Ticonderoga
Willis
CHAPTER 1
The Whitney
DETROIT
WHEN PEOPLE THINK ABOUT DETROIT, they often think of sports: the Tigers, the Red Wings, the Lions, and the Pistons. Or they think about the auto industry, because Detroit is still “Motor City.” It’s also the home of Motown Records, where so many rock and roll greats got their start. Other people think of Detroit and remember the riots in the 1960s, or think about the crime rate, the problems with the school system, and all the rundown neighborhoods. When I think of Detroit, I think of shopping at Eastern Market for fresh produce—my husband is convinced that we have to arrive by 5 a.m., or “all the good stuff will be gone.” I always tell him I’ll take my chances, we don’t really need to get there before 8 a.m. Eastern Market is only open on Saturday, and Saturdays are for sleeping in. My other favorite places in the city are the Detroit Public Library, the Detroit Institute of Art, the Opera House, Symphony Hall, the Fox Theatre, and, of course, the Whitney restaurant.
Located on Woodward Avenue, just a few blocks from the campus of Wayne State University and Detroit’s cultural center, the Whitney was once one of the city’s oldest and most beautiful private residences. Now it is one of the city’s finest and most beautiful restaurants. I’ve only been there to eat on a couple of very special occasions, but I fell immediately in love with the grand old house. Of course, prior to my visit on a bright sunny afternoon in April, I had only gone in looking for after-theater drinks and desert with friends, not hoping for a glimpse of the ghost of former owner, David Whitney Jr.
Construction on the 52-room, Romanesque-style home began in 1890 and was completed four years later. One local newspaper described the house as “the most elaborate and substantial residence in this part of the country.” The exterior walls of the mansion are made of South Dakota jasper, a rare type of pink granite. Inside, the first things visitors see are the immense staircase in the Grand Hall, with its beautiful Tiffany stained glass panels, and a huge, ornate fireplace. There are 19 other fireplaces throughout the house, a secret vault hidden in the original dining room, and an elevator. A haunted elevator, according to stories. But ghosts aside, the Whitney mansion was one of the first homes of its day to boast such a modern convenience.
David Whitney Jr. was born in 1830 and came to Detroit at the age of 27, in 1857; he died in 1900, but his family continued to live in the house until the 1920s, when it was sold and became the home of the Wayne County Medical Society, which in turn later sold it to the Visiting Nurses Association some years later. In 1980, Richard Kughn purchased the property, and after six years of restoration, the Whitney opened up as “an American restaurant in an American palace.” Kughn sold the property in 2007 to Bud Liebler, who continues to carry on the tradition of excellence started by his predecessor. In addition to the beautiful dining rooms on the main floor, there are outdoor garden parties all summer long, and the Ghost Bar up on the third floor.
When I spoke to David, one of the many wonderful staff members, I asked him if he had ever had any unusual experiences while working there—or if maybe any of his coworkers had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary.
“We have a lot of the usual stuff, I guess,” he told me. “Doors sometimes shut as if by themselves. And one woman who used to work here told me that she was walking through the Great Hall, and one of the crystals, from one of the chandeliers, fell right at her feet and shattered. It kind of freaked her out a bit. Of course that might not have had anything to do with anything supernatural,” he cautioned. “And if you knew her … she’s a bit of a spirit herself,” he added with a chuckle.
Ah, yes, I’ve known people like that, too.
David went on to tell me that the Highland Ghost Hunters had been in a couple of times and spent the night, investigating the building. “They said that they heard piano playing late at night, after all the staff had gone home. I think that would have been Grace Whitney. Grace was David Whitney’s favorite daughter and quite an accomplished musician,” he explained. “She played several instruments, and, in fact, the Whitneys used to open up the house and hold recitals so people could come and listen to her playing. Anyway, Grace was overseas when her father took ill. Of course back then, you couldn’t just hop on a plane and come home, so by the time she got here, he’d already died. The Ghost Hunters said they also picked up a male voice that same night, saying I’m still here. That was probably David Whitney.”
The “infamous” second-floor elevator door at the Whitney.
Of course, one of the most haunted places in the building is said to be the elevator, especially where it opens up onto the second floor. Not only did David Whitney Jr. pass away in the house, his wife, Sara, also died there. Numerous employees have reported that the elevator will start moving on its own and that the doors open and close without anyone pushing the button.
I asked if it would be all right to have a look around and take some photographs—although there are several public areas up on both the second and third floors, I like to ask permission, especially before taking pictures. I was welcomed to take as many photos as I liked and to go anywhere that wasn’t marked “private.” Of course, I would behave myself, I always do—but what I wouldn’t have given for a tour of the whole house.
I wandered up to the second floor and took a couple of photos of the elevator before exploring every open-to-the-public room, just because I love old architecture and antiques. Finally, I meandered up the stairs to the third floor and the aptly named Ghost Bar. The bar wasn’t open yet, but the bartender was setting up. He gave me a friendly “hello” and asked how I was doing.
The foyer of the Whitney.
“I’m doing great, thanks,” I answered. Then I told him that I was writing a book about haunted places and that, naturally, the Whitney had come up.
The bartender smiled. “As long as you remember that everything I tell you is hearsay—that nothing’s official—I’ve got a couple of stories for you, if you have a second and are interested.”
“Absolutely.” I was very interested and I had somehow managed to find unmetered parking on a nearby side street, so I had all afternoon!
“I’ve been a bartender here for about a year,” he began, “and customers are always asking me if I’ve ever seen anything weird—you know, anything ‘ghostly.’ I haven’t. But I’ve had some customers who said they did.”
He told me that the first incident had occurred during a wedding in which the entire mansion had been rented out. “The way they run it is pre-dinner drinks are up here, then they serve dinner downstairs, and then we reopen the bar for post-dinner drinks,” he told me. “There weren’t very many children at this wedding, but there was this one little girl. She was maybe five or six and she kept running around and she didn’t want to sit still. Her mom asked me if I’d mind keeping an eye on her for a few minutes, so she could go down and get something to eat. Everyone else had gone downstairs by then, and I really didn’t mind, so I said ‘sure,’ and let the mom go downstairs. I left the little girl alone in this room, and I went into that room over there,”
