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Murder Is But A Memory

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We made it to Pasadena, and I headed down Lake Avenue. All the way at the end, down a long dirt road, was a big house. According to my last count, there were twelve young ladies living there, and the place was owned and run by a little woman in her late 40's, with auburn hair and the delicate, milky white skin that all true redheads have. Her name was Rosie, and she was the sweetest woman you could ever want to meet, unless you got on her bad side. Then she could make snake poison taste like white wine...

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