Dressed For Dying

By Janet Quinn

Sean Madigan, reporter, is pitted against the New York City police while he tries to catch the murderer of Marshal Haversham, sweatshop owner. Sean is after his first big story as a reporter and his first byline. This is the story that can make his career and keep him from starving. While he hunts for the killer and a banner story, the murderer goes on a spree burning down sweatshops and killing young women who work within the sweatshops. Also, several young woman are found dead and dressed in fancy ball gowns that had been made in secret within the sweatshops.

When Madigan’s sweetheart, Bridget, a sweatshop girl, becomes a target of the madman, Madigan determines he will break the story, catch the murderer before the police do, and figure out the connection to the ball gowns. But, the murderer has other ideas. Can Madigan find the murder before he finds Madigan or Bridget?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janet Quinn
• Release date: Apr 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476045313

Janet Quinn

Janet F. Quinn, Ph.D., registered nurse, associate professor, and distinguished researcher of Therapeutic Touch, has been profiled in The New York Times, Time, and Utne Reader. She makes her home in Boulder, Colorado.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I hunkered down next to the body of Marshal Haversham. A large dent graced the side of his head, blood matting the hair. A pool had formed around his head like a red halo. My stomach did a flip and I swallowed several times. If I vomited on the crime scene, the police would never let me into another one.

Don't you be touching anything, Madigan, Officer Al Hastings growled at me. A man of about forty, he was usually the first sent out on a murder. He only stood about five-four, but had the tenacity of a bulldog, which is why he handled murders. His black hair was streaked with gray. He had a perpetual frown, but really wasn't the sour type. He just seemed to be worrying the facts.

I held my hands in the air. I would never touch a thing.

Really. Hastings stooped to pick up a heavy, ornate silver candlestick laying next to Haversham. Blood covered the end of it. The initials FS were engraved in the base. He handed the murder weapon to one of his men. Like the press doesn't take whatever they think we cops are too stupid to notice went missing.

This being my first important murder, I didn't wish to get on Hastings' bad side. He could make my job difficult. Just looking.

Just looking a little peaked. He laughed, a low growling laugh. How'd you end up here anyway? This story's bigger than your reputation.

I wanted to make a smart remark, but he was telling the truth. I was still a lowly beat reporter and didn't get to write stories about rich men being murdered. Everyone else had gone home to bed. I was on my way when I heard the commotion and followed.

Hastings nodded and turned his back to me. Two men with a gurney hustled into the already overcrowded room. They picked up the body of a girl of about twenty lying next to Haversham. She also had a head wound.

Gently with the girl. She's still alive and might be able to tell us who did this. Hastings supervised the removal of the girl.

I went back to studying Haversham's body. I needed to figure out what I was going to write. I could call this in and presses for the morning paper would be stopped to put this on the front page. Haversham was a rich man. He made his money in the clothing industry running sweatshops. I couldn't say that I was sorry to see him dead. He'd built his empire on the back of the poor.

The police would take the body away shortly, so I studied it. It didn't seem to want to tell me anything. His blood had seeped into the expensive Persian rug. The room was filled with police officers so I couldn't get a good look at it, but an overwhelming pinkness pervaded the room. A woman's room. Was this his wife's study? Why would he bring a young woman to his wife's room?

Haversham's body was so still. The police wouldn't stop until they found the culprit, unlike murders that took place in the seedier part of the city. He was an important man, and people would want to know who had killed him.

After I called in the first report, one of the members of the murder squad at the World would be assigned to the follow-up, so I wanted the best story I could get. I would get only one try to prove to my editor that I could be trusted with big stories.

A bit of gold caught my eye as I stared at the body trying not to memorize what he looked like. I didn't wish to dream about him. The gold seemed to come from a chain clenched in his closed fist.

I glanced around. The officers all seemed intent on getting the girl out the door and were paying me no attention. I took in a slow, deep breath and pulled on the chain. Blood mixed with the chain and it wouldn't pull free from Haversham's hand. I glanced up again, then pried open Haversham's fingers. A locket fell onto the floor and into the pool of blood. A shiver ran down my back, but I picked up the piece of jewelry by the chain and rubbed it against Haversham's suit. A little more blood wouldn't make a difference.

Slipping the jewelry into my pocket, I stood and looked around the room. Definitely a woman's room with a pink lounge and pink walls. A book lay open on the table next to the lounge. I went to see what it was.

Hey, Madigan, what're you up to? yelled Hastings.

I jumped and turned toward him. Nothing. I hoped my face didn't look as guilty as I felt. Taking the locket was something one of the reporters on the murder squad would have done and they wouldn't have been caught. If Hastings caught me with the locket, not only would I never live down the disgrace, but no one would let me into a major murder scene again.

Humph. Hastings crossed his arms over his chest. We're taking the body out now so there isn't anything more to view.

It was time to find a phone and see who I could rouse at the World. I headed toward the door, careful not to step in the pool of blood. I exited the front door in time to see some of the police leaving in a rush.

Where are they going? I asked one of the officers.

One of Haversham's warehouses just went up in flames.

I groaned and stretched. By the time I got the two stories on Haversham into the paper, it had been nearly dawn. Now I was up and ready to start a new day. I'd be glad for the coffee waiting for me downstairs.

I picked up the copy of the World someone had left me. I smiled as I scanned the front page. A column-and-a-half and the rewrite man had hardly blue penciled my copy at all. For one story, nine dollars in the pay envelope on Saturday, plus a dollar or two more for the by-line. My first by-line since I became a reporter two years ago, and my first front page story.

New York World

Thursday, March 4, 1892

Marshal Haversham Found Murdered--Millionaire Entrepreneur Bludgeoned to Death--Haversham Found at His Park Avenue Residence--Unconscious Woman Found Near Haversham's Body--Butler Finds Body on Returning From Pub

By Sean Madigan

I read the by-line again as I sat in my room clipping my articles to turn in today so I could get paid. I cut articles every morning and clipped them together to turn in on Thursday. Otherwise, the editors didn't see fit to pay me.

My first by-line. The smile would last all day. Not only had I gotten a by-line, but the city editor had let me handle the story on my own. He hadn't sent out a more experienced reporter to double check on me. I still had to cover my police beat, but the Haversham murder was first. If I could figure out who the murderer was before the police, I'd get a bonus, plus more good stories would follow.

With the extra money, I might be able to take Bridget to the theater Saturday evening if it proved a slow news night. She'd like that since most of the time I hadn't two cents to rub together, let alone the green to court her. A patient sort, she understood the rigors of a reporter's life.

In the meantime, I had a big story on which to concentrate. I really wanted to find the murderer and prove I had made it as a reporter. I'd no longer be one of those who did the everyday stories, but a reporter worthy of the big headlines.

The by-line made me proud. Now I had to live up to it.

I looked down at the locket I'd taken from Haversham's hand. Popping the locket open, I stared at the pictures inside. A young man, who resembled Haversham, smiled at me from one side, while the young lady found next to Haversham smiled at me from the other. Who was she? Why had she been there? Haversham had a wife. Could she be a mistress to one of his sons?

I pondered the gold locket. The chain was a delicate filigree. A small diamond graced the front of the heart. It cost more than I made in a year.

Haversham made more money than I could imagine with his sweatshops, where he employed young immigrant women to sew the clothes he sold. In fact, Bridget worked in one of his shops. She was one of the best and made six dollars a week. Others didn't do so well.

I rubbed the locket, wishing it to tell me something, to no avail. I set it aside and cut out the article, including the by-line and headline. My editor at the World probably wouldn't pay me for the headline, but I didn't want him to forget I'd written it.

I flipped to the second section of the paper looking for the other big article I had in this issue. Last night had been a busy one. I'd barely got the two stories done. Everyone gets in a dither when important things happen so late. After I'd called in the murder, I'd had to run across town since the cable cars had stopped running. It had been worth it for the additional column I'd written on the fire. Just looking at it, though, made me rub my arms again. Just looking at fire and I could feel my arms burn from long ago.

Of course, if Haversham hadn't gotten himself murdered, the story would have only been worth half a column in Thursday's paper. I'd let him know how grateful I was when I went to his funeral, which would be worth at least half a column in itself.

I took the scissors and trimmed around the article. Last night had been a very bad night for the Haversham family.

Thursday, March 4, 1892

Haversham Clothing Warehouse Destroyed by Fire--A $100,000 Worth of Clothing Lost--Warehouse Burns Only Hours After Haversham's Murder--Arson Suspected--Clothing District Saved by Firemen

A clothing warehouse owned by Marshal Haversham in the Garment District roared into gigantic flames at 2:30 this morning, shortly after Haversham was found brutally murdered in his Park Avenue home across town.

Firemen heroically fought the flames and contained the fierce blaze within Haversham's warehouse. There was barely noticeable damage to the surrounding buildings. The warehouse's entire contents, however, were incinerated.

I stacked the second article on top of the first and put them with the rest of my work for the week. I laughed as I smoothed out the center fold in the paper. I'd left long before the firemen got the blaze under control, but a fire was a fire. Owens had assured me the buildings next door weren't going to burn, so I took him at his word. The press had to run. If the whole block went up, I'd be back on little stories. Besides, I'd seen enough of the fire for one night. For me, these were the worst stories to cover.

I looked at the locket again before I slipped it into my inside coat pocket. Haversham had clasped it in his hand when he died. Why? Or had someone put it there? Either way it would tell me something eventually.

Chapter 2

I joined the rest in the dining room. Mrs. Fitzpatrick had laid out our breakfast, which was quite a spread, on top of the mahogany sideboard. She knew we reporters worked hard and the students needed energy to study.

Since we were a split house, Mrs. Fitzpatrick ended up cooking four meals every day. She provided the students with breakfast before they rushed off to classes. At noon, she provided breakfast again for the reporters and dinner for the students. At six-thirty, she provided dinner for any reporters who came home and supper for the students. Then she left a cold supper for the reporters before she went to bed so we could eat when we got off at one in the morning.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick was a wonderful cook. Almost as good as Bridget's mother, where I often took dinner on my six o'clock break. It was as much an excuse to see Bridget as anything else. It cost me nothing more to dine either place.

I grabbed up a plate from the sideboard. Everyone else was seated and shoveling food into their mouths, except Mrs. Fitzpatrick. She had impeccable table manners, and I often wondered why she put up with the lot of us.

I heaped scrambled eggs, biscuits and gravy, a couple of beef dodgers, bacon, sausage, batter cakes and an apple dumpling on my plate. A basket of donuts sat in the middle of the table. I pulled out an empty chair and sat between Carl Reiger, a seven-year veteran business reporter for the Times and Robert Carlton, one of the students. Simon Petry, a government reporter for the Herald, sat across from me and had the table manners of a goat, so I concentrated on my plate and tried to shut out the noises coming from his mouth.

Reiger, his thinning brown hair combed from one ear to the other, handed me the coffeepot. One hell of a story you caught last night.

I smiled again at the thought of my first by-line. I'd worked hard to get to this point.

Your first by-line. Mrs. Fitzpatrick smiled at me. Her figure showed she enjoyed eating her own cooking. Her husband had died five years earlier and left her the house. With no way to support herself, she'd taken in boarders and loved the company. Not having any children of her own, she treated all of us as if we were her sons. Her brown hair was streaked with gray and pulled back into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. Her brown wool dress was without ornamentation, but was covered with a pristine white apron. I'd decided long ago she changed aprons before she joined us at the table. She couldn't cook and stay so clean. I'm so proud.

Petry, dressed in a brown suit the same color as his hair and eyes, snorted. Seems to me he should've had one long ago. I had my first within six months.

I shoveled eggs into my mouth, not wanting to get into a verbal spat with him when I was in such a great mood.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick refilled her coffee cup. True, Mr. Petry, but you do government reporting and the by-lines seem to be a bit freer. After all, we all want to know who spoke with the mayor. She held a donut. Police reporters don't often get by-lines.

Then he should've chosen a different beat. Petry slurped his coffee.

I took a donut. I like police reporting.

Frank Simon, the newest student to board with us, broke a donut in half. He dipped one piece into his coffee. I don't know why. I wouldn't want to be looking at dead bodies.

That part can be a drawback. I sniffed the warm donut and couldn't help but sigh. Mrs. Fitzpatrick made the best donuts in New York. But the chances of getting a really big story are greater than on any other beat. I took a bite and chewed blissfully.

Such a lot of hogwash. Petry rubbed a morsel of biscuit in his gravy. Government gets lots of big stories. He shoved the bite into his mouth and let gravy drip down his chin.

Everyone's interested in the elections. Reiger wiped eggs from his mustache. Unfortunately, they don't happen every year.

Petry slammed his fork on the table. I've had more by-lines than the two of you put together.

Reiger and Petry were long standing rivals, and in verbal debates, Reiger usually won. When things got out of hand, Mrs. Fitzpatrick stepped in and calmed us down like a bunch of delinquent boys.

Reiger glared across the table at Petry. Might be, but the stuff was so boring, no one noticed.

What you write makes everyone sit up and notice? Petry sneered. The only people who read what you write are businessmen. Bores everyone else to sleep.

Petry did have a point. Business news wasn't anymore exciting than government news. At least once in a while some government official got caught with his fingers in the pot and the scandal rocked the city. I found both beats boring, which is why I'd chosen the police beat. At least something exciting happened everyday, and I met new people.

We were discussing Sean's good fortune. Mrs. Fitzpatrick gave the two of them a stern look. Now, please pass the coffeepot this way.

Petry handed it to Robert Carlton, who filled Mrs. Fitzpatrick's cup for her.

Thank you. She flashed him one of her brightest smiles.

Carlton's face turned red and he shoveled biscuits and gravy into his mouth. He was one of the students and the quietest at the table. We hardly ever heard his opinion on anything.

I still think looking at dead bodies is disgusting. Simon took another donut. He ate twice what the rest of us did, but his suit still hung off his shoulders and his trousers were cinched in around the middle. He was as tall as I was, but had to weigh fifty pounds less. Mrs. Fitzpatrick had to lose money on renting to him.

Most times I don't get dead bodies. I finished my donut and refrained from licking the sugar from my fingers. At work I would have, but in Mrs. Fitzpatrick's dining room with a linen tablecloth and napkins, it didn't seem proper.

The old timers get the murders. Reiger rose to refill his plate. How'd you manage to keep the story?

The city editor thought I could handle it. I cut my biscuits into pieces and stabbed a piece of sausage with my fork to eat with the biscuit.

Petry snorted. The city editor must've been in his cups.

Everyone moves up. Reiger sat and started on his second helping. His middle showed that he put away more than he should. With as much walking as reporters did, I'd have thought he'd walk off what he ate, but he didn't seem to anymore. Business work was mostly in a small area, and so he didn't travel as far as I did.

Probably the senior reporter was sick or busy. Petry poured milk into his coffee.

I'd had enough of the conversation. Jason, how's school going?

Beale was a bit of a snob and thought himself better than us disreputable reporters. I wondered why he stayed, but for all his airs, he probably couldn't afford better. Quite well, thank you. His blond hair was neatly smoothed back. Actually, I find Mr. Reiger's articles very informative. I read all his articles. They help me with my studies. Shows what's going on in reality so I can correlate it with what we study in class.

I didn't laugh. Thought about it, but no sense in looking like a horse's patoot like Petry usually did.

Such a lot of crap. Reiger doesn't know a thing about business. Only reports what businessmen think is important. Petry guffawed and spit coffee and milk onto the white tablecloth. Mrs. Fitzpatrick somehow got all the stains out after Petry ate. I always wondered how.

Beale stirred sugar into his coffee, his spoon making tiny clanking noises against the sides of the white-and-blue-china.

Frank, how are things with you? Mrs. Fitzpatrick took her turn to steer the discussion in a new direction.

Simon chewed for a moment, then swallowed. Having a bit of trouble with my math, but the rest is going fine.

If you need help, let me know. Mrs. Fitzpatrick took another donut. I'll find someone to help you. I wouldn't want any of my boys flunking out. She gave him her motherly smile.

Beale stared down at his plate and stirred his eggs into his gravy.

Carlton started to reach for the coffeepot, then let his hand drop into his lap.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick set her donut down. Something wrong?

That call I got just before dinner... Carlton looked into his plate.

What about the call? It was your mother. Is something wrong? Mrs. Fitzpatrick leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table, something she never did.

My dad. He's had a heart attack. They don't expect him to live but a few days. He looked up. His eyes were filled with tears, but none had the audacity to roll down his cheeks and embarrass him in front of the rest of us.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick patted his arm. I'm so sorry. What can we do to help?

Nothing. Carlton shook his head. Nothing. I'll be leaving this afternoon. Ma needs me at home.

What about your schooling? Mrs. Fitzpatrick's brows knitted together.

That will have to wait. Carlton shoved his chair back.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick tsked several times. Such a shame. You'll go home and then you'll never get back to school. She sighed. Can't be helped. She rose from the table. I'll help you pack.

We watched the two of them go upstairs. Mrs. Fitzpatrick only climbed the stairs when she felt something was an emergency.

I stuffed biscuits and sausage into my mouth, grabbed a donut and headed for the door. I'd had enough talk and food for the moment and had plenty of work ahead of me.

Chapter 3

By one-thirty, I stood at the bottom of the steps to the building that housed Haversham's office on Broadway. I hoped everyone wasn't out due to last night's mishaps.

I glanced around to study the people on the street. The few about were scurrying elsewhere and paid me no mind. I sat on the bottom step and removed my left shoe to rid it of the pebble that had been plaguing me the last three blocks. I examined the hole in the sole, but it had grown a barely perceptible amount. I smoothed out the newsprint lining the shoe, then looked at my sock. I'd have to darn it. The damn pebble had worn a hole in it.

I seemed to pick up many pebbles since I'd worn a hole in my shoe. I needed to get my shoes resoled, but the news business hadn't been so kind the last few weeks. I hadn't even been able to afford a trinket for Bridget. Bridget Flanagan, the most beautiful Irish girl in New York and enamored of me, though I hadn't the faintest notion why. She could find a man to give her a home and children, but I wasn't going to complain.

I thought of the locket hidden in my pocket. It was expensive. More than I would ever be able to afford for Bridget. I refrained from sighing, stood and dusted my pants. Looking at the front door of the three-story building, I smiled. I liked my job and wouldn't switch. Not even to give Bridget a golden locket.

I took the steps two at a time and shoved open the heavy door to a dark, empty hallway. I scanned the doors of the first floor, then climbed to the second. Haversham's Clothing Company was stenciled on an opaque glass windowed door by the stairs. I tested the door, and it swung open. Three desks, piled with papers, occupied the front office. A tall, slender man with a touch of gray in his hair stood with his back to me as he sifted through a stack of papers. His dark blue suit coat pulled tight across his back as he leaned forward.

Ahem.

He jumped and turned. Gracious. He placed his hand against his chest. I didn't hear you enter.

I took a step forward and flashed him a smile. Bridget called it my innocent little boy smile. The one she said I always used when I wanted something. It didn't work on her, but it did on most everyone else.

Extending my hand, I took his and shook it. "I'm Sean Madigan from the World, and you are?"

His face fell. You're from the newspaper?

Were you expecting someone else? I studied the small room. Two doors lead into other offices. One was marked Marshall Haversham and the other Stephen Haversham. My hands itched to get a look at Marshall's. Maybe there would be something in there that would tell me who the girl was and why she was with the old man. I could speculate, but the rumors I'd heard didn't support the theory she was his mistress.

...anyone.

Huh? I realized I hadn't been listening. A bad thing for a reporter.

No, snapped the man. I wasn't expecting anyone. Why would any of the family come in to help? Or, for that matter, anyone else? All the employees seem to be in mourning and have taken the day off. He threw his hands in the air. And with so much to do.

I'm sorry for your plight. I doffed my hat. Who might you be?

The man looked at me for a long moment. Garrett Rathbone.

Nice to meet you. I nodded my head. Why are you the only one here today?

Someone has to straighten out the problems. He glared at the papers piled on the desk. Orders. Orders everywhere.

That's what you're in business for. The office was quite a mess, as though someone had sifted through the piles of papers and not returned them to their proper place.

Of course we are. He gave me a how stupid can you be look.

I took no offense. As a reporter, I'd received that look many a time. If the people I interviewed thought I was a bit dimwitted, they went to considerable trouble to explain everything in minute terms, giving me large quantities of information. Much more than if I seemed to understand them, and little details that were important. Then where's the problem?

His shoulders sagged. You heard about the warehouse? He looked at me. Of course you heard about the fire and the murder. You're from the press. He pointed to my hat. Your press card introduces you.

"From the World."

You're the only one to come around here. Probably a passel of reporters around Haversham's place. He sounded scornful or resentful, as though he might be missing the limelight.

I nodded, wanting him to know I was listening, but not really wanting to interrupt his tirade. I figured he was correct, but I also figured there wouldn't be much information to gather from there either. The coppers were going to be keeping a tight rein on things for a while as they tried to suss things out. I had other leads to work.

Stephen's probably all smiles, trying to convince the press there won't be any problems now that his father has departed this world. A fine song and dance he'll be doing.

Why's that?

Because of the warehouse fire. If it'd just been the old man dying, Stephen could've run things here, with my help. With the warehouse fire, I don't know what we're to do. Rathbone shook his head. See all these orders. They were stored in that warehouse, ready to ship. Now I got customers waiting for clothing that's gone.

Nothing could be saved? I loved interviews where I did hardly any of the talking.

All of it was ruined. I checked this morning. What the fire didn't get, the firemen did. Water, soot and ashes covered everything.

You must've clothing stored in another warehouse. I thought Haversham had three.

We separate the clothes by where the goods are going to ship. A smile flitted across his face, then disappeared. We're opening a market in Chicago. I had a crew coming in this morning to pack the goods and put them on the night train. Now... He shrugged his shoulders.

You have nothing else you can ship?

Not without running short for the East Coast deliveries. I hate to see that new market fold. He stood a bit taller. It was my idea. I put a lot of work into it. All for nothing. Who cares? The Havershams?

Stephen Haversham must be in shock over his father's death.

I suppose. Rathbone leaned back against the desk. He and the old man argued all the time. Stephen didn't much care for the way the old man ran the place. He said they could make a lot more in profits if he didn't pay so much to the workers.

I frowned, something I tried never to do. I knew Bridget made fifty cents a week more than most, but I didn't know if Haversham paid all of his workers more than the standard rate. I don't understand?

Stephen wanted the old man to increase the hours and decrease the wages. He refused. Rathbone pushed himself up straight. Now Stephen will do as he pleases. He'll have to do something to make up for all the money lost in the fire.

The fire and the murder had to be connected somehow. Two incidents of such magnitude wouldn't happen on the same night without a connection. Did Haversham have any enemies who'd want him out of business?

Rathbone scowled. You sound a lot like the police.

I'm accused of that often. Fact was, I wanted to find Haversham's murderer and the arsonist before the coppers. It meant a nice amount of money in my pocket if I could scoop them.

Rathbone stared at me for a moment. Anyone in the business. They may socialize, but others might've been miffed about us opening new markets and taking from them.

I didn't think so. This seemed something closer to home. I didn't like the thought of changes to Haversham's sewing mills. Bridget would suffer. You any idea how much inventory you lost?

About seventy thousand dollars.

Whew. That would set them back a bit. You seem to know everything going on around here. Worked here long?

A little over a year. I'm the manager. I coordinate all the marketing and shipping of the clothing. I make sure everyone is happy and the customers keep buying. Though at this point, I don't know what we're going to do. I could put on more girls, but we haven't enough machines. Plus, the lighting is so poor that, if I extend the hours, the girls won't be able to see what they're sewing. It won't help. He turned back to the piles of papers on his