhere nearby he hadn’t changed his name and just gone somewhere else and hoped nobody noticed. But no searchable death records or marriage records showed anyone with the name marrying or dying anywhere close. It was a long shot, but it was all she had. More than likely, if he wanted to disappear he would have changed his name. Even in the 1920s, people could still be found.
Donald had simply vanished like a ghost.
Clara was dead and Donald was gone and the connection between the two was too obvious. At least to her it was. Had Donald known something he shouldn’t have? Witnessed something? Had a hand in killing Clara? (She still wasn’t buying the TB cause of death.) Was she completely out in left field here? So maybe it wasn’t so much of a mystery, after all. Maybe she was focusing too much on the “what” when she should have been focusing on the “why.”
Giving up for the night, she took the last Phenergan she had left over from the last time she had the flu and propped herself back up in bed. It wasn’t that late, but she was tired and maybe one more night’s sleep would make her feel better. It couldn’t make her feel any worse.
The next day didn’t prove to be any better, at least not weather-wise, but at least her stomach was on the mend. She decided not to take any chances on food, but did drive through Starbucks and got herself a latte. A girl had to have something to start her morning, or afternoon as it may be, off right.
Vidalia’s library was in the middle of Main Street, a squat, yellowed stone building with a parking lot only large enough for ten cars (or seven pickup trucks, as it happened to be this morning). It consisted of one fairly large room with a line of computers along the back wall which boasted a couple of middle aged men and women who all seemed to be checking their Facebook status updates or playing Candy Crush. A few toddlers played in the children’s section with Curious George books while bored soccer mom-looking mothers played on their phones. She had seen this same scene in countless other libraries. It’s funny how some things just did not change. Still, the air conditioning was refreshing and the rocking chairs by the front door were a nice touch. An elderly couple occupied them and both were engrossed in new releases and barely acknowledged her when she walked in.
“Hi, I’m from out of town and I was looking for some information on the history of the county, from about the 1920s to around the end of the Depression,” she said brightly to the clerk at the desk.
The skinny sixty-something with a surprisingly hefty midsection and a shocking amount of black wavy hair and jowls that would rival Elvis’ gave a large sigh. She was sure it went against the library’s noise policy but he hefted himself off his stool and nobody seemed to notice. She was almost positive he rolled his eyes, although the People magazine he was reading was at least three months old and couldn’t have been that interesting. The couple on the cover, after all, had broken up and gotten back together at least twice since that issue.
“You’ll never find what you’re looking for unless I show you,” he complained as he marched her to the back of the room.
“Thank you,” she said sweetly.
The only other people in the library, other than the couple up front, were the mothers in the children’s section and a few at the computers. But he was clearly overworked and she must have been a burden to him…
There weren’t many books to look at. One was a census report. The other was a book of photographs that the Historical Society released. That one ought to be interesting. The third was a biographical sketch about the town in general and focused in on several of the founding families. A quick glance through it showed that young Donald’s family, along with the Fitzgeralds, were the primary settlers back in the early 1800s. She figured she’d start with that one, since it appeared to be the most inclusive of the bunch.
For the next four hours, she pored over the books, taking notes when she found something of interest, stopping for tea (she’d sneaked in a thermos of it and kept it hidden under her chair) and bathroom breaks when she absolutely had to. Luckily, her stomach wasn’t bothering her as much as she feared it would, although it was still upset. For a county she didn’t know much about and didn’t have any ties to, Stokes County was far more interesting than she thought.
The original fort was constructed on the river. The Fitzgeralds and Adkins were the founding fathers and owned the most acreage at the time, each with around one thousand acres. They sold a lot of their acreage off, and gave some of it away to build the current town of Vidalia. (The current county seat, she learned, was not in its original location and had actually been moved twice.) The Fitzgeralds eventually turned to the railroad and went on to become prosperous and invested in a neighboring town on the other side of the county. It became known as Fitz, fittingly enough. Other communities popped up throughout the county with names such as Fitz Mountain and Gerald. They obviously left their mark.
The Adkins also did quite well, only they went in the way of tobacco. Kentucky soil was quite good for tobacco and they experienced several good seasons. They ended up with around 500 acres. Then, around 1919, they sold off 150 acres to a farm on the other side of them. It was a name she hadn’t encountered anywhere else, but it wasn’t Windwood Farm. This was a Jenkins.
The Bowens of Windwood Farm did crop up throughout the history of the county, but only as footnotes from time to time. They didn’t seem to have any historical significance, other than the fact that one of the descendants did go on to become governor, although that particular one did not ever actually live in Stokes County. Much was referred to about the house, especially since the architect designed the governor’s mansion and the state capitol building.
Mention was made when Leticia passed away in 1917 from TB and again when Clara passed in 1921. Very little was said about Robert’s death later in 1933. She did find it interesting, however, that mention was made of Clara’s “suitor,” a Jonathan Fitzgerald. A quick flip back through the census showed her that he was one of the sons from the neighboring Fitzgerald farm, but at the last census, would have been fifteen years her senior. Sure, things were different then, but that was a little old for Clara, surely? Did Daddy know about that one?
In the biographical book of Stokes County, her question was answered for her. Old Jonathan Fitzgerald was a looker. In fact, posing with his two older brothers and father, and if they wer
e any indication of how he would look when he was even older then Clara had nothing to worry about; no wonder she went for the older men. With his skinny moustache and little hat and big smile, he was all right. For the time, anyway. Besides, even a fifteen years age difference only made him, what, thirty-one? It might have been all right. Still, what was a wealthy Fitzgerald with all of his railroad money doing with a kid from a family that didn’t have much but a nice house?
“That still doesn’t explain Donald,” she sighed. “Unless there was some kind of lover’s spat and one killed the other over Clara and Robert had nothing to do with it. But it says here that Jonathan married, had seven kids, and lived to be ninety-seven.”
She wasn’t any closer than she was when she started.
She was tempted to put the books back on the shelf so as not to give the obviously overworked librarian any more work than he needed, but she remembered the childhood rule about always putting the books back on the little cart or leaving them on the table so she stacked them up neatly in front of her and left, noting that the old couple in the rocking chairs was gone and she was alone in the small library. Even the sniveling librarian was gone, replaced by an overweight woman who had bright orange hair and black roots and was wearing a shiny polyester top. She was reading a Nora Roberts book and sipping something from an extremely large plastic cup behind the desk. She didn’t notice Taryn leave.
The bright sunshine hit her when she stepped out the door and it took her a moment to adjust her eyes. She had to almost feel her way to her car, which is why she thought she was seeing things when she first noticed her back tire. “Holy shit!” she screamed, dropping to her knees and running her hand along the frayed rubber.
It was no heat mirage, though. Not only was the right rear tire completely flat, it looked like someone had taken something very, very sharp and filleted it. They hadn’t just punctured it; they had nearly sawed it right in half. “Oh my God,” she seethed, to nobody in particular. “What the fuck did they do? Sit here and wait for the air to go out and then saw it in two?” And that’s exactly what it looked like they had done.
Seconds later, Taryn felt the stickiness under her and realized that when she dropped to her knees she landed in a puddle of oil. At first she thought her car was leaking, another problem she’d have to get fixed, but a glance around showed her an empty bottle and in horror she saw that it was intentional: whoever murdered her tire also left this little joy for her to find as well—her own little personal swimming pool to land in. Nice.
Chapter 9
When the police finally came, they found her stomping around the parking lot, rainbows of slimy juice running down her legs and landing in droplets on the pavement as she waved her hands and muttered to herself. She didn’t resist as a nice young officer helpfully dried her off with a towel that an elderly woman from a house next door had brought over. She barely put up a fight as he helped her into the cruiser and drove her the two blocks to the station so that she could file a report.
When they started asking her who she thought might have done this, however, she went a little berserk.
“How the hell am I supposed to know?” she shrieked. “I’m not even from here! I don’t know anyone! The only people I’ve met are Reagan, the property guy, the mean librarian, and the old people from the Stokes County Historical Society. So unless you want to pin it on one of them…”
“It’s probably just some kid playing a prank,” the better-looking of the two policemen offered helpfully. “We’ll look into it.”
“Don’t you have some kind of surveillance video?” she asked. She knew she was pouting but she couldn’t help it. Her legs burned from the oil and she was tired. And now her stomach was acting up again, but she was too embarrassed to tell the two police officers that she had diarrhea.
At her question, both men busted out laughing. The older cop, the one with a beer gut and what she only imagined was a toupee, actually doubled over. “At the library? What are they going to steal?”
“You know…books?” She answered lamely.
While she let them have their laugh, her stomach rumbled even more. Soon, she realized her stomach wasn’t going to be able to be ignored any longer. “Um, guys, could I have a bathroom or something? Because—” the words weren’t even out of her mouth when suddenly a gush of vomit spewed all over the table in front of her and ran down the side of the wall. She didn’t have time to feel embarrassed because no sooner had she stopped throwing up than she felt her eyes roll back in her head and she was toppling to the ground before either man could reach her.
“Where the hell am I?” The bed was as hard as a rock and she seemed to be tied down to something. On the other hand, it was nice and cool and the drowsy feeling wasn’t half bad. There was a low murmur in the air and when she opened her eyes she saw it was the TV.
“Stokes County General, sweetie,” a sweet female voice answered from somewhere to the right of her. “You need anything?”
“Sure,” she replied, and found that she was having trouble forming her words. “More information.”
“You gave the boys a scare over at the police station. Nothing sends them running like seeing a woman fall over. You were dehydrated; pretty bad, too. Vomiting, diarrhea. Pretty sick. They brought you over here. We got some fluids in you. You’re going to be okay.”
Taryn looked around and as the room came into focus, she saw that she was indeed inside a hospital room. Her window looked out into the low-rising hills and the bed next to her was empty. The nurse was busy changing her saline bag. She was short and squat with mousy brown hair, but her smile was big and she had the smoothest skin Taryn had ever seen. I’ve been on since five o’clock this morning. I’m getting ready to go home, but I wanted to change this. You’ve been beeping.”
“How long have I been in here?” Taryn asked incredulously, trying to rise up on her elbows. She couldn’t believe how weak she felt.
“Oh, almost twenty-four hours.”
“What the fuck?” she cried, and fell back down. “I’m sorry.”
“You were pretty out of it.”
“What was it, the flu or something?” She couldn’t believe it. She was feeling fine at the library. Well, almost fine. Better than she had been in the hotel room.
“They’re calling it gastroententitis at the moment,” the nurse shrugged. “It goes around sometimes. It can get pretty nasty. They sent some of your stool off to be sampled, just in case. Is your throat sore? Some of your vomit had blood in it.”
“Yeah, now that you mention it. I’ve never had anything like that.”
The nurse perched in the chair next to Taryn’s bed and looked over at her, patted her leg. “Is there anyone I can call?”
She thought about Matt, but she knew he would just worry. At any rate, he probably already knew something was up. She didn’t want him to worry any further. She’d call and let him know what happened when she was feeling better, that way he could worry all at once and be done with it.
“No, it’s fine. My parents died a few years ago, and the only other family I have is an aunt in New Hampshire I haven’t seen since I was a kid. I’m okay,” she said dismissively.
Susan had five brothers and sisters and a grandmother whose house they still gathered at for supper every Sunday after church. She thought that sounded like one of the saddest things she’d ever heard and immediately wanted to adopt Taryn. But things were different these days and family just didn’t seem to mean as much as it used to. She held her tongue and tried not to mother and cuddle the poor sick child, and she really was a sick one.
“Well, they’re taking good care of you here, and if you need anything, just let us know. And the food’s not even too bad, either. You can eat now if you want to. I’m getting off in a few minutes, but Verna’s taking over, and you’ll like her.”
Taryn did like Verna, too. She was a grandmotherly type and she fussed over her and even brought her knitting in at one point and sat in the rocking cha
ir in the corner. She beguiled Taryn with tales of panthers and “booger mans” that her own “nana” had told her when she was a little girl until Taryn was laughing and her sides were hurting.
Apparently, there weren’t many patients in Stokes County General, at least not on her floor. When she asked, Verna laughed and waved away her concern, “Lord, no, honey. They’re either old and been here for months or they’re on drugs and crying for more and we can’t give them anything. You’re the first real sick one we’ve had in a long time.”
“Well, not that I’m not enjoying myself, but do you think I’ll get to go home tomorrow? Or at least back to my hotel?”
She was enjoying her supper of penne pasta, a homemade roll, and a tossed salad a lot more than she thought she would but she was itching to get back to work. Although she was slightly afraid to get off the Zofran through the IV. She didn’t know what would happen to her stomach once she stopped taking it.
“We’ll have to see what the doctor says. He’ll do his rounds in the morning. They sent your labs off and you should get them back then,” Verna sighed. “I tell you, the way you was carrying on, well, you looked like something out of a horror movie. I’m glad you don’t remember any of it.”
“Well, I remember some of it.” She did remember a lot about what happened in the hotel room and that was more than enough.
Her sleep that night was as peaceful as it could be. Verna did her best to check her blood pressure and temperature without waking her up, but now that she knew she was in a hospital the night sounds kept her restless. The slamming of doors, the lights in the hallways, the rustling papers, the nurses talking at their station…she tossed and turned a lot.
Windwood Farm (Taryn's Camera) Page 13