The Sew Fine Murder
"Demographics, market analyses, environmental impact studies, population projections: these are all wonderful, useful tools, but I never make a final decision on the location of a new Cambridge Inn before personally inspecting the area," boasted Trent Westmore, founder and CEO of the largest independent hotel chain in America.
"As I'm sure you know from those useful tools," realtor Buford Clanton drawled, "there are a number of suitable properties in this part of Georgia, all of which you can get at a steal now that the bottom fell out of the housing market."
"Good. I've already got hotels in Atlanta, Savannah and Macon. I'm looking to put one in a more rural area."
Buford took Trent to see four different large parcels of land, all of which met the hotelier's requirements. In each case, the prospective buyer insisted on walking around the property for nearly an hour to "get a feel for it."
"You probably think I'm a fool," Trent said, scraping mud from his shoes and picking burs off his pants.
"Not at all," the realtor replied. "You strike me as a man who knows what he wants and won't settle for anything less."
The two men were on their way to see a fifth property when Trent asked the agent to stop his car.
"What's that over there?" he asked, pointing to an abandoned building along the bank of the Flint River.
"That was the old Sew Fine Thread Mill, but the place has been empty since the Thirties."
"Who owns the property?"
"I'm not sure, but I think the state does."
"Why don't we drive over and take a look?"
"I think you'll find the next property I selected much more suitable," Buford argued.
"And I'm anxious to see it," Trent said firmly. "After I have a look at the Sew Fine Thread Mill."
The real estate agent was about to protest further, but instead turned his vehicle around and headed toward the Flint River.
Despite being vacant for close to eighty years, the thread mill was in better condition than Trent had expected. The exterior was covered with graffiti, and there were large, gaping holes in the roof, but the brickwork and the foundation were sound.
"Lots of old factories like this cost a pretty penny up North," the billionaire businessman from Boston told the Georgian realtor. "After renovation they become condos, restaurants and shopping centers. There was even an old cork factory in Pennsylvania that was turned into an urban hotel."
"You're not thinking of buying this place and turning the mill into a Cambridge Inn?" Buford asked with disbelief.
"Why not? Just look around you. This setting is beautiful, like a little slice of heaven. I can hire a team of contractors to put up a new building anywhere, but I can't pay anyone to create these environmental conditions. You know what Joyce Kilmer said, 'Only God can make a tree,'"
Although Buford convinced his client to take a look at one more property, the hotelier made only a cursory examination of the area. Having formed an immediate attachment to the Sew Fine property, he was already imagining the old thread mill being the new link in his hotel chain.
After the two men returned to Clanton's office, Trent took his leave of the realtor. Eager to explore the Sew Fine property on his own, he got into his rental car and headed back toward the Flint River. The navigator took him along a different route, one that went through a town called Clairmont. There was little of the town left; it was nothing more than a modern-day ghost town.
The people who lived here must have depended on the thread mill for their livelihood, Trent theorized. When that closed, they probably packed up and moved to greener pastures.
Trent parked his car on the deserted road and walked along what had once been the main street of Clairmont. The town hall, library, school and post office were now little more than empty shells. The other buildings were mere foundations, half-hidden beneath the weeds, bushes and wildflowers that were slowly reclaiming the land.
Most people who visit ghost towns, either on purpose or by accident, imagine what the area looked like before it suffered its devastating reversal of fortune. Not Trent Westmore. As he looked at the ruins of Clairmont, he imagined a modern community pushing up from the weeds like a phoenix rising from the ashes. He saw shopping centers, housing developments, restaurants and gas stations. And just up the road from this resurrected town was a Cambridge Inn.
"If I build it, they will come," he said, deliberately misquoting the well-known line from Field of Dreams. "My hotel will breathe new life into this whole area."
As he headed back to his rental car, strutting imperiously down the street like a Caesar of the hotel industry, he came upon the remains of the courthouse. He had one of his "feelings" for this location, but it was not a pleasant one. On the contrary, it was decidedly unpleasant. It was as though he were suddenly overcome with rage, terror and sadness, all three of which were vying for ascendancy over the other two. As quickly as it came, the oppressive feeling went away, but it left a bitter taste in Trent's mouth.
* * *
Although Trent took a personal interest in each of his hotels, he had a special fondness for the one on the banks of the Flint River. It was his first attempt at repurposing an old building, and his team of high-priced architects did a remarkable job of combining the conveniences of a modern hotel with the nostalgic charm of an old factory.
"It's magnificent," he said as he sat in the passenger side of the rental car, staring at the Sew Fine Cambridge Inn.
"Too bad our customers don't feel that way," his son, Stanford, declared. "This place has been losing money for two years now."
"I can't understand it!" the elder Westmore exclaimed as father and son walked toward the main entrance of the hotel. "This property had just the right feel to it."
"And what did the market analyses say?" Stanford asked sarcastically. "Oh, that's right! You didn't bother with any of that. You neglected to check the demographics, the population projections and all those other studies that are done to avoid just this sort of thing."
"You watch that mouth of yours," Trent warned. "You may be the president of the company, but I'm still your father. I'm also the chairman of the board of directors."
"Sorry, Dad. I just dread going in there and telling everyone they're out of a job."
"Don't be so hasty, son. Before you do that, I want to talk to people and get a feeling for what went wrong here."
Stanford rolled his eyes at the absurdity of his father's feelings, but he respectfully held his tongue.
"I've already received a written report from the manager here," he said.
"I'm not interested in what he has to say. He'll tell you whatever you want to hear because he hopes you'll transfer him to another hotel. I want to talk to the bartender, the maids, the front desk clerk. These people come into contact with the customers. You'd be surprised what the waitstaff overhear when they serve a meal."
"Don't put too much faith in the employees down here," his son warned. "This place has had an unusually high turnover, the highest of any of our hotels, in fact."
Trent was intrigued. Not only was the hotel not attracting customers, but it could not keep employees either. Something was definitely wrong. After speaking with three bartenders, five servers, four housekeepers and two front desk clerks, he was no closer to finding an answer.
When Stanford joined him in the Bobbin Room for lunch, Trent was introducing himself to Cloris Sackett, a woman well into her seventies, who assisted the head chef and sou-chefs in the kitchen.
"Won't you join us?" the elder Westmore asked, pulling out a chair.
"I don't mind if I do," Cloris said. "It's a slow day. I doubt I'll be missed."
"That's what I'd like to talk to you about. I understand business is always slow at this hotel. Why do you think that is?"
"Really, Dad!" Stanford exclaimed with mounting frustration. "The woman cuts up vegetables. How is she supposed to know why this place loses money?"
"I may be only a simple prep cook, but I got eyes and ears, don't I?"
"Precisely," Trent agreed. "And what do your eyes and ears tell you?"
"It's nothing I've actually seen or heard myself," Cloris began sheepishly.
Stanford gave his father an I-told-you-so look and began cutting his steak.
"It's ... well ... I sometimes get a feel about this place."
The younger Westmore burst out in laughter and nearly choked on his food.
"You handle it, Dad. This is right up your alley."
"You were saying, Mrs. Sackett?" Trent continued.
"Other people claim to have seen or heard him, but I can 'feel' whenever he's around."
"Him? Who are you talking about?"
"The ghost. I assumed you knew he was the one responsible for chasing the customers away."
This time Stanford did choke on his food. Thankfully, the bartender was a volunteer fireman who knew how to perform the Heimlich maneuver.
"I think we'd better change the subject," Trent whispered to the old woman once his son was out of danger.
During the remainder of the meal, the conversation centered on the topic of food. Both Trent and Stanford agreed that the Bobbin Room had a fine menu, and if their lunch was any indication, the quality of the food was superior to that found in many five-star establishments.
"I'm surprised more people don't come here, if only to eat," Stanford said.
After dessert, the younger Westmore excused himself. He had a one o'clock meeting with a tax consultant. Cloris also stood to leave.
"Don't go yet," Trent urged. "Now that my son's gone, I'd like to learn more about the ghost you say is haunting this place."
"There's not much I can tell you about it," the old woman admitted. "Like I said before, I didn't see him or hear him."
"But you felt him."
"Yes."
"You're not psychic, are you?"
"Not that I know of," Cloris laughed. "I would think that if I was, I'd be able to tell you who's haunting this place and why."
"Maybe you can't, but I hope there are others who can."
* * *
Stanford returned to Boston that evening, but Trent remained behind. For the next two days he spoke to former employees of the hotel, many of whom claimed to have experienced unexplained phenomena, including hearing footsteps in an empty room, feeling a sudden drop in temperature and even glimpsing an inanimate object moving of its own accord. Not one of them, however, had a theory as to what or who might be causing the bizarre disturbances.
As he was driving back to the hotel after visiting a former busboy, Trent passed by the road that went through Clairmont. On impulse, he headed in the direction of the abandoned town. When he neared the spot where the courthouse stood, he suddenly remembered the panoply of strong emotions he had felt the last time he was there.
Maybe the site of the old mill isn't the only place around here that's haunted.
Like a practical businessman, he had assumed the thread mill closed due to the severe economic conditions of the Great Depression. That closing, in turn, caused the people to seek employment elsewhere, thus leaving Clairmont a veritable ghost town. What if there was more to it than that? Could something have happened that forced the people of Clairmont to abandon both their homes and their major source of income?
Just as Trent trusted in his feelings rather than relying solely on statistical and scientific research, he also preferred getting information from a book or a newspaper rather than searching the Internet. By the time he drove to the nearest town, however, both the library and the offices of the local newspaper were closed.
I suppose it will have to wait until tomorrow, he thought with disappointment.
He was walking back to his car when he noticed an attractive middle-aged woman standing in front of the county historical society.
"I don't suppose you're still open," he called to her.
"Actually, we closed an hour ago," she replied. "I stayed late because I had some paperwork to do."
"Just my luck!"
"Is there something I can help you with?"
"I had some questions about a town called Clairmont and the former Sew Fine Thread Mill, but I suppose I'll have to come back tomorrow when the library's open."
"They may not have what you're looking for," the woman said. "But I can probably help you."
"I don't want to bother you now. I'm sure you're eager to get home. I can come back tomorrow."
"It's no bother. I have no plans other than to heat up some leftover macaroni and cheese and watch television."
"Well, then," Trent said, turning on the charm that worked for women both young and old. "Why don't I take you to dinner and we can talk as we eat."
"Sounds great, although there's not much in the way of restaurants in this area."
"How about the Bobbin Room at the Sew Fine Cambridge Inn? Now, before you start to worry, I have no ulterior motives in inviting you to a hotel. I figured we'd eat there because the food is good."
"And because you own the place."
"How did you know that?"
"I have an interest in all that goes on at the old thread mill."
* * *
"To be honest, I nearly cried when I learned the property had been sold," Shelly Noland, the woman from the historical society told Trent as they waited for their dinner to be served. "But I like that you retained so much of the original structure—both inside and out."
A look of sadness came over Trent's face.
"When I think of having to close this place ...."
"Are things that bad?"
"We've been operating in the red for two years now. And for the life of me, I don't know why. At least I didn't until I came down here a few days ago."
"And what did you learn?"
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Is there anything in the history of the mill that would give people reason to believe the place is haunted?"
"All old buildings come with stories about unhappy spirits. I recently read about a man who believed his dead wife was haunting his outhouse."
"I've talked to many of our former employees. They claim to have seen, heard or felt the presence of a ghost. Did something tragic happen when this place was a factory? Was there a fire? A flood? Did some industrial accident occur that caused a number of people to lose their lives?"
"Although they didn't die on the site itself, two people connected with the mill did tragically lose their lives, but it was no accident or act of God. It was as the ghost of Hamlet's father said: murder most foul."
"Murder? I wonder why none of the people I spoke to mentioned that."
"I don't imagine they know about it. It happened such a long time ago."
"Do you know what happened?"
"Yes, it's a long story, but if you have the time to spare ...."
"Don't worry," Trent said as the waitress put his salad in front of him, "I eat slowly."
"Things in this area were different back in the early 1900s," Shelly began. "Clairmont was a flourishing town, but it was also a close-knit community that took a dim view of cultural diversity. There were only two groups of people in Clairmont: the lower middle-class whites who lived on the western side of town and the poor blacks who lived on the eastern side. Both whites and blacks were Baptists, although they went to separate churches in those days before the Civil Rights movement. To many of the people in Clairmont—the white ones, at least—this was paradise.
"Then in 1908 a serpent in the form of a new supervisor at the mill was introduced into this intolerant Eden. While many laborers dislike their bosses, workers at Sew Fine positively hated Solomon Koch, a man who had three things that set him apart from those he supervised: he was from the North, he was college educated and he was Jewish. From the first day the young man walked through the factory doors, people began to grumble. As much as the millworkers disliked him, though, no one was openly disrespectful. With Sew Fine employing more than ninety percent of the town's population, people did not want to risk losing their jobs. Instead, they kept their resentment in check.
"Then, in 1913, a young girl named Dinah Rowley was found beaten and strangled to death in the woods behind the mill, and that bottled up anger erupted in fierce accusations aimed at Mr. Koch."
"Surely they didn't accuse the man without proper evidence?"
"There was some evidence, but it was strictly circumstantial."
"Such as?"
"Dinah received preferential treatment at the mill. She was frequently late to work and called in sick more than any other employee. Most supervisors would have fired her, but not Koch. One employee claimed he'd once witnessed Dinah kiss her supervisor on the cheek as she was leaving his office. And then there was a fairly large amount of money found on the girl's body, believed to have come from Koch."
"And I assume the millworkers thought ... how can I put this delicately?" Trent said, behaving like a gentleman.
"They thought she was sleeping with the boss, who, by the way, was a married man."
"Well, that could be a possible motive for murder. Maybe she was in the family way and was pressuring him to leave his wife. Was there any other reason to suspect him?"
"The last time anyone ever saw Dinah was on a Friday, payday at the mill. As everyone was leaving at the end of the shift, she went into the supervisor's office and shut the door behind her. Her body was found the following morning."
"What did Solomon have to say for himself?"
"He admitted to meeting with the girl in his office at the end of the day. He claimed they talked for about ten minutes, and then she left. A few minutes later he went home and spent the evening with his wife."
"Was there no physical evidence?"
"None to speak of. There were a few footprints, but I don't believe they were ever analyzed."
"What was the outcome of all this?"
"Solomon Koch was arrested, tried and sentenced to life imprisonment."
"Poor bastard. He was probably innocent."
"That's not the end of the story. The people of Clairmont were incensed that Koch wasn't going to be executed. A mob, led by Dinah's stepfather, broke into the jail, dragged Solomon out into the street and strung him up from a tree."
"They hanged him?" Trent asked with surprise.
"Lynched him is a more accurate description," Shelly replied.
"Where did this occur?"
"Outside the Clairmont Courthouse."
"I saw the abandoned building the first time I came to this area. There was something about the place that upset me. Doesn't it seem more likely that Solomon Koch would haunt the location where he died?"
"We don't know for a fact it's his spirit in the mill. It could be Dinah Rowley's. Or it might not be either of them."
The two ate in silence for several minutes.
"Do you think he killed her?" Trent finally asked.
"I'm not sure. I only know that if I were on the jury, I would never have voted to convict him based on the evidence presented at trial."
* * *
When Stanford Westmore presented his argument in favor of closing the Sew Fine Cambridge Inn to the company's board of directors, his father offered no protest. Numbers did not lie. The hotel was losing money, and no one had any idea how to turn it around. The matter was put to a vote, and the chairman reluctantly agreed with his son.
The day after the board members decided to close the hotel Trent received a call from Zane Kirkland, the producer of Ghostly Sightings, a popular cable television series about hauntings.
"There's been a lot of talk on the Internet lately about the old Sew Fine Thread Mill being haunted," Kirkland said. "I'd like your permission to take my film crew and paranormal research team into your hotel and see what we can discover. Naturally, we'll take whatever precautions are necessary so as not to disturb your guests."
"Don't worry about that," Trent told him. "The hotel is shutting down at the end of the week. You can have the whole place to yourself ... on one condition."
"Just name it!"
"I want to be there. And I'm going to invite a friend."
Three weeks later Trent Westmore picked up Shelly Noland at the historical society and drove to the recently closed Sew Fine Cambridge Inn in his rental car.
"No one's here yet," Shelly said, taking note of the empty parking lot.
"They won't get here until later this evening. They're flying into Atlanta and then driving down with a van full of equipment. Why don't we go inside and get something to eat?"
"Is there any food left in there?"
"I've paid a skeleton crew to work here while the ghost hunters are in residence—no pun intended."
The cook had outdone himself, preparing a buffet of both cold and hot dishes.
"There's so much food!" Shelly exclaimed. "Are we expecting a television crew or an army?"
She and Trent began with the salad bar and gradually made their way to the carving station. It was near nine when they decided to have dessert.
"The rice pudding looks delicious," she said, "but so does the cheesecake."
Trent was just cutting himself a slice of apple pie when Zane Kirkland arrived with his cameraman and a team of paranormal investigators.
"A buffet? Fantastic!" he exclaimed. "I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast."
After quickly introducing his coworkers to their host, Kirkland picked up a dish and began piling food onto it. Meanwhile, Lorena Fonda—no relation to the famous acting family—the show's resident psychic, sat down at the table next to Trent.
"Can you feel it?" she inquired.
"Feel what?" Shelly asked.
"The psychic energy. It's incredibly strong here. I can't wait to begin our investigation."
Apparently, the other members of the team were just as eager. No sooner did they satisfy their appetites at the buffet then they began setting up their equipment in the lobby.
Once everything was ready, the cameraman followed Lorena around the hotel, filming her as she described her psychic impressions. She also had an entourage of technicians carrying EMF detectors, radiation monitors, laser infrared thermometers and digital sound level meters. All the information collected by this equipment was being analyzed by two team members with state-of-the-art laptop computers and software.
"And I thought I was on the cutting edge of technology with my new iPhone," Shelly whispered to Trent.
"Looks like a nerd convention in here," he replied. "I could use a cup of coffee. How about you?"
They were on their way to the kitchen when the psychic's words stopped them.
"I see a young girl. She's crying. There are bruises on her face and her neck."
Lorena, who claimed to know nothing about the events that had occurred in Clairmont back in 1913, was apparently seeing images of Dinah Rowley.
"She's frightened. There's a man pursuing her."
Trent and Shelly listened intently to her every word, hoping to learn the identity of the person who had killed the girl.
"I'm sorry," Lorena apologized to the cameraman. "I lost her."
Twenty minutes passed before the psychic sensed another, fleeting presence.
"I see a man. He's hanging from the end of a rope. He's been lynched by an angry mob."
"Don't be so surprised," the black cameraman said. "This is Georgia, not New York. This was Klan country."
"He's not black; he's white," the psychic clarified.
"No shit! I never heard of a white man being lynched."
But Trent and Shelly had.
* * *
When Trent woke the following morning, he went to the kitchen where Kirkland's team was just finishing up breakfast.
"What do you have planned for today?" he asked the producer as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
"I want to listen to the recordings we made during the night and see if there's anything on them."
"Mind if I listen in, too?"
"Not at all."
Trent and Shelly found seats against the wall where they wouldn't be in the way of the technicians working at or near the computers. They listened to nothing but static for a solid hour, and Trent nearly dozed off from boredom. Then, what sounded like a man's voice uttered a single word: journal.
The paranormal researchers were delighted, but Trent had hoped for more. Over the next three days of investigations, he and Shelly began to lose interest.
"I hoped we would learn something from this research," Trent said with disappointment.
"At least the psychic confirmed our suspicions that it was Solomon Koch and Dinah Rowley who are haunting the place."
"True, but I wanted to know if he was the one who killed her."
"Maybe the answer lies in the mysterious journal," Shelly suggested.
"Do you think that was really a voice we heard? It sounded mechanical to me. Honestly, I couldn't even make out what was being said."
"It sounded like journal to me. I'm going to see if I can locate one."
"Where? Isn't it like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack?"
"More like finding a needle in a thread mill," Shelly laughed.
"You believe the journal is here in the hotel?"
"I think it was in the mill."
"You're out of luck then. The place was pretty much gutted during the renovations."
"If I kept a journal, I'd put it in a drawer. Considering this was a place of business, I'm betting the journal was in a desk drawer. And since this was a factory, there probably weren't many desks. Solomon Koch was the mill supervisor; he had an office and would have had a desk."
"I admire your logic. But we don't know if what we heard on the recording was Koch's voice, and if it was, how are we going to find a desk from a factory that closed eighty years ago?"
"Leave it to me. I'm head of the historical society. I have my resources."
* * *
Trent returned to Boston and promptly retired from the hotel business. To pass the time, he purchased a recreational boat and traveled along the New England coast. Six months after spending the weekend with Zane Kirkland and his ghost-hunting team, he was anchored near Kennebunkport, Maine, taking a nap on his deckchair when the cell phone rang and woke him. His first instinct was to ignore the call, but when he saw Shelly Noland's name on the screen, he quickly answered.
"It's good to hear from you," he said. "How have you been?"
"Good," she replied and quickly got to the point of her call. "Guess what I found."
"Solomon Koch's desk?"
"You got it. It took me a while to track it down, but I did it. It's been in the warehouse of an antique store all these years. Apparently, no one wanted to buy it, and yet it was too valuable to get rid of. So, it's been in storage, collecting dust for more than three quarters of a century."
"Can you give me the number of the shop? I'll call them and give them my credit card number."
"No need to. I already bought it with funds from the society. Since it was Solomon Koch's desk, it has historical value."
"Just the same. I'll pay for it. But more importantly, was there a journal inside?"
"Honestly, Trent, do you think I'd phone you if there wasn't?"
"What did it say?" he asked excitedly.
"I didn't read it yet. I wanted to ask you if you wanted to be here when I did. After all, we've been in this together so far."
"Bless you, my dear! I'm going to set a course for Portland and get the first plane to Georgia. Hopefully, I'll meet you at your place this evening."
"Great! I'll have dinner waiting for you when you get here."
* * *
The journal smelled of dust, and there was a moldy spot on the leather cover.
Shelly stayed Trent's hand before he opened it.
"Promise me you won't be disappointed if this turns out to be nothing more than an account of business expenses," she said.
"I promise. Besides, that delicious dinner you made me was worth the trip."
Trent turned the page and began reading aloud.
It wasn't an account book. It was a diary. The first ten pages described the treatment Solomon Koch received from the millworkers.
I'm no stranger to anti-Semitism, he wrote, but these people hate me not just because I'm Jewish. They also hate me because I have an education and because I was born north of the Mason-Dixon Line.
The mill supervisor went on to describe his efforts to win the respect of the townspeople, and his inevitable failure.
"Here," Trent said, handing the journal to Shelly. "You want to read awhile?"
She read five pages before she saw a name that made her heart beat faster.
I try not to become involved in the millworkers' private lives, but there is a young girl who works here who I can't ignore. Her name is Dinah Rowley, and she's barely a teenager.
"There was something between them," Trent said.
"Don't go jumping to conclusions," Shelly warned.
As she continued to read, the true nature of their relationship became clear.
Dinah was late again this morning. This is the third time this month. By all rights, I should fire her; but I can't. I know why she's frequently late and sometimes calls in sick. I can see the bruises on her face even though she tries to cover them with powder.
"So, the girl was being abused by someone," Trent surmised. "It's entirely possible her abuser was the one who killed her."
Shelly nodded in agreement and then read on.
I offered Dinah my help, but she's too frightened to accept it. She wouldn't even let me call the authorities. But seeing how the people in this town behave, I doubt the police would do anything to him anyway. I have some money saved up, enough to get her out of Clairmont where she can start a new life. I only hope I can talk her into taking it before he kills her.
"That's all there is. The rest of the pages are blank," Shelly said, closing the journal.
"I think that journal proves he didn't do it," Trent said. "But who did?"
"I have my suspicions."
"Who do you suspect?"
"She was a child, still living at home with her invalid mother and a stepfather, who, by the way, was not only the first one to accuse Koch but also the one who led the mob that lynched him."
"You think he abused his stepdaughter and then killed her?"
"Do I think it? Yes. Can I prove it? No. There were probably only three people who knew the truth: Dinah, Solomon and the stepfather. Possibly four, the mother might have known. They're all dead now and unable to come forward."
* * *
Trent spent the night in Shelly's guest room. The following morning, he watched the news on television as his hostess prepared breakfast. The top story was about a macabre incident that occurred in Clairmont. During a routine patrol, police found a skeleton hanging from a tree in front of the abandoned courthouse. Believing it was a Halloween prank, the officers cut it down. They were surprised to discover it was not made of plastic but of actual human bones. The medical examiner quickly determined the remains belonged to Jeb Rowley, whose grave had been unearthed the previous day. There are no leads as to who had vandalized the cemetery plot, but an investigation would be conducted.
"I didn't have to prove my theory," Shelly said, putting a plate of eggs in front of her houseguest. "It looks like someone or something has done it for me."
* * *
Under the auspices of the Clairmont Historical Society, Shelly Noland wrote a book about the murder of Dinah Rowley and included the portions of Solomon Koch's journal describing his concern for the safety of the murdered girl. While she did not openly accuse Jeb Rowley of killing his stepdaughter, she laid out the facts of the case and instructed the readers to form their own opinion as to the guilty party.
Meanwhile, after the Ghostly Sightings episode filmed at the former Sew Fine Thread Mill aired, public interest in the building soared. Due to public demand, Stanford Westmore agreed to reopen the Sew Fine Cambridge Inn. People from across the country visited the hotel in hope of encountering a ghostly presence.
Trent soon grew tired of sailing, sold his boat and moved to Georgia where he worked with Shelly three days a week at the historical society. On Friday evenings, he conducted a ghost tour of Clairmont and the Inn. Although his son expressed the fear that he might be in the early stages of dementia, Trent did not mind because he was happy. He did not need anyone's approval; he had a good feeling about his new life.
Interest in the Sew Fine Cambridge Inn continued long after the Ghostly Sightings program was off the air. The Dinah Rowley murder mystery became nearly as well-known as the Lizzie Borden case.
"Isn't it ironic?" Shelly asked as she and Trent were organizing the inn's annual Halloween Ghost Ball. "This hotel was once closed because guests and employees feared it might have a ghost. Yet once the paranormal team provided proof of the haunting, there's rarely a weekend when it isn't booked to capacity."
Even more ironic—although neither Shelly nor Trent was aware of it—despite its ranking as one of the top five paranormal destinations in America, the Sew Fine Cambridge Inn was no longer haunted. After the remains of Jeb Rowley were hanged outside the old Clairmont courthouse, the spirits of Solomon Koch and Dinah Rowley could at last rest in peace.
This story is loosely based on the 1915 lynching of Leo Frank who was convicted of the murder of 13-year-old factory worker Mary Phagan.
Salem decided to give Cambridge Inns some competition. Here's a picture of his latest luxury highrise.
