"4 Cups!...I really enjoyed Dressed For Dying. I like how human Sean is portrayed in all his endeavors. He is not wishy-washy....His love for [Bridget] is genuine and this reader could tell how much he really cares, not only for Bridget, but people in general. Janet Quinn allows this reader to feel the intensity when Sean’s concerns for Bridget go into triple play. She creates real drama, and emotions in gigantic proportions, in this intriguing read that I found entertaining."--Cherokee, Coffee Time Romance & More

...The odor of charred timber and burnt fabric filled the air. I rubbed my arms to make the sensation of burning go away. The snow continued to fall, soon covering my shoulders with a white layer.

The dim sunlight illuminated the destruction. The clothing had burned and now hung in tatters. Empty hangers looked skeletal dangling from racks. Other racks lay on their sides where the firemen had knocked them, the clothing wading in the filthy water. The hangers seemed to reach upward, begging for help. White ash covered them as the snow would soon cover the city.

Rathbone had been right. Nothing could be salvaged. I’d already ruined my sock and maybe my shoe, so I might as well snoop. As long as I forced my mind to concentrate on the destruction and not the cause, I would be fine. I squished to the back door hanging only from the top hinge and looked outside. An alley ran behind the building, but nothing untoward seemed to be out there. I walked a few feet one way and back the other. I looked at the door. The flames had licked up the edge of it, leaving their signature. I glanced back inside the building. The most destruction seemed to be in the middle, with lesser amounts the farther one moved from the center. The racks in the middle had no clothes on them, and three of them seemed to be on top of each other, a tangle of charred poles.

Someone had soaked those middle racks and lit the fire. Then he’d run for it, probably out the back since he wouldn’t want to be seen.

I’d followed Fire Marshal Owens around enough fires to be able to piece together what had happened. A reporter survived only if he listened and learned, and I’d learned as much as I possibly could from Owens.

I glanced toward the end of the alley. It appeared to be about three hundred feet and opened onto the street. Whoever had lit the fire would have had plenty of time to escape before anyone discovered the blaze. I’d find no witnesses.

Why hadn’t there been a night watchman? I made a mental note to find out why.

The small bit of remaining sunlight glinted off something and I bent to retrieve it. I pulled out my handkerchief to clean the item. I’d damaged my suit enough for one day.

It was a money clip. In fact, a gold money clip with the initials TH on its face and a five-spot held in its grasp. Theodore Haversham? The youngest son. Hmmm. It didn’t seem much for a Haversham to have in his pocket.

What reason would he have to burn the building? That would cost his family money. I made mental notes to find out more about him. The police always looked close to home when someone was murdered. So would I.

I slipped the clip into my inside pocket where I also had the locket and stepped back into the building. Nothing of interest seemed to be there, but I took a last look around. Several racks near the far walls seemed barely touched, the clothing still hanging in some semblance of wholeness. The whole place, however, reeked of smoke. It had to have infiltrated the cloth, and cleaning probably wouldn’t get out the smell.

In the far front corner, a rack stood upright, covered with a tarp. That might hold something interesting. I sloshed toward it. If the day had been warmer, some of the water would have evaporated and I wouldn’t be collecting it in my shoe. Reaching the rack, I pulled back the tarp and let it drop to the floor. A nearly untouched line of clothes greeted me.

The rack held women’s and girls’ dresses. Each of them made of satin or silk and not two of them of the same color or style. I shifted through, studying them. Were they samples to show the Chicago buyers? Had the dress that the mysterious woman worn been one of these creations?