by Lynn Bohart
“The big railroad guy?”
“Yep,” she said. “Their grandniece, the one they helped raise, later landed Randall Rolston, the banker. I think she still lives in the family home on Queen Anne. But you know, that barn of yours is a funny place,” Goldie mused. “Vicky Pattison told me that one night when they were out barbequing, they saw a light up in the attic. She said it flickered and moved around like someone walking back and forth with a candle. But when they went up to check, no one was there.”
“We’ve never seen anything like that. How did most people use the carriage barn, anyway?” I asked, hoping to identify a reason for the hidden room.
Goldie shrugged. “I think just as a garage or for storage. Although the Crenshaws tried raising and selling rabbits. They bought the property from the Formosas.”
“And John Crenshaw used to restore old cars out there,” Ben said. He arched his brows as he tapped out the old tobacco from his pipe. “But he had a temper, I’ll tell you.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Ben shared a cautious look with his wife. “Crenshaw’s wife was quite a good-looking woman, and he had four daughters. I saw him run off a young kid more than once who was trying to woo one of the daughters. We also heard that his wife had an affair or two. In fact, Crenshaw was arrested once for hitting his wife.”
Goldie leaned forward in her seat again. “Yeah, and then one of the daughters had a baby,” she said, as if she was telling a state secret.
“A baby?” I said, perking up.
“Yeah, it was Ruthie, the oldest one,” Goldie said. “She was real pretty, but kind of out-of-control, if you know what I mean.”
“What happened to the baby?”
She shrugged her rounded shoulders. “Don’t know. One minute she was going to keep it, and the next minute the baby was gone.”
“I figured they gave it up for adoption,” Ben said. “They never talked about it much. In fact, while the girl was pregnant, they just took her out of school and kept her home until the baby was born.”
My mind was racing, wondering if Ruthie Crenshaw had kept the baby in the little hidden room for some reason.
“Do you know why they moved away?” I asked.
Ben leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs at the ankles. “John Crenshaw owned a trucking company. He was around big burly men all day, and yet he was scared to death of living in that house.”
“The ghosts again,” I said.
“He never mentioned them, but he often talked about how oppressive it was over there and how the barn had an evil presence. He said his wife and daughters were frightened to live there. We have it on good authority that they even called out an exorcist to try to rid the barn of the evil presence.”
“You’re kidding,” I said..
“That barn has been there a very long time,” Ben said. “Something bad could have happened out there. If I had to put money on who owned the property when something bad did happen, I’d vote for the brothel.”
“We met Lavelle Bennet today,” I said. “She talked about the brothel. Do you know her?”
“Sure. She used to live up by Mercerdale Park. She’s got to be really old, though,” Goldie said.
“Yes,” I said, with a smile. “I’d bet she’s even older than dirt.”
Goldie chuckled and then snorted again. “Good one, Julia. What did she have to say?”
“She told us about two possible murders there. She also suggested that the guy who owned the brothel forced the women into prostitution and then burned the place down once Prohibition ended.”
“You know, Jack Pattinson said something once about a possible murder over there,” Ben said, leaning back and sucking on his pipe. “He’d heard from the realtor that there had been some trouble on the property. You know, Julia, a number of these families have lived on the island for generations. I’d bet with some real digging, you’ll get some great stories.”
“Well, Milton Snyder mentioned a murder to me the other night at the art class,” I said.
“That old fart?” Goldie said. “I wouldn’t listen to him.”
“Now, Goldie, his family has lived here for decades.”
“Yeah, but I think he’d say anything to get attention.”
“I don’t plan on interviewing him,” I told her. “I don’t like him any more than you do. But we have a lot of research to do. A lot of families lived there.”
“Like the Formosas?” Goldie said. “I always thought they were hiding something.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“We saw them just a couple of times, but they were a mixed family, like us,” Ben said, gesturing to Goldie. Goldie was white. Ben was African-American. “Mr. Formosa was Asian, but his wife was white. I think Mr. Formosa may have worked for the government. There were often big black cars that came and went from over there.”
“And men in dark suits hanging around outside,” Goldie said. “They lived there less than two years.”
“Yep,” Ben said. “Moved out right after we heard gun shots.”
“Gun shots?”
“Yeah. And this time, it wasn’t me,” Goldie said with a twinkle in her eye.
Goldie had a reputation in the neighborhood for shooting off her father’s shotgun. She’d even put a hole in my ceiling one night in February when an intruder had me in a chokehold.
“Who got shot?” I asked.
“We were told no one,” Ben said. “The police came out and said a gun went off accidentally.”
“But you said gun shots, as in multiple shots,” I reminded him.
He glanced at his wife. “Yep, that’s what I said. We heard at least two shots.”
“So a gun went off accidentally, twice?”
He merely raised an eyebrow. “That’s how they explained it.”
Ben was a bit of a conspiracy theorist, so I wondered if this story was true, or if he was embellishing it.
÷
I left Ben and Goldie around 8:00 p.m., my mind reeling with all this new information. There had been a whole bunch of weird things connected to the St. Claire Inn. I huddled up in my living room with the dogs and sorted through my notes, including the notes I’d taken several years earlier.
What I knew for sure was that the Bremertons had originally built a hotel on the property in the early 1900s. That’s also the same time the carriage barn was built. The hotel existed for some twenty years, until a fire destroyed most of it. It was rebuilt and then a man named Gramley Miller bought it and used it as a brothel.
Whether by accident or on purpose once again, fire destroyed the building in 1935, and the property remained unclaimed until John St. Claire bought it in 1945. He demolished what was left of the brothel and built his home. Fire would kill his wife and two of his children in 1962, prompting him to take his remaining child and leave the island. After that a string of owners would live there until Graham and I bought it in 2003.
As I sat and thought about the barn and its long history, it dawned on me that despite the fact that the crib and rocker we’d found in the attic were from the late twentieth century, the hidden room may have been built when the barn was built. Who knows what the owners of the old hotel may have used it for? We already knew the brothel had used it as a makeshift drunk tank, so back then it wasn’t hidden.
For some reason, at some point in time, someone had put up a false wall to hide the room and its contents and then added a padlock. Why?
The mystery deepened.
CHAPTER TEN
I awoke the next day filled with a renewed sense of enthusiasm for the book. I had no illusions that it would appeal to anyone but people who lived on the island and possibly some of the guests that stayed at the inn, but the inn’s story was beginning to sound more colorful than I had originally imagined.
We had decided to go to the museum as a group to do some research, so all four of us rode in Doe’s big Mercedes down to the old Victorian home/museum. On the way, Rudy filled us in on
some research she’d already done on her own.
“I was able to access the tax records,” she said from the back seat. “And I put together a timeline.”
She produced copies of a list she’d made, showing the property timeline, along with a few notes on some of the families.
1906 – 1920
Bremertons built the hotel and the carriage barn. The hotel burned in 1920.
1920 – 1929
Property vacant. Gramley Miller bought in late 1929 and built brothel.
1929 – 1935
Brothel opened mid-year 1930. Burned in 1935.
1935 – 1944
Property vacant.
1945 – 1963
John & Elizabeth St. Claire built home. Partially burned in 1963.
1963 – 1967
Property vacant.
1968 – 1970
Robert & Holly Foster bought in 1967/remodel and move in w/children.
1970 – 1973
Property vacant.
1973 – 1976
Oliver and Nancy Pattison – renovated upstairs.
1976 – 1979
Property vacant.
1979 – 1983
Pettie & Pearl Kettle bought and renovated kitchen.
1983 – 1984
Leased by Puget Sound Security (Robert & Vera Formosa).
1984 – 1989
Property vacant.
1989 – 1996
Peter & Rouanne Crenshaw – added guest house
1997 – 2002
Property vacant.
2003 – Present
Graham & Julia Applegate, now the St. Claire Inn.
“I got copies of building and renovation plans and permits, too,” Rudy said. “That’s how I was able to see when the building had been renovated. For instance, it sounded like the hotel was quite a bit larger than what the inn is now and more dramatic in its style. I’m hoping the museum will have some pictures. But fire destroyed most of that building. So when Gramley Miller bought it for the brothel, he had to tear it down and start from scratch. The brothel ended up much smaller in comparison and not nearly as ornate.”
“You don’t need scroll work on the front porch for that kind of business,” Blair said cynically. “All you need are a couple of beds.”
“Well, speaking of the brothel,” I said, “Doe and I learned a lot from Lavelle Bennet down at the assisted living center yesterday.”
I filled them in on what Lavelle had told us, including the story about the death of one of the prostitutes, the drunk found floating in the lake, and that Gramley Miller may have used the attic in the barn as a jail. Thankfully, Doe was concentrating on driving and didn’t mention anything about my almost killing one of the employees.
We met Kris Sargent in her office, where she passed out cotton gloves and instructed us on how to handle the materials to avoid damage. She traded our pens for pencils, and then she took us to the conference room, which had been the original dining room of the old home. Set at one end of the table were two file boxes, a shoebox, and several fat manila envelopes.
“This is the paperwork and photos we have on the property,” she said. “There are also some furniture, clothing and household items in storage if you’re interested. The only family we don’t have anything on are the Formosas.”
“How’d you get all this stuff?” Rudy asked.
She shrugged. “Many times people donate things that have been in the family a long time. But in the case of your property, Mrs. Applegate, most of the families left in a hurry,” she said with a lift to her eyebrows.
“The ghosts?” I asked.
“That and the fires. We also consider it a historical property because of the hotel having been there, so we ask the realtors to let families know we’d be interested in anything they might find after they’ve moved in. You’d be surprised what people find tucked away behind posts or even plastered into walls. Plus, we’ve added to the collections, especially with old newspaper articles and photos.” She moved towards the door. “Just let me know if you need anything else.”
I thanked her, and she left us to get started. I moved to the end of the long table and pulled the boxes over.
“We’ll have to be careful to keep the families separate,” I said, sorting through the big envelopes. “Here, Blair, why don’t you take the Bremertons.” I slid the archival box toward her. “Rudy, why don’t you take the Pattisons.” I slid two envelopes in her direction.
“Did Goldie or Ben have anything to say about them?” she asked.
“Just that they were always touching each other,” I said with a rueful smile. “Even the kids.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Well, that should be interesting.”
“Doe and I can start on the big boxes. When all is said and done, I’m hoping we can get some real working facts and photos.”
Everyone donned the gloves, and we got down to work. We took notes on family names, births, deaths, weddings, photographs and interesting tidbits. It was a long and arduous process. Several times, one of us was up making a Xerox copy of something we thought we might want to include in the book or holding up a photograph for the rest of us to see.
After almost two hours, Doe spoke up. “Here’s something interesting. Ruthie Crenshaw, daughter of Peter and Rouanne, had a baby out of wedlock.”
“Goldie mentioned that,” I said, putting down a folder on the Kettle sisters. “But how did you find that out?”
“It’s in this diary,” Doe said, holding up a small blue book, frayed around the edges. “Let me read this to you. ‘Today was a tough day. I found out for sure that I’m pregnant. I know that it’s Bob’s baby, but I’m afraid he’s not going to want it.’” Doe flipped ahead a few pages and continued to read. “’Bob told me I ought to get rid of the baby. He doesn’t want it. I cried so hard. I thought he loved me.’” Doe flipped forward several more pages. “Here’s where it gets really good,” Doe said. “’We brought little Brianna home today. She’s so beautiful. I never thought I could love something so much. I just wish my mom and dad weren’t so angry. They still want me to give her up for adoption. But until then, they have set up a nursery in the attic upstairs.” She flipped back and forth through a few more pages. “That’s the last entry in the diary.”
“The attic?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s what it says,” Doe replied, glancing back at the page. “Do you think that’s the hidden room?”
“Wait,” Rudy said. “Wouldn’t that be the wrong attic? She says upstairs. That makes me think it’s the attic in the inn.”
“True,” I agreed. “But maybe not. Maybe she just didn’t make a distinction.”
“But why set up a nursery in the attic in the barn?” Blair argued. “You wouldn’t put a baby to sleep out there and then go back to the house.”
“That’s the point, I guess,” I said. “We can’t figure out why anyone would keep a baby up there. Goldie and Ben did say that the family took Ruthie out of school while she was pregnant, and then they thought they put the baby up for adoption. Let’s make note of the information, but I don’t think we ought to use it in the book.”
“At least not without Ruthie Crenshaw’s permission,” Rudy said. “According to my timeline, they were there in the early 90s. So she could be very much alive somewhere. We ought to try and find her.”
“I agree,” I said, making a note on a yellow notepad by my side. “In fact, we’re probably going to have to get permission to use a lot of this information,” I said, nodding at the stacks of pictures and notes on the table.
“Good point,” Doe said. “We’ll have to have a chat with Kris about that.”
I opened a second box and pulled out a handful of paper. I shuffled through the top layer and then stopped. “Well, surprise, surprise. Judge Wendell Foster lived there at one time.”
Everyone stopped and looked up from what they were doing.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Doe said. “That old coot?”
“Wait a minute,” Rudy said, pulling out her property timeline. “Is Robert his first name?”
“Uh…just a second. I have a newspaper clipping from April, 1968.” I flipped through a stack of paper. “Yeah, here it is. It announces that Judge Robert Wendell Foster and family had finished renovating the St. Claire property and moved in. It even has a picture, although it’s not very good.”
“That explains it,” Rudy said. “I found the Foster name in the tax records, but there he was listed as Robert. I’m kind of surprised it’s not more well-known that the judge lived on the island.”
“Maybe no one wants to acknowledge it,” Blair said.
Judge Wendell Foster was a living legend in the area, but not in a good way. He was the modern-day version of the Wild West’s hanging judge. His reputation was that of a strict, if not brutal, justice who handed down the toughest sentences and was overly cruel in his verbal judgements. He was known to terrorize prosecuting and defense attorneys alike. Graham had had to prosecute several cases in Foster’s court and always came home looking beleaguered and defeated, heading straight for the liquor cabinet.
“Maybe Elizabeth scared him off,” Blair said. “I remember a law suit filed against him by one of his female law clerks, who said he was a misogynistic pig. I doubt he’d like the ghost of a woman wandering through his home uninvited.”
“I remember that lawsuit,” Doe said. “He liked to belittle women and put them in their place. Let’s face it, as a ghost, Elizabeth would have been in control,” Doe said. “After all, he couldn’t very well send her to jail.”
Everyone chuckled.
“Or commit her to a life sentence,” Blair said.
“No, since she’s already serving one,” I said.
I had not only grown accustomed to the ghosts at the St. Claire Inn, I felt protective of them. I often thought about Elizabeth stuck for eternity, roaming the halls wondering where she was. It made me sad.