M.J. Meets Madeline

By M.J. Van Deventer

Madeline Webb came into my life in the late 1960s.

She walked into the News-Press in Stillwater, Oklahoma, and asked to read the stories about her 1942 New York City murder trial.

I knew who Madeline was. Almost everyone in Stillwater did. She was the hometown beauty with stars in her eyes who fell in love with the wrong guy and got caught up in the sensational killing of a wealthy Polish refugee, Susie Reich.

Madeline’s lover, Eddie Shonbrun, got the electric chair. Madeline got a life sentence and was shipped off to Westfield State Farm for Women in Bedford Hills, 40 miles from the bright lights of New York City.

After 25 years in prison, Madeline’s sentence was commuted by then-New York Governor Nelson Rockefeller. Madeline always said, “It was the best Christmas present ever!”

When she returned home to Stillwater, her mother, Vera, shunned her. So did her brother Billy, his wife, and their two daughters, who had moved into the house on South Husband Street. There was no room now for Madeline in the family home.

Fortunately, a telephone operator named Jonita Milligan befriended her. Jonita had followed Madeline’s homecoming and knew about her situation, so she took her in as a roommate. Eventually, they became a couple.

The day she came to the News-Press, Madeline was wearing a dark pleated skirt, a gaudy print blouse and black high heels that were begging for repair. Her eyebrows were carefully penciled, accentuating the widow’s peak in her dyed-black hair. Her makeup was heavy, and she wore bright red lipstick.

Mrs. Alice Church, the mistress of the morgue, met Madeline at the front desk. She brought her to me since I was the feature and lifestyle editor. Madeline asked to read all the stories about her the News-Press had published back in 1942. Mrs. Church walked up the old staircase leading to the attic – the morgue – where old newspapers rested in an eerie quiet. She returned with envelopes bulging with yellowed newspaper clippings.

Madeline sat in my office and diligently read every story. She read some twice. Several times, she quit reading as if the old memories were too much for her to bear.

Finally she said, “I could have written some of these stories so much better myself.”

I didn’t comment.

At that time, I was covering the major fashion shows in New York, Los Angeles, and Paris. One day, after I returned from one of those trips, Madeline came to the News-Press and asked me, “Sweetie, what should I be wearing next season?”

I told her, “Madeline, read the paper. I send back two stories a day from all those trips. I don’t have time to be your very own private fashion counselor. Now, go home.”

That didn’t stop her.

If it had, I suppose the book would never have come to pass.