The Mystery of Schroon Lake Inn

Chapter 1 Chicago, August 1886I took a breath as I tapped on the door to William Pinkerton's office. I hoped he would have a real detective assignment for me this time. Watching for shoplifters at Marshall Field’s or fare skimmers aboard streetcars had paid a few bills, but was insufferably dull work. I had not hitherto been aware of a perverse streak in my nature that felt disappointment when people behaved themselves. "Come in." Every window was open in the corner office, but barely a paper stirred on the large mahogany desk. Chicago in summer can be hotter than Hades. I tucked away a damp strand of blonde hair that had yet again escaped my hat and tried to ignore the perspiration trickling beneath my shirtwaist. Mr. Pinkerton, a burly man with a salt-and-pepper mustache and heavy brows, bowed politely. "Thank you for coming, Mrs. Wynch." He waved me into a chair. I grimaced at the sound of my married name, although after seven years of marriage—three of them living apart from Frank—I should be used to it by now. "I would prefer you address me as Miss Hamilton." He gave a small shake of his head as he sat. "We've discussed this before. There will, of course, be times when it's advisable that you pose as an unmarried lady for the purposes of an assignment, but here at the agency, we have always known you as Frank's wife." He hesitated, his eyes softening. "Is there no chance of reconciliation between you two?" I clenched my gloved hands in my lap. "Absolutely none." Pinkerton raised a disapproving eyebrow. "I understood my work at this agency to be based upon my merits," I retorted, "not the fact that Frank Wynch is on your payroll." "Of course, of course." His tone was one of soothing a fractious child. "Your successful resolution of the Comstock matter leaves no doubt as to your skills. I only wish we had more occasion to put those talents to use." I settled back in my chair. "I know you mean well. But you must leave me to tend to my personal affairs." He sighed. "As you wish." He passed over an envelope. "I have an interesting assignment for you. The location is rather remote, and I would prefer you not go alone. Your friend, Miss Leigh—can we count upon her discretion?" "Most assuredly, sir." "Ah. Good, good. Would she be willing to accompany you?" I hesitated. Until my Pinkerton assignments grew more regular, Cassie and I relied upon the meager income from our lodgers along with giving lessons in piano and china painting. Perhaps we could leave Sadie, our already-overworked maid, in charge for a little while. "Accompany me where?" I hoped it wasn't a hotter Southern locale. His smile grew wide. "The Adirondacks." I could feel my own smile matching his. The cool air of the mountains was just what we needed. And to be paid for it—"I am sure I could convince her to come along." "Excellent." He gestured to the envelope. "Inside are train, coach, and steamer tickets for the two of you. You'll be heading to the town of Bittern Point, where Schroon Lake Inn is located." "What's at Schroon Lake Inn?" "Until last year, only mice and rotting floorboards," he quipped. "A good friend of mine, Jacob Meyer, bought the inn and has been renovating it. In spite of a few setbacks early on during the renovation, he was able to open in time for the season. That was about two months ago. Things proceeded splendidly. A full house each week, the best clientele, favorable reviews. Until a couple of weeks ago." "What happened then?" "Ghosts." The single word sent a tingle along my spine, even as my reason rebelled against such nonsense. He shrugged at my skeptical look. "Meyer says several guests have reported strange noises in the middle of the night—footsteps on creaking boards, whispers, dragging chains, thumping sounds. Easily dismissed, until one female guest claimed to see the apparition of a man, coming through the wall of her bedroom. She screamed, and it vanished." I suppressed a snort. "Sounds like the country lore that's told around those parts. Campfire stories." "Except for the sighting," he pointed out. "The woman could have been dreaming." "Meyer doesn't think so," Pinkerton said. "He's convinced Atwater is behind it." "Atwater?" "Lionel Atwater, owner of nearby Cedar Lodge. He had the monopoly on the area's tourist lodging for a long time. He's been spreading the story far and wide that Schroon Lake Inn is haunted by the ghost of the former proprietor." I frowned. "Who was the former proprietor of Schroon Lake Inn, and why would he haunt it now?" Pinkerton fidgeted with a pen. "His name was Artie Willis. He built the place in the early sixties, ran it for more than ten years, then disappeared sometime in the winter of 1875. The local sheriff—well, not exactly local, the closest man is in Chestertown—investigated at the time, interviewed the staff and the man's associates. He and his volunteers scoured the inn and grounds. Some of Willis's clothes and other personal effects were gone. The staff said Willis's plan was to close up for the winter and leave the groundskeeper to see to the place. But Willis never returned. No body, no sign of trouble." "If he's still alive, why would he simply walk away from the inn?" Pinkerton pulled out a sheet and glanced down the page. "The property was heavily mortgaged...looks as if he was in danger of default. He may have taken what funds he had and made a fresh start." He shifted in his chair. "But I'm not sending you there to solve a ten-year-old disappearance. We have enough to worry about in the here and now." I nodded. "Have the ghost story and accompanying shenanigans succeeded in putting off Mr. Meyer's guests?" He smiled. "It's an ill wind that blows no good, Mrs. Wynch. Although several prospective guests who learned of the incidents did cancel their reservations, curiosity-seekers have been flocking to the inn." I grinned. "I'm sure that vexed Atwater to no end." "Probably. The ghostly incidents have continued, though reduced in frequency. Meyer believes Atwater has changed tactics to something far more devastating." "Oh?" "Last week, three guests had jewelry stolen during their stay." I leaned forward. Now the case was getting interesting. "Valuable items?" "Valuable enough. Meyer reimbursed them, generously, for the loss. He is insured, but the damage to the inn's reputation could be considerable. He has managed to keep it quiet. For now. He fired the most likely women responsible—two maids—though he has no proof. He also installed a brand-new safe in his office—" He broke off with a sigh. "I wish he had consulted me first before incurring such an expense." I nodded. "No lady is going to keep her jewels in a safe." If it were a hotel in the heart of New York City, perhaps. But a lakeside resort in upstate New York? Mr. Meyer could not suggest such a measure without his clientele becoming wary. "Indeed," he said. "And ladies are often careless of their baubles to begin with. A safe would do little good if the item were presumed stolen but was in fact misplaced." Although I was inclined to agree with him, I did not appreciate the patronizing glance he sent my way. "A thorough search was made for the items?" I asked. He nodded. "And he fired the maids, although he had no proof of their guilt?" "He believes Atwater put the girls up to it. They do seasonal work for both establishments. Besides, the maids were the only ones besides the housekeeper who had keys to the rooms." "Why not fire the housekeeper as well?" I asked. "Housekeepers are more difficult to replace. And Meyer trusts Mrs. Davis implicitly. She has been working for him for years, moved out there with him to help run the place." "Ah. Is there a Mr. Davis?" "She has never been married, to my knowledge." I nodded. Housekeepers often used Mrs. as a form of address. "Why ask for our help, if Meyer believes he has solved the problem?" Pinkerton shifted in his chair. "There is still the matter of the ghost. He doesn't care to run an establishment that caters exclusively to thrill-mongers." I suppressed a groan. I never thought I'd be in the ghost-hunting business. "Meyer cannot afford to be sanguine about last week's jewel thefts, either," Pinkerton went on. "In four days, he is expecting a party of distinguished guests—the Barringtons—who could make or break the future of the inn. They arrive the day after you, with a number of their friends. It is a gold-plated guest list of influential people. You have heard of Miss Amalie Joubert, the opera singer, and Spencer Rayburn, the big game hunter? They will be there. If Meyer got it wrong and the maids were not responsible for last week's losses, he may still have a thief at the inn. I am counting upon you to prevent any further thefts during your time there. Should any member of the party suffer a loss, it would be disastrous for Meyer." He gestured to the envelope I held in my lap. "Names and details about the staff are in the report. Look it over later, and let me know if you have any questions before you leave town." I frowned. "How am I to guard the baubles of so many without their knowledge?" "That is for you to decide. But I can equip you with an excellent cover story, a persona to give you greater freedom during your stay." Pinkerton pressed the buzzer for his secretary. I looked at him blankly. The secretary opened the door. "Yes, sir?" Pinkerton stood. "Show in Madame Violette." I turned to see a slightly stout woman of forty carrying a well-worn carpetbag. Although her attire was an eclectic composite of fringes and ruffles, it was her heavily lashed, blue-violet eyes that demanded notice. She had lined them in kohl for emphasis. The effect was exotic and striking. Pinkerton ushered her to a chair. "Welcome, Madame. So kind of you to join us." The lady inclined her head. "As you have recently done me a service, sir, it is my pleasure." She examined me critically. "My, how tall you are! And your dress…no, no, that will not do at all. You look like a…schoolmarm." I self-consciously smoothed my skirt. Schoolmarm, indeed. I admit, I am much too tall and angular for the current beauty standard, my eyes are light gray rather than heavily-lashed doe-brown, and most days I twist my blonde hair into an expedient topknot…. Well, perhaps there is a bit of the schoolmarm in me. Madame Violette sighed as she exchanged a look with Pinkerton. "This one, she will need some work." "To what end, pray?" I snapped. Pinkerton sat down behind his desk again. "Why, to turn you into a spirit medium, of course."