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DEATH ORDER
A DANA CAPONE MYSTERY, BOOK 2
CLAIRE FEENEY
Copyright © 2022 by Claire Feeney
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales,
and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a
fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual
events is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a
book review.
ISBN:
Cover by L1Graphics
www.clairefeeney.com
Author photograph by Anna Monette
 CONTENTS

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Legacy Killers (A Dana Capone Novella)

From Claire
About the Author
 ONE

Austin, Texas
Friday, August 31st, 2018

It was the ass-end of August as another hundred-plus day died a

slow death outside the windows of his second-floor apartment. The
humidity of the living room threatened to gag him. He’d fought the
landlord about it all summer, but the stingy bastard still hadn’t lifted
a finger to call a repair guy. The ceiling fan hadn’t worked for nearly
a year, and he refused to shell out for a vacillating floor fan on
principle. So what was his rent going to, anyway?
If only the scumbag landlord knew who he really was, knew who
he was screwing with. The idea of revealing it was tempting, but the
secret he held the keys to wasn’t his to tell and better left untold.
Besides, he enjoyed the thrill of deception. It was why he did
what he did, why he was who he was, and why he took to the stage
whenever his useless agent bothered to book him a show. But on
nights like this, when the A/C was nothing but sound and fury as he
lounged in his underwear on his living room recliner, his balls sticking
together like two steamed pork dumplings, he wished he could tell
everyone the truth.
Even if I did, would they understand the importance of it? That
was the problem, really. Letting the secret free still wouldn’t get him
the respect he deserved.
 An elaborate headdress sat atop his old television, from which
Fox News let loose a stream of fear and insinuation. He didn’t buy
half of it, but he appreciated the sentiment. Some people thought
fear was to be avoided; others thought it was a power to pay heed
to. However, Clive knew it was much more than that. Fear was the
most valuable force in the universe and something to harness and
wield for gain.
The Lone Star tallboy wept in the stranglehold of his left fist,
while on his right hand, a silver dollar danced gracefully around each
of his fingers. He could perform this skill in his sleep, and while it
was valuable for his day job to maintain such deftness in his fingers,
more often than not, he did it to keep himself from punching a wall.
I shouldn’t even need this goddamned day job anymore.
But the child support payments were too much, and that money-
grubber had hit him with the legal claim when he was at his financial
prime. Now, though, it was all garnered wages, shitty apartments,
and drinking alone.
He had a show the following day, an early Saturday performance,
at a stage in North Austin, the family-friendly hell that it was. Kids
ate his routine up. So, instead of relaxing on the weekend, he had to
dance like a monkey. Waterloo the Wondrous, Sleight of Hand
Extraordinaire, Voted Magic’s Freshest Face in 1986.
He knew real magic, though. Not optical illusions and slick
diversions, but the kind that could stick to a person, could make
things happen, could move mountains. That was where the real
power could be tapped into and found. Magic wasn’t making a rabbit
appear or the contents of a cup disappear; it was dark, luscious,
arousing in ways most people would never know.
His eyes wandered to the silver dagger in its display case. The
shelf on which it sat bowed slightly from the load, time, and the
humidity it had endured throughout this bleak summer. He let his
gaze sink into the gleam of the blade as it caught the colored light
from the TV, reflecting it back in a splash of blue, then red, then
green as the screen changed from a talking head to a
pharmaceutical commercial.
 The coin stopped its dance across Clive’s hand as he lost himself
in fantasy.
In his mind, he wrapped his hand around the dagger’s grip, felt
each detail of the carved bone press into his palm, brought the blade
to her throat, let it sit there, pressed gently against her skin, just
enough to draw blood, and watched the sweat bead on her forehead
and upper lip as she battled the fear. Finally, she submitted. “Do
what you will for pleasure’s sake,” she whispered. And so he did.
The skin of his arms tingled as he returned to the humid
apartment, his sweating beer, and a commercial for Lipitor. The coin
renewed its dance across his fingers.
No matter the humiliations he suffered, he’d always have that
place to escape to. Those memories. And occasionally, when the
conditions were met, he’d add to them. Not often, but enough. In
those moments, he was the most powerful man on earth. The last
time had both haunted and excited him in equal parts. Something
had broken inside her. He had broken it. But what he broke, he could
rebuild.
It was such a shame those hungry, greedy crowds for Waterloo
the Wondrous would never understand.
From the TV, the host began a segment with the question “Why
are Democrats so obsessed with Russia?” and before the answer
could be readily supplied, Clive heard a knock on his front door.
He grabbed his discarded slacks from the faded couch next to his
chair and squeezed into them, his large, sweaty thighs sticking to
the fabric, nearly making the task more effort than the modesty was
worth.
But the time he made for the door, he wondered if whoever it
was had already grown impatient and left. Another loud knock as his
bare feet hit the sticky linoleum of the entryway answered that
question for him, though. He unlocked the deadbolt and swung open
the door.
“Oh.” He stared at the worn and weary visitor. “You? What the
hell are you doing here? How do you even know where I live?”
“Can I come in?”
 His first instinct was to say no, to send this unexpected nuisance
away. No one needed to see the squalor. But then again, his power
was undeniable, and he could endure whatever scorn someone like
this could throw at him. “Yeah, sure. Come on in. It’s a sauna out
there.”
The guest removed their shoes, then stepped inside with sock
feet.
“I suppose it’s a sauna in here, too.” Clive closed the door and
nodded for the guest to follow him. “Landlord keeps fixing the
busted HVAC rather than replacing it. The goddamn thing is beyond
fixing, though. But I don’t suppose you care about—”
Clive stumbled forward from the blow to his back. His eyes shot
open, and he only just managed to keep his feet under him.
The second blow came in short order, just beneath his shoulder
blade, and this time, he knew what was happening. He wasn’t being
punched.
His scream died in an excruciating rasp. The nerves in his back lit
up in agony that branched out in all directions from the puncture
wounds.
As soon as he managed to twist around and saw the emotionless
expression on his attacker’s face, he knew no amount of bargaining
would put a stop to this. It would end when one of them was dead,
and only then.
His mind jumped to the dagger above his TV, but it was too far.
The kitchen was closer. If he could arm himself, he might survive.
The guest landed a third blow just below his armpit, and this
time his mind wasn’t fooled by the contact—he felt the blade slide
through the flesh and turn his ribs into whetstones. He went down.
As he crawled for his life, Clive’s kneecaps bashed against the
peeling linoleum tile of his kitchen floor. The knife drawer was on the
far side of the cramped space. Just a few more feet…
Another blow, this one so hard his sweaty palms slipped out from
under him, and he was unable to catch himself before his chin
smashed the floor. It split open, squirting briefly before oozing blood
down his neck.
 The drawer was too far. In a last desperate attempt, he tried to
beg. But only gurgling made it through his lips before a coughing fit
tore him in two.
Rolling onto his back, struggling to open his eyes against the
blinding pain, he offered his hands uselessly as he stared into the
rabid face of his attacker.
But no mercy existed in those dilated pupils, in that dead-eyed
stare. And no hope, either.
 TWO

Saturday, September 1st, 2018

I paused at the bottom of the steps leading up to the Main. The

downtown station was as close to home for me as anything, and I’d
missed it in my two months on administrative leave.
It probably wasn’t far off from how repeat offenders felt upon
returning to prison. Security meant different things to different
people.
No one would have stopped me from dropping by to say hello,
but it seemed best if I allowed myself a break, and for once, I did
the smart thing for my mental health.
That being said, I wasn’t sad to see my involuntary vacation
come to an end. Some people might think two months’ paid leave
was a great thing—a reward, even. But not so much when it comes
with a side of department-required therapy, briefings with your
lawyer, and, oh yeah, nightmares where you relive the shooting that
caused it all, only with added layers of mind-bending terror. The
dream I’d had the previous night included the serial killer Scott Ruiz
turning into a demonic octopus and requiring me to fight him like
some demented final boss in a nineties video game. The asshole was
sliding up walls and shooting ink at me.
Happy to report that I got him in the end, though, just like in real
life. And then my alarm went off.
 The station’s air conditioning spat in my face as I entered
through the glass doors, leaving the humid first day of September
behind me. We were nearing the end of another sweltering Texas
summer, but we weren’t there yet.
That was good news for predawn kayaking with my dog on Lady
Bird Lake, but bad news for every other waking moment where
anyone had to be outside. Thank god my days of patrol were behind
me. Nothing like feeling jealous of the guy you arrested with PCP
coursing through his system because he’s buck naked and you’re
trapped under stiff fabric and a bulletproof vest.
“There she is!” Detective Ben Escobar’s greeting met me the
moment I stepped into the Homicide office, or what we lovingly
called “Death Row” when the brass wasn’t in earshot.
To my utter surprise, cheers rose from the other detectives that
bothered to be at the station on a Saturday, even Jaden Krantz and
Derek Towers. Those two must’ve missed having a woman around to
harass and shit talk.
“Sorry to end the sausage fest,” I said as the cheers died down.
Greg Varnel, a soft-spoken detective whom I knew hardly
anything about because he kept to himself, made the effort to walk
over and shake my hand. “Glad to see you back, Capone. Admin
leave is a bear. You all right?”
“Yeah, I’m good. I reckon it’s not as bad when the papers love
you.”
Varnel had spent almost a year on leave early in his career, and it
hadn’t been for shooting a confirmed serial killer. I couldn’t
remember the specifics, but I knew his suspect had been young and
Latino. Armed and dangerous all the same, with felony warrants to
match, but that didn’t matter. Varnel’s name was mud around the
city for years after that.
He inhaled sharply, arching his eyebrows, and nodded. “I
wouldn’t know. But I’m glad you do.”
“We’re balls-deep in murder,” Towers shouted from his desk
across the way. “Whenever you’re done breathing in our delicious
testosterone, would ya mind getting to work? We’re tired of pulling
your weight around here every time you off a guy.”
 “You solve that homicide on Pleasant Valley yet?” Ben asked him.
“Or was the security footage of the suspect’s face straight on not
enough of a lead for you?”
“Eh, wudda you know?” Towers shot back in the put-on New
Jersey accent that still boggled my mind. The asshole had never
lived on the East Coast. “Just because I know what the guy looks
like,” Towers continued, “doesn’t mean I know who he is.”
“Julio Cesar Navarro,” Detective Varnel said. “I already told you
that. I arrested him for agg assault three weeks before your murder.
Judge kicked him back out on the streets. He was wearing an ankle
bracelet at the time of the shooting.”
A knot inside me loosened as I met Ben’s eyes and laughed.
“Nice to know nothing changed while I was gone.” As I settled in at
my desk across from Ben’s, I didn’t notice the cup of coffee waiting
for me until I’d almost knocked it over with my elbow.
“It might be a little cold,” he said without looking over from his
computer screen. “I thought you’d be in a little sooner.”
“Thanks. I got you something, too.” I reached in my large tote
bag and pulled out two boxes—the reason I was in fifteen minutes
later than I’d told Ben I would be.
He leaned forward to get a better look, and his eyes widened.
“Are those Bougie’s?”
“You know it.” I set the boxes of donuts on the edge of our
conjoined desks closest to the center of the room. “Come and get it,
boys. A little thank you for picking up the slack. None for Towers,
though, since he’s a whiny little bitch.”
“Fuck you, Capone.”
“Oh shit,” said Jaden Krantz, the first one over to the box despite
being the laziest detective I’d ever met. “She got assorted varieties.”
When Krantz reached for the one with strawberry icing and
rainbow sprinkles, Ben slapped his hand away. “That one’s mine.” He
shoved it into his mouth before Krantz could rally. Around the big
bite, he said, “Hell of a way to show up for donut court.”
Donut court was an old tradition around the department.
Whenever a cop screwed up, the footage would be reviewed in
show-up the following shift, and the cop on the big screen was in
charge of bringing donuts for the occasion. Shooting Scott Ruiz
hadn’t been a fuck-up on my part, but I’d left my guys behind to
clean up this town on their own all the same. A little goodwill went a
long way.
Also, I loved donuts.
“Figured I’d be facing more of a donut tribunal after the murder
rate y’all’ve been dealing with,” I replied. Krantz reached for the
blueberry, and I took my turn slapping his hand away. “That one’s
mine. I paid for it.” I grabbed the blueberry and set it on my desk
next to my room temperature coffee.
“Even with the homicide rate being what it is,” I continued, “I
didn’t expect to see so many people here on Labor Day weekend.”
Ben shrugged. “Backlogs all around. Audrey’s at the beach with
her mom and her mom’s new boyfriend anyway. What the hell else
am I gonna do with my time?”
If his daughter was spending time with his ex’s new love interest
—“captive” might have been a better word from what I knew of
Lucy, or even “boss,” with the way she dated up the corporate ladder
—I knew better than to dig in that minefield and let it slide.
“As someone who asked herself that question repeatedly for the
last two months,” I said, “I hear ya.”
“Your arms look great, by the way.”
As he took a sip of his coffee, I nearly choked on my donut.
“Huh?”
“You’ve been on the lake every morning, right? You told me that
last week. I just… I can tell.” He waved it off. “Never mind. I wasn’t
trying to be weird, but you’re making it weird by looking at me like
that. Forget it. I’ll never compliment you again.”
I glanced around, making sure no one else had heard. For one, it
was the kind of interaction that could easily fuel rumors about us.
But mostly, when your last name was Capone, it didn’t take much for
people to start making gun jokes about you.
Thankfully, Krantz and Towers were already back at their desks
with donuts, and Detective Franklin Carr was too absorbed in looking
through the selection of the second box to register Ben’s
observation. If Varnel had overheard from his desk, he didn’t show
it.
“Thanks, I guess.” I fixed my eyes to my monitor and logged in.
The problem with putting a detective on administrative leave was
that we each had multiple investigations in progress at any given
time. But since “leave” is cop jargon for “We’ll pay you until we
decide if you need to be fired, taken to trial, or both,” it’s not
practical to simply put those investigations on hold, since the
detective, me in this case, might never return to duty.
That meant that most of the homicides Ben and I had been
working on together had fallen entirely on his shoulders. And in all
our conversations over those months, he hadn’t complained once.
Maybe he knew I got the worse end of the deal; the public likes to
act like paid leave is a vacation, but if it is, it’s a vacation in
purgatory.
Ben had done me a huge favor during that time of keeping me
updated on each of our cases—he’d closed out two, but more had
piled up. Staying informed gave me something to think about in
those long hours after my time on the lake and before a trivia game
started at one of the bars or restaurants in South Austin.
“Bring me up to speed,” I said.
He finished off his strawberry-frosted donut, downed some coffee
that was undoubtedly as cold as mine, and said, “How about the
Terrytown one first?”
“The home invasion?”
He shot me a finger gun, the irony of it going unsaid. “You were
right to look more into the tenant living in the guesthouse out back.
She didn’t have a record, but her ex-husband did.”
As he continued to explain the situation and what turned up on
the ex-husband’s background check, I did my best to follow along.
Really, I did. But I had something far more exciting up my sleeve, a
lead I’d been pursuing in a case that was neither open nor closed
because it didn’t exist within our system.
“I spoke with one of the prison clerks out in Huntsville, and they
said… Dana.”
“Huh?”
 “You’re not listening.”
“I am.”
“No. Your eyes. I know that look. You’re not paying attention.”
“Shows what you know.”
Ben sighed. “Okay, what is it? Spit it out. Am I on the wrong trail
here? What is it?”
I shook my head, feeling a little guilty for my negligence. “No,
you’re doing exactly what I would with that investigation. The ex-
husband sounds suspicious as hell, and if he’s still in touch with the
tenant, you gotta dig into that.”
“Then what is it?”
I probably should have pulled myself back into the present and
told Ben it was nothing, to keep going with the current cases. But I’d
been brooding over this other project for too long. I needed to
share. “Okay, I gotta show you this.” I jumped up and circled our
desks, pulling up the video on my phone as I did. Leaning down so
we both could see it, I pressed play and quickly turned down the
volume when the tinny dance music blasted from my crappy phone
speakers.
“What am I looking at?” he said, squinting at the screen. Then,
“Wait. Was this shot in Sheep’s Clothing?”
“Yessir.”
It had taken me almost a month of extracurricular digging before
I located someone with a video of that night who was willing to
share. Sheep’s Clothing was the drag bar where Dylan Fowler had
nearly swung to his death above the catwalk. It was also where I’d
chased Scott Ruiz to the roof, engaged him, and shot him dead.
The video quality was dark and grainy, which was unfortunate. I
would have preferred a much better image to run with, but I’d take
what I could get.
A gusher of light filled the place temporarily as one of the front
doors opened and daylight streamed in. “This is from six thirty that
night.”
“That night? The night of the shooting?”
“Yep.”
 “So this is from before you arrived.” Ben squinted harder at the
screen as the scene played out.
“Right. I knew it would’ve had to happen well before I showed
up. There’d be no sneaking him in once I was already there.”
Ben looked up at me. “Sneaking him in? Wait, you mean
sneaking Dylan in?”
“Shit. You missed it.” I slid the footage back six seconds. “It’s
brief, but I know it’s him. See if you can catch it. The right side of
the screen. Keep an eye on that door by the stage.”
Ben took the phone from me to get a better look and played it
again. I watched him closely for every micro-expression. I didn’t
need to see the recording—I’d watched it a million times already.
What I needed to see was my partner’s reaction when he saw what
was unquestionably there.
He jerked his chin back like the image had spat at him. Without
saying another word, he backed up the footage and watched it
again, hitting pause at the right moment. “That?” He pointed to the
two figures heading for the discreet door behind the stage.
“Exactly.”
“Huh.”
I bit my lip to give him plenty of space to elaborate, but when it
didn’t come, I cast my reel. “That’s Dylan, right?” I pointed to the
tall figure slumped over, his arm slung around the shoulder of the
other man.
“It could be.”
“And this other guy? You think this looks anything like Scott
Ruiz?”
Ben brought the screen closer to his face, squinting.
“Here.” I took the phone and inched the video frame by frame
forward until I got to the precise one I’d spent way too much time
staring at in my apartment.
He chewed on his lip as he inspected it. “Hard to say.”
“Come on. Come on! There’s no way that’s Scott Ruiz.”
He leaned back and sighed. “I would be shocked if I found out
that that was Ruiz. Sure, I can go with you there.”
 “So if that’s Dylan being led toward that door, and that’s not
Ruiz…”
His gaze darted toward the other detectives. Good old Ben,
always low-key concerned my reputation might rub off on him. “We
know it was Scott Ruiz, Dana. We know he killed Cheryl
Blackstenius, Leslie Scopes, and Stephanie Lee. And probably more.
And yet this. It’s like you’re making a case for his exoneration. I
don’t think this is a smart avenue to pursue.”
“Not his exoneration, no way. I’m with you that he killed those
women. But we both know it doesn’t all add up. You know what
Dylan Fowler said. When he was being held captive, he heard
someone speaking outside the door of wherever he was being held,
and it wasn’t Scott’s voice. The person who dictated those letters to
him, that wasn’t Scott either. That doesn’t mean Ruiz didn’t murder
those women or that he didn’t drug Dylan so that the guy could be
carted off. You know I still believe all that. But someone was helping
him with part of the plan. And this guy is it. We have a picture of
him.”
“Not a very good one. His entire face is, like, four dark pixels.”
I snatched my phone back. “Don’t worry. That’s only the start.”
“Oh, joy.”
“That door that they’re heading to? I went and checked it out,
talked to one of the bartenders there. The stage has what’s called a
fly tower, where you can—”
“We know about the fly tower, Dana. The FBI was all over that
place afterward. They concluded that Ruiz drugged Dylan and took
him up there long before you arrived.”
I rolled my eyes and narrowly avoided stamping a foot out of
frustration. That wouldn’t have been a good look for a grown
woman. Instead, I returned to my desk and flopped down in my
chair. “And how did Ruiz get Dylan to drop down from the fly tower
above the stage? Remote control? Ben. Come on. That’s not Scott in
the video. Someone else is helping Dylan to the door that leads up
to the fly tower. Someone else would’ve had to shove him or
whatever to get him to fall on cue. We totally missed it, but there’s a
second person out there. Scott had an accomplice.”
 Ben held up his hands in surrender. “You make solid points,
Dana, as always. But here’s the long and short of it: that photo is
crap, and we have nothing to go on with your theory, so maybe we’d
be better off solving all these other murders.”
“I hear you, but if he’s still out there—”
“Not to be that asshole, but he’s not our concern until he
commits a homicide. Scott Ruiz is dead; it’s been two months, and
no more murders. It’s almost like Ruiz was the one killing people.”
I glared at him for the sarcasm then decided to drop it.
Ben had a strong argument, one that I’d been trying to poke
holes in myself for the last couple of weeks since I located the cell
phone footage. The question of “Who the hell is that?” had to be
considered with the secondary question of “How much does it
matter if we find that out?”
If the murders stopped, there were more important things to
look into. Like all the other murders in Austin.
Was all homicide created equally? Ideally, yes, but in practice,
there was this thing called “politics.”
“Hey, we got a— Oh, Capone, you’re in already. Welcome back.”
I nodded at Sergeant Maxim Popov, who had appeared in the
doorway of Death Row. With his brief and essentially emotionless
greeting out of the way, the old, red-faced Russian went on with
what he’d been about to say. “We got a weird one out in Henry
sector. Who wants to take it?”
I was out of my chair before he could finish his question. “All me,
Pops. Let me at ’em.”
“Fine, all yours.”
“Want me to come with you?” Ben asked.
“Nah, I got it. I’ll call if I need you.”
From the other side of the office, Towers shouted, “Weird case,
huh? Yeah, let Capone after it. Sometimes to find a freak, you gotta
be one.”
I grabbed the essentials from my desk—keys, wallet, cell phone,
badge, gun. “That’s how it works?” I hollered back. “You gotta be
the thing you’re looking for? Shit, Towers, then you might be a boy
genius over in Sex Crimes.”
 I was already out the door by the time he called back, “Aah,
wudda you know?”
 THREE

I love a strange murder scene. There might’ve been some truth to

what Towers said about it taking a freak to find one. The thing
Towers was too stupid to consider, however, was that the stranger
and more specific the crime, the more clues one had to work from. A
bullet to the back of the head could be perpetrated by almost
anyone—especially in Texas, where even felons needed only to close
their eyes and wish for a gun before one appeared in their hand.
One-off shooting cases could drag on forever if there weren’t any
witnesses or security footage.
But when someone tried to get fancy with the act, they told me
all kinds of things about who they were.
I pulled the slicktop into the apartment complex off Montopolis
Drive and snaked around, looking for building four. When I caught
sight of the red and blue lights bleeding between two buildings, I
followed those the rest of the way in.
Five squad cars were parked hodgepodge by the scene, but this
was an area of town where that didn’t necessarily draw too much of
an audience. Active crime scenes were a dime a dozen on this
stretch of road.
That wasn’t to say there weren’t a few neighbors who had
nothing better to do than park it on their porch and see if they could
catch a glimpse of something interesting. I noticed one such woman
in the building across from four, sitting in a ratty camping chair
outside her front door, clutching a Bud Light tallboy. She couldn’t be
a day under sixty, and I admired her for knowing exactly what she
wanted. And that was to watch a crime scene and drink a shitty beer
at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning without ever leaving her front
porch.
I nodded to her then crossed under the caution tape barrier
surrounding apartment 422.
A uniformed officer approached me from inside. “Detective
Capone?”
“That’s me.”
“They said you were coming over.” There was an excitement to
his voice that I didn’t love.
“Okay. You’re Officer—”
“Lipton. Officer Lipton.”
I could see that much on his uniform, but he’d beaten me to it.
“Ah. You gonna show me around?”
“Yes, detective. Sergeant Pepper is on the phone, and he asked
me to meet you if you showed up.”
I sucked my bottom lip to maintain professionalism. William
Pepper had been a corporal up in Adam sector for years and years,
way longer than anyone would want to be one. The rumored reason
he hadn’t promoted to sergeant sooner was an obvious one that
even Jaden Krantz, who had no cultural knowledge to speak of,
eventually picked up on: his name.
Then, one day in 2017, it happened, and it was a little spot of
sunshine in everyone’s gloomy life: Corporal Pepper became
Sergeant Pepper. Even now, over a year later, it served as a small
pocket of joy I occasionally stumbled upon in this depressing job. He
was a patrol sergeant in Henry sector, so I’d forget about him for
weeks, even months at a time, and then—boom. There was that
name again.
I ignored the song playing in my head and nodded for Officer
Lipton to show me the murder.
Crime Scene had beaten me to the location, and I caught one of
the flashes of their cameras reflecting off the white walls after I
slipped on the shoe coverings and crossed the threshold.
 “Careful,” Lipton said, pointing to the blood smear on the
linoleum floor. “They’ve already taken plenty of pictures since it’s
hard to step around it, but I don’t want you to slip or anything.”
I eyed him. Did he think this was my first pool of blood? “Thanks,
I’ll be careful.”
The stains moved to the beige carpet about five feet beyond the
first pool. If they’d carried on straight, they would have entered the
living room, but instead, they took a sharp right into the kitchen. A
mixture of droplets and streaks decorated the dingy floor, and when
I looked up, I noticed a fair amount of spatter on the low popcorn
ceiling.
The state of the kitchen, all in all, wasn’t a pretty one. It could
have used a good scrubbing before the murder, and the dried blood
didn’t do it any favors. Whoever got stuck with the decedent’s
belongings would be finding hidden blood spots in the nooks and
crannies of them for years.
The spatter stopped at the far edge of the kitchen, where a
doorway on the left created a loop between the entry hall, living
room, and kitchen. The blood smears continued onto the shag
carpet, but the spatter did not. The real violence took place in the
kitchen, then.
Once I stepped around the bulk of the blood and got my first
look into the living room, it became apparent why Popov had called
this a weird one.
The victim lay splayed on his back, arms spread wide, empty
eyes still open, ankles bound. White briefs that had seen better days
were the only clothing he had on.
A crime scene technician stood below the man’s feet, snapping
pictures.
“You capture the footprints in the kitchen?” I asked.
The camera remained pressed to his face. “I did. And before
everyone started stomping through.”
Footprints were only sometimes helpful, and the ones I’d seen
weren’t from shoes, but socks, judging by the spongy pattern and
lack of tread. Whoever did this had done it in sock feet. I filed that
away and then returned to the body on the floor.
 The deceased man appeared to be mid- to late fifties. Caucasian,
clean-shaven, with male pattern baldness winning the battle for his
crown. His large belly spilled over to each side of him like it was
melting.
Though he was naked from the waist up, with all the blood, not
much of his pale skin below the neck was visible. I pulled the collar
of my shirt up over my mouth and nose and leaned over him to get
a closer look at his torso. No exit points of a bullet, but there were a
few stab wounds visible on his right side.
“Downstairs neighbors heard what they thought was yelling and
thumping last night when they were already in bed,” Officer Lipton
said. “Took until morning before the girlfriend convinced the
boyfriend to go check on things. When nobody answered, they
called it in.”
I nodded. “You get their statements?”
“Yes, detective.”
“Great. Send it my way. I’ll probably want to talk to them again
before long. Who was the responding officer?”
“I was, ma’am.”
“And when you got here, was the door locked?”
“No. Door was unlocked already.”
“And this debris”—I motioned to the circle of junk that had been
cleared around the body, all but the few objects that had been left
near him—“was that laundry and the trash pushed away from him
like that when you got here?”
“Yes, ma’am. I did my best to preserve the scene.”
I circled the corpse until I stood at his feet, staring up at him. His
arms out, ankles bound, head tilted slightly toward his right shoulder
—the Christian imagery was impossible to miss. “Do we have an ID
on him?”
“Property manager says this unit was rented to Clive Skutnik.
That’s spelled like Sputnik, but with a K instead of P. He’s out of
town, but I had him describe Skutnik, and it matched up.”
“No reason yet to believe this isn’t him.” I turned my attention to
the objects placed around the body. His apartment was a mess—a
bachelor-with-depression sort of situation. Not hoarding, but filthy.
But around the body, the floor had been cleared, almost like the
suspect had created a canvas for himself.
Whoever had done this had my attention, that was for sure.
Just beyond the fingertips of the victim’s right hand was an
empty can of Lone Star. It looked as if he could’ve been clutching it
and simply let go upon death, like some dramatic Shakespearean
exit on stage. “I am slain!”
No way that happened on its own, though. It may look natural,
but nothing about this was.
On the carpet above his right shoulder was the kind of hokey
wand you might find at a magic shop—a black stick of thick plastic
with a white tip to draw the eye. I wondered if fake flowers would
pop out of the tip if I shook it right. Obviously, that wasn’t
something I’d try on a crime scene.
Above his left shoulder was a bloody dagger, possibly our murder
weapon, which asked more questions than it answered. I had no
doubt that the dagger was involved in all this, had probably been
plunged into the victim at least once to get coated like that, but was
it the only knife? And why in the hell would someone leave it behind
for us to find?
And finally, just beyond his left fingertips, a CD with the word Us
written in fancy block letters with a Sharpie. Having been a teen in
the nineties, I recognized a mix CD when I saw one. Thing was, I
hadn’t seen one in a long time. Kids were all about the Spotify
playlists now. Whip it up, send the link.
“Why would a grown man have a magic wand?” I muttered.
“Oh! I think I know that!” Officer Lipton was practically bouncing
as he spoke.
I turned my attention toward him. “Go ahead.”
Instead of replying, he pointed to the wall—something I hadn’t
given much attention to yet in light of the body on the floor.
But sure enough, there was the answer. Three framed posters
hung side by side, each announcing shows for someone named
Waterloo the Wondrous.
I looked from the man in a top hat and cape on the posters to
the bloody body on the floor. Yep. Same guy. No doubt about it.
 “Guess that explains the wand.” I pulled out my phone, googled
the stage name, and a moment later, I’d confirmed the link. “It’s
Clive Skutnik. That’s our victim.” Step one complete, at least.
Careful to avoid the clutter, I made my rounds of the apartment.
While Officer Lipton had found the door unlocked, that didn’t mean
the intruder came in through it, only that he or she might’ve left
through it without locking up. I needed to check all the entrance
points to begin stringing together a story of the murder.
The living room had a sliding glass door that opened to a
cramped balcony hardly big enough for a single lawn chair, which the
deceased hadn’t bothered with. The space was empty, untouched. I
stepped out onto the cement slab and looked down. Wouldn’t be
impossible for someone to stand on the wrought-iron railing of the
first-floor patio and hoist himself up onto this one, but that would be
some ninja skills. Important rule of homicide investigations: never go
with “ninja skills” when there were other explanations left to explore.
The blood started a few feet into the entryway. It seemed likely
that the killer came in through the front door. That was usually how
people entered apartments. Sure, home invasions happened through
other points, but there wasn’t anything to push me in that direction
yet.
When I entered Clive’s bedroom, I was met with a sight I hadn’t
expected, though maybe I should have, given what I’d learned
about him so far.
On the far wall by the window were two giant birdcages, each
the size of a wardrobe. One was empty, and the other had a single
white dove perched inside, looking around with bland, beady eyes.
Together, the cages could have easily housed a dozen doves, and I
wouldn’t have considered that cruel.
You know, outside of caging birds in the first place.
“Guess he needed something to pull out of his hat,” I muttered,
making a mental note to call in animal rescue, so the remaining dove
didn’t starve.
Why get two massive cages for a single dove? The obvious
answer was that there had been other birds at some point. And how
many other birds had he owned to need both those massive cages?
And why was there only one dove left?
Maybe he wasn’t a great magician. Maybe he left the birds in the
contraptions for too long, or they flew away and didn’t come back.
Hell if I knew how all that worked.
As I completed my initial look around the place, checking to
make sure the windows were locked (they were), the most logical
possibility began to take root.
The suspect hadn’t broken in, and the victim had been stabbed
almost entirely in the back.
Almost certainly, Clive Skutnik had known his killer. And he’d
trusted whoever it was enough to put his back to them.
Returning to the living room, I gazed down at the body and
snapped a picture of it on my city phone. Forensics and the M.E.’s
office could have a blast picking apart the choreography of the
murder itself—where he was when he was stabbed each time, the
order of blows. I wasn’t that concerned about those specifics.
Murder was chaotic, animalistic, and, in most ways, all the same.
The story that mattered to me now had unfolded in this apartment
after Skutnik’s death.
The fact was, if you wanted someone dead, you could get them
dead. It wasn’t complicated. Guns were made for killing things, and
they were everywhere. Put a bullet in, pull the trigger. Simple.
But when you truly loathed someone, wanted to destroy them
entirely, a bullet to the heart or head wouldn’t be enough.
What had taken place in Skutnik’s apartment was a murder of
intimate hatred. The truth of that lingered in the air around me.
I sighed, my gaze catching momentarily on the cheap magic
wand. There were plenty of details to get me started in this
investigation, yet something told me that solving this case might be
a real magic trick.
 FOUR

Monday, September 3rd, 2018

I rubbed at the back of my neck and tried to blink some moisture

into my dry eyes. I must’ve been staring at the computer screen for
the last hour, and poor posture and eye strain were about to bring
on a headache.
Leaning away from my monitor, I addressed Ben across our
desks. “You ever make someone a mix CD?”
Stacks of papers were spread out in front of him as he went over
sections of an interview transcription with a tangerine-colored
highlighter. He finished a stroke and looked up. “Huh?”
“You ever make someone a mix CD? In high school or college or
whatever? You know, rip it from LimeWire, download some shady
burning software, give it to some poor girl and tell her to listen to it.”
“Please, I know how to make a mix CD. And yeah, I might have
made one or two in my time.”
I laughed. “I’m sure. Ol’ Casanova here.”
He grinned shamelessly.
“What’d you hit the poor girls with?” I asked.
He leaned back, inhaling deeply as he crossed his fingers behind
his head. “Some Bush, Tonic—”
“Lemon Parade, classic. Tell me you included Toadies.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, exasperated. “Yes, I included
Toadies.”
 “That rape-y song?”
“Obviously.”
“You really are a romantic.”
“A romantic who wanted to get laid so badly.”
I held up a hand. “Wait, were you not already Catholic then?”
“Oh, I was. But it’s fine for the menfolk to have sex before
marriage.” He grinned at my knee-jerk exasperation. “Why are you
asking? You want me to make you a mix CD, Capone? You can say it
if you do. No need to be coy. Hmm… what would I put on it?” He
tapped the end of a pen on his desk. “Maybe start with some Bush.
But are you more of a ‘Machinehead’ girl or a ‘Glycerine’ girl?”
“You’re assuming I like Bush to begin with.”
I did. And I was more of a “Machinehead” girl, but he didn’t need
to know that.
“Maybe a little Fiona Apple on there, too?” he added. “You strike
me as a Fiona Apple type.”
I leaned back in my chair, pressing my palms into my dry eyes
and yawning. “I suppose there are worse ways to call me an angry
feminist.” I reached for my coffee, found the mug empty, frowned.
“But here’s why I even bring it up: have you seen a mix CD in the
wild anytime in the last ten years?”
His eyes jumped toward the ceiling as he thought. “Let’s see, two
thousand and eight? Maybe. But not in the last five. IPods did away
with them.”
“Exactly. That’s why I’m hung up on the one at the Skutnik
murder.” On my monitor, I’d arranged the crime scene photos to
view multiple angles of the body at once. The CD reflected the
camera flash in each one. “Forensics needs to hurry up processing
that evidence, and they’d better not ruin it with chemicals. I need to
hear what songs are on there.”
“You think the songs on it might tell you something?”
“Eh, maybe. You never know, right? I just hope it doesn’t include
any Creed. Then I’ll wish they’d scrubbed the damn thing.”
“Nothing’s come back from the labs?” he asked.
“Initial blood spatter reports. Stabbed twice in the hallway—twice
in the back, once in the side—crawled to the kitchen, was stabbed
twenty-two more times there. RIP Clive. Dragged into the living
room after that, no sign of a struggle during that process. The only
interesting thing from this report is that Skutnik went to the kitchen
rather than trying to run and lock himself in his bedroom or yell for
help on the balcony. He probably could’ve jumped from there with
little more than a broken ankle. There’s grass below it. But he didn’t
do any of those things. Instead, he went for the kitchen. Why do
you think that is?”
Ben rubbed a palm over the stubble on his jaw. “Maybe he was
hungry. Or maybe he wanted something sharp to defend himself
with.”
“Right. And what does that tell us about his attacker? He didn’t
think he could escape or hide from them long enough for help to
come? Some bit of information he knew about this person told him
he had to kill them, that it was them or him at that point? Fight, not
flight?”
“Could simply be a personality thing. May not have anything to
do with who his attacker was.”
“True. But it sure feels like there was a history there. All signs
point to him letting the person inside and turning his back to them.
That shows a certain level of trust. But going for a weapon in the
kitchen, it says to me that he recognized this person was actually his
enemy.”
“Getting stabbed in the back will enlighten a person to that,
yeah.”
I sighed. “Maybe you’re right. I’m probably overthinking this.”
Ben was gracious enough to change the subject. “You got any
big weekend plans, or are you working straight through it?”
The weekend meant something different to law enforcement.
While it sometimes coincided with Saturday and Sunday, it didn’t
always. Our rotating schedules, plus coming in on our days off when
shit hit the fan, meant that “the weekend” was whenever we got
two consecutive days off. And if you had no life outside of work and
porous boundaries anyway, that could mean you only got a weekend
every few weeks.
 I had a reason to take my weekend this time around, though.
“No work for me. Thinking of doing an outdoors trip with Sadie.”
Ben jerked his head back. “Really? You’re actually taking a
vacation? And only two days after you get back?”
“Yes. Is that so weird? I miss my dog when I’m here.”
I reached for my phone on instinct. Only an hour before, I’d
gotten a notification on it that there was motion outside my front
door. I’d installed a peephole camera in my apartment’s front door,
an obvious necessity for my place as of late, but what I hadn’t
anticipated prior to installing it was how many notifications it’d send
me. My second-story apartment opened up onto a long, connected
landing that ran the length of the building and overlooked a sun-
dried courtyard. And because my door was right next to the stairs,
people walked past all the time, at all hours of the day and night.
For the first few weeks of having the new tech, I’d checked each
notification diligently, pulling up the live view of the camera to see
who was there and watching the logged events if I missed them. A
whole lot of nothing, just neighbors and their various guests coming
up the stairs, turning, and heading away. Sometimes I’d catch
snippets of conversations, and while those were interesting to
speculate on, they weren’t the purpose of the camera.
Eventually, I’d started swiping the notifications away. But in the
case of the notification I’d received an hour before, I had a good
guess of what the motion was, based on the time of day, and clicked
through to the live stream. My neighbor Ariadna, who essentially had
shared custody of Sadie at this point, grabbed the dog from my
apartment and took her for a little jaunt in the courtyard. I’d
watched the whole thing, every wagging second of it. I was already
a sucker for that pit bull before my admin leave. After spending
every waking moment together for weeks, it physically hurt me to
leave her. But it was nice to know someone else was keeping her
company.
Ben remained slightly wide-eyed as my plans settled in on him.
“A weekend trip. Sounds fun.”
“We’ll see. What about you? Got plans?”
 “I have Audrey for the next two days, so I’ll only be picking her
up from school and driving her to soccer practice. It’s her last year
of rec league, and it looks like she’ll be trying out for select or travel
or whatever they’re calling it now. It was ‘select’ when I played.”
“Of course you played soccer.” I rolled my eyes.
“Why, because I’m Latino?”
“Sure, that. But also, you’re such a team player.”
“Unlike some people, yeah. And what sport did you do in high
school?”
I sighed. “Does moping around count? Partying? I got into cross-
country for a while but never joined the team or anything. If I’d
wanted to be around people, I would’ve picked a team sport.
Surprise, surprise, I didn’t have a lot of friends in high school, and I
preferred it that way.”
Instead of poking at that, Ben nodded sympathetically. He knew
why I hadn’t wanted to hang around people my age back then.
The start of my freshman year at Pflugerville High School had
been promising. I was fully traumatized from a shit-circus of a
summer, but the kids there didn’t know about it. And then, after
three blissful months, one of them learned about it. And then all of
them learned about it. Even the weasel kid whose father was a
registered sex offender had the upper hand on me. His father had
only molested three of the boy’s sisters for years, while my father
had butchered at least thirty-eight women. Even I had to admit that
was decidedly worse.
“Hey,” Ben said, “at least you eventually found a job where
everyone loves you and nobody gives you shit, right?”
I forced a grin. “True.” I glanced back at my monitor to the
various angles of Clive Skutnik’s bloody corpse. “I can practically feel
the childhood trauma melting away.”
 FIVE

Wednesday, September 5th, 2018

I didn’t bother putting Sadie’s leash on her as we unloaded from my

car. We were far enough from anything resembling traffic that I
wasn’t worried about her sniffing around a little bit in the brush. She
immediately found the closest rock and stuffed her pittie nose
underneath before turning, hiking up her back leg, and marking the
spot. Good for you, I thought. Own that rock, you alpha bitch.
What I hadn’t told Ben about my weekend retreat into the wild
was all the important facts about it, like where and why. Sure, Sadie
would benefit from the exercise and rolling around in god-knew-
what, but that wasn’t my primary aim.
The flagstone office for check-in was only twenty yards away
from the small gravel lot where we’d parked, and I whistled for Sadie
to follow as I made my way over. Beyond the main office was a
cluster of a dozen small cabins, each with a hillside view of Lake
Worth. One of those cabins would be ours for the next two nights.
The clerk handfed treats to Sadie as I dug out my credit card and
let the A/C cool the sweat on my back accumulated from the walk
over. Wondering vaguely what it would be like to live in a place
where September meant cool weather, I finished up with the clerk
and went to find our cabin.
I didn’t expect to spend much time inside. If it got too hot, Sadie
and I might have ourselves an afternoon nap there. The idea
sounded lovely, but who knew if it was a possibility or if my
turbulent attempts at falling asleep and staying asleep without any
nightmares would only be further aggravated by where I was. Back
home.
I’d once vowed never to return to Tarrant County, let alone
anything within twenty minutes of my hometown of White
Settlement. I thought I could cut the region out of my life like a
tumor and be done with it.
But there I was, a prodigal daughter returning.
If I was built differently, I might’ve been able to stay away. But I
couldn’t. Not me. Not when I knew this was the only way to make
things right, that the person who should be trying never would, and
I was the next best option.
I pushed open the door to my cabin, and Sadie ran in ahead of
me to inspect every nook and cranny she could. Enough sunlight
streamed in through the picture window facing the lake that I didn’t
even think to flick on a light. The space was actually quite peaceful.
In all my imaginings of the weekend, my mind hadn’t spared a
thought for that reality. Peacefulness. What a strange concept.
There wasn’t much to the place, just a bed with a fluffy white
comforter, a nightstand with a lamp and clock, a small desk with a
single chair, and a long window seat overlooking the view. In a
strange flash that could have been a temporary blood clot in my
brain, I imagined myself snuggling into the bed, downloading a book
on my phone, and reading until I drifted off—you know, like a
vacation. Sadie must’ve been thinking in the same vein, as she
jumped onto the long cushion of the window seat, lay down, and
pressed her wet nose to the glass.
“Bet you’ll spot some new critters out there,” I said, scratching
her behind her little ears.
Through the window, the ground sloped drastically, and a break
in the trees provided a clear shot down to the water. Sunlight
danced over the surface, and a deep ache awoke inside me.
If only I were someone else. If only I could stay in this cabin
without thinking of the mysterious shack Dylan Fowler had been held
in for two weeks. If only I could look out over the lake and not
dredge up the waterlogged body of Stephanie Lee or the still-
unidentified Black woman from that case. If only I could let my
imagination sink into the woods without wondering how many of
Raymond Dwyer’s victims might still be buried in shallow graves
beneath the canopy.
I left Sadie in her new favorite spot and finished unloading the
car.
Once I was back inside, the first thing I went for was my
notebook, specifically the running list inside it. I set up my
temporary workstation on the small wooden desk, cracked open a
can of beer from my cooler, and set to work.
In my recent time off, I’d found the names of nine Black and
brown women who’d gone missing in the area in the years prior to
Raymond’s first confirmed white victim. My running theory, ugly as it
was to look at, was that if he’d been practicing his “techniques” on
anyone, it would be the victims society would overlook in the Fort
Worth area in the late eighties. The city was different back then. It
was rougher, and the murder rate was one of the highest in the
nation. The victims, as one might expect, almost always looked like
Diana Miller.
Diana’s was the first name on my list. She went missing on March
eighteenth, 1985, three days before Raymond celebrated my third
birthday with the family. It seemed impossible that a normal man
would murder a woman and then help his youngest blow out her
candles, but obviously, Raymond wasn’t a normal man. There was
nothing he wasn’t capable of except genuine empathy. No act was
too heinous for him to commit. Nothing was sacred. Not even his
daughter.
While he pretended to protect me, had even told me he’d never
hurt me, I wasn’t fool enough to buy that. Maybe he believed his
own bullshit, though. Maybe he wanted to believe that he held
something sacred. Or maybe this was all another one of his games.
After all, if a man wanted to protect his daughter, unleashing so
much evil upon the world was a funny way of going about it. Parents
were supposed to make the world a better place for their children,
not a mess to clean up.
 Diana Miller was nineteen, living with her mother in Arlington
Heights. She worked at McDonald’s when she wasn’t helping out at
her church. Mother was a Caribbean immigrant on disability, so
Diana was doing her best to help feed her three younger siblings.
She walked to her job every day until March eighteenth, 1985, when
she left the Miller home and never arrived at work.
That was all I could find of her, and it’d taken some serious
digging to find even that. “Arlington Heights Woman Missing” was
the headline, and I was, frankly, surprised that the Fort Worth Star-
Telegram thought something like that was newsworthy at the time.
There’d never been a follow-up, though. No one had ever discovered
where Diana Miller disappeared to.
Which meant she made my list.
As did Regina Robledo, Marguerite Johnson, Rose Smith, Trinity
Gonzales, Halona Bell, Shonda Hughes, Aurelia Chinchurreta, and
Michelle Erikson—each woman a variation on the same theme.
I rolled out the map of the area. Red dots marked the last place
each woman was known to have been prior to disappearing. Above
each were the woman’s initials, and below, the date. I’d made
neither heads nor tails of it yet, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t hoping
for it all to click into place eventually.
What was happening in Raymond’s life on each of those dates?
Was there a specific trigger for him? My hunt would’ve been so
much easier if only I could get a single straight answer out of that
asshole before the Texas Department of Criminal Justice finally put
him down.
Dead or alive, though, Raymond was useless to me. I couldn’t
trust a word he said. All a conversation with him would get me was
more vivid nightmares and increased uncertainty. I knew that from
experience. He didn’t lie—that implied he gave a damn what the
truth was—instead, he bullshitted. Sure, some of what he said was
true, just like if you throw enough darts at a dartboard, one will
inevitably hit the bull’s-eye. But a person like Raymond only ever
aimed for the bull’s-eye because he knew it would keep you
watching for all the other blind throws.
 A single verified truth from him was enough to keep most people
hooked, but not me. I was done with him and his games. They were
all he had, and he bent the rules so he could never lose. I was sure
that was why he was still on death row—the real one—over twenty
years after his arrest. He played games better than anyone I’d ever
met. The only way to beat him was to refuse to play. Unfortunately,
nobody loves games more than Texas politicians, and I was sure he
was using them as mindless pawns while telling them they were the
king.
My eyes blurred on the cluster of red dots around Fort Worth,
and I blinked and realized a half-hour had passed while I lost myself
in theories and memories.
Standing, I grabbed Sadie’s leash. “Come on, girl. Let’s get on
with this.”
I entered the coordinates into my phone, and off we went,
leaving the air-conditioned cabin behind.
My destination would be about twenty yards off one of the trails,
and we landed on it only ten minutes later. That figured; who would
want to carry a body much farther than that?
I double-checked my phone to make sure we’d arrived precisely
at the place where two of Raymond’s later victims (those who hadn’t
fit in the mass grave under our backyard art studio) had been dug
up.
My hypothesis was simple: Raymond had killed many times
before he began stashing the bodies in our backyard. Years later,
when he’d exceeded the space under the floorboards, he would
need another safe place to dispose of the evidence. These were all
facts I knew with some degree of certainty. The FBI knew them, too,
though they’d never acted on the suspicion that there were more
women than what were found in the studio and out in these woods,
at least as far as I knew.
But I was taking this the necessary step further. A clue to where
he might’ve disposed of his first victims was buried where the last
nine were found.
Because, after years of killing, no one had ever found the early
victims, the ones not given white patriarchal protection and the
justice that came with it, whose skin was too dark to secure that
basic dignity.
If I were Raymond, where would I hide bodies after the studio
filled up? I’d hide them where I’d hidden them years earlier, where
no one had found them yet.
Somewhere in these woods were his other victims, the ones who
were never named, whose families had never gotten their day in
court. It felt like a natural conclusion, and my gut told me I was
right, even though it simultaneously seemed like a long shot.
I scanned the mulch around my feet. Just over twenty years ago,
the dig in this location had been substantial, but you wouldn’t know
it now. The bodies of two white women had been found in this spot,
still fairly fresh (Catherine Emerson and Nadia Bullock). The others
had been scattered around, but not far off.
What had been the finish line for the FBI’s search? What criteria
had to be met before they called it off and said, “We may not have
them all, but we have enough”? They weren’t working off
information from Raymond, since he’d never confessed to the
murders. Not to anyone in the justice system, at least. Who knew
what he’d told his friends over in the Polunsky Unit?
If the FBI had found the body of Trinity Gonzales or Shonda
Hughes, or any of the other women on my list out in these woods,
would they have added it to the Dwyer body count or simply
offloaded it to the park patrol?
“Sadie?” I looked around but couldn’t see her. “Sadie!”
Her head appeared from behind an overturned tree, tongue
lolling excitedly out of her mouth, little ears pointing skyward. I
steadied my breath to keep the adrenaline spike at bay.
By the time I returned my attention to the ground, my optimism,
if you could even call it that, was waning rapidly, like I’d sprung a
leak.
What did I think I’d be able to find out here that the FBI and
local sheriffs hadn’t when they swept the place? The FBI was often
kneecapped by the egos within it, but with something as high-profile
as Raymond’s case, they’d want to make sure they got all of the
relevant evidence. Or what they considered to be relevant. They’d
be thorough in their own way, at least. If they’d found victims who
didn’t meet their set profile, they might have dismissed them, but
they probably found any body that was out there, right? They had
manpower like nothing else, resources they could call in from around
the country, and connections that could get them whatever
information they needed. The only tool I had that they didn’t was
my knowledge of Raymond, and even that was shaky.
You might have a memory.
In the solitude of the forest, it was impossible to keep that little
voice silent. Maybe that was why I’d come out here in the first place.
Miles away from any city center, hours from where I lived, it was
safe to let those fears breathe. Alone in the wilderness, no one can
hear you self-incriminate.
Did I remember this place? I’d never visited the scene with the
FBI or anyone else, but had I been here with Raymond? Had I
helped him?
That fear had lived inside me even before Scott Ruiz gave voice
to it at Sheep’s Clothing. But during my time on leave, the seed had
sprouted roots.
I racked my brain for some memory of the location. A thick,
imposing oak that long predated me jutted at an angle from the
ground. It was the kind of thing that might stick in one’s memory,
but no bells rang. I kept trying, but everything continued to remain
unfamiliar.
Either I’d never been to this place before, or my memories from
those years were truly lost.
Reality crashed down on me like a tidal wave. This was stupid.
Pointless. Foolish. It was time to get the hell back to the cabin. I was
a goddamn homicide detective, and I was out here trying this
bullshit? Fuck’s sake. I might as well hire a psychic.
I mean, come on. I knew how to conduct an investigation, and it
was time I started acting like it.
Mountains of information on this area of the state already
existed, so I needed to go to the source.
I let Sadie take her time sniffing on the way back, then I settled
her into the cabin, locked up behind me, and made my way to the
Tarrant County Sheriff’s Office.

I flashed my ID at the clerk, who looked up from her phone with a

bored expression. “Dana Capone. I work Homicide for the Austin
Police Department.”
“Okay. And how can I help you?” She said it like a warning, as if
the only acceptable answer was I don’t need anything from you;
carry on.
“I’m looking to speak with one of the Cold Case detectives. Are
any of them in?”
“Doubt it. I’ll pass on your request.” She returned to her phone.
Can you do that right now? I wanted to say. But instead, I bit my
tongue and forced a pleasant smile. “Thanks. Could you tell me the
names of the detectives in Cold Cases? Is there a roster you have
access to or—”
“No.”
“No? There’s no roster?”
“I can’t give out departmental information.”
“I’m not asking for their home addresses. I just want to know
their names, maybe their emails, so that I can reach out to them
directly.” And not involve you in the process for a minute longer than
I have to.
“’Fraid I can’t give out that information.”
I looked around the entrance to the station, hoping someone
more useful might pop up. “But you’ll pass along the information
that I came by asking to speak with a Cold Case detective, and
then… they’ll call me? And I’ll drive three and a half hours back up
here?”
“If you want.”
“Fine. Great. Thank you.” I slid her my card through the slot at
the bottom of the Plexiglas, half expecting her to throw it straight
into the trash. Instead, she did the next worst thing and didn’t even
touch it, simply left it sitting there.
 “Anything else I can help you with?”
“No,” I said, “you’ve truly gone above and beyond.” I turned for
the door, adding, “You couldn’t have been more helpful.”
I stepped out into the heat again. The crash was coming. That
same old disappointment would settle in again. I’ll never find them.
This is pointless. Does it even matter?
And that was the problem with hoping. I might want to clean up
the mess Raymond made, but what I needed for that to happen was
almost guaranteed to be dead, buried, and decomposed. I was
chasing after ghosts.
 SIX

Friday, September 7th, 2018

Gloria Mansfield sprinkled diced sweet onions over the sizzling butter
and garlic in the pan, then inhaled deeply. The scent blended
divinely with the chicken parmesan already baking away in the oven.
This was her grandmother’s recipe, and every time she created it,
she felt like she was back in the old hovel that woman had called
home. The only happy memory from those times was the cooking. It
had been Gloria’s only escape from that shit-heap life, the only
indulgence she had.
Through her home stereo system, a gentle voice informed
listeners that the piece they had just heard was Beethoven’s
Moonlight Sonata and that up next was the Nocturne in E flat major
by Frédéric Chopin.
Gloria sipped her Malbec and gave the onions and garlic one last
stir before turning down the heat and leaving them to brown. The
fresh tomatoes would come next, but not for another ten minutes or
so.
She slid onto a leather stool at her long kitchen island, reaching
forward in one smooth movement to grab a cracker and scoop off a
bit of the brie she’d laid out for pre-dinner snacking.
This was it. The life she’d dreamed about. A beautiful home,
more money than she had time to spend, the most delectable foods
at her fingertips, and no one to bother her about any of it. Growing
up, the cacophony of her six siblings had been plenty for her, and
when she’d vowed to do whatever it took to have the life she
wanted down the road, she meant it.
And she’d done it.
The fact that her brothers and sisters were still squabbling over
petty inheritances only showed that they hadn’t wanted to create
something for themselves badly enough. They’d numbed their
misery in babies and debt and government jobs instead of facing it
head-on and making the brave, necessary changes like Gloria had.
They thought she had an easy life—they’d each told her as much at
different times—but they were only looking at the life she had now.
And yes, sitting in her kitchen, bathing in classical music while she
cooked at her leisure and snacked on expensive cheeses was
incredibly easy. But she was only there because she’d been willing to
do the hard work first. She’d worked full-time to pay for college.
She’d put up with the shitty internships where the pay was too low
to live on, and the men in charge considered their slimy advances
part of the benefits package. She’d felt the maternal pangs, sure,
but she’d fought them. And when what she thought was love had
come along… Well, then she’d indulged, but only until it was clear
that further commitment to him meant less commitment to that vow
she made to herself as a child.
Gloria grabbed her iPad off the island and cued up the recording
her assistant had sent over from that afternoon.
There she was, the Gloria Mansfield, right where she belonged:
on stage.
She frowned. While this camera angle did include a nice shot of
her in her nude heels, slimming A-line skirt, and that light blue
blouse that brought out the shape of her expensive breasts, as well
as the color of her eyes, what the camera failed to capture from that
location was the crowd. Over a thousand people had turned out to
Holy Oaks Church to hear her speak. They were starving for
inspiration. If she could work her way from meager beginnings to
what she was today—a multimillionaire with book and speaking
deals out the wazoo—then anyone could. She was nothing special,
she’d tell the masses. She merely believed.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 The Project Gutenberg eBook of Œuvres
complètes de Guy de Maupassant - volume 20
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
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are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: Œuvres complètes de

Guy de
Maupassant -
volume 20

Author: Guy de
Maupassant

Release date: May 9, 2022

[eBook #68036]

Language: French

Original publication:
France: Louis
Conard, 1908

Credits: Claudine
Corbasson and
the Online
Distributed
Proofreading
Team at
https://www.pgdp.net
(This file was
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ŒUVRES

COMPLÈTES DE GUY DE MAUPASSANT - VOLUME 20 ***
Au lecteur
Table des matières

ŒUVRES COMPLÈTES
DE
GUY DE MAUPASSANT

LA PRÉSENTE ÉDITION
DES
ŒUVRES COMPLÈTES DE GUY DE
MAUPASSANT
A ÉTÉ TIRÉE
PAR L’IMPRIMERIE NATIONALE
EN VERTU D’UNE AUTORISATION
DE M. LE GARDE DES SCEAUX
EN DATE DU 30 JANVIER 1902.

IL A ÉTÉ TIRÉ À PART

100 EXEMPLAIRES SUR PAPIER DE LUXE
SAVOIR:

60 exemplaires (1 à 60) sur japon ancien.

20 exemplaires (61 à 80) sur japon impérial.
20 exemplaires (81 à 100) sur chine.

Le texte de ce volume
est conforme à celui de l’édition originale:
Le Rosier de Madame Husson.
Paris, Quantin, 1888,
avec addition de:
Souvenirs—Celles qui osent—L’Anglais d’Étretat
(inédits).
 ŒUVRES COMPLÈTES
DE

G U Y D E M A U PA S S A N T

LE ROSIER
DE

MADAME HUSSON

SO UV EN IR S—CEL L ES Q UI O SENT
L’AN G L AIS D’ÉT RETAT

PARIS
LOUIS CONARD, LIBRAIRE-ÉDITEUR
17, BOULEVARD DE LA MADELEINE, 17

MDCCCCIX
Tous droits réservés.
 LE ROSIER
DE

MADAME HUSSON.

N
OUS venions de passer Gisors, où je m’étais réveillé en
entendant le nom de la ville crié par les employés, et j’allais
m’assoupir de nouveau, quand une secousse épouvantable
me jeta sur la grosse dame qui me faisait vis-à-vis.
Une roue s’était brisée à la machine qui gisait en travers de la
voie. Le tender et le wagon de bagages, déraillés aussi, s’étaient
couchés à côté de cette mourante qui râlait, geignait, sifflait,
soufflait, crachait, ressemblait à ces chevaux tombés dans la rue,
dont le flanc bat, dont la poitrine palpite, dont les naseaux fument et
dont tout le corps frissonne, mais qui ne paraissent plus capables du
moindre effort pour se relever et se remettre à marcher.
Il n’y avait ni morts ni blessés, quelques contusionnés seulement,
car le train n’avait pas encore repris son élan, et nous regardions,
désolés, la grosse bête de fer estropiée, qui ne pourrait plus nous
traîner et qui barrait la route pour longtemps peut-être, car il faudrait
sans doute faire venir de Paris un train de secours.
Il était alors dix heures du matin, et je me décidai tout de suite à
regagner Gisors pour y déjeuner.
Tout en marchant sur la voie, je me disais: «Gisors, Gisors, mais
je connais quelqu’un ici. Qui donc? Gisors? Voyons, j’ai un ami dans
cette ville.» Un nom soudain jaillit dans mon souvenir: «Albert
Marambot.» C’était un ancien camarade de collège, que je n’avais
pas vu depuis douze ans au moins, et qui exerçait à Gisors la
profession de médecin. Souvent il m’avait écrit pour m’inviter; j’avais
toujours promis, sans tenir. Cette fois enfin je profiterais de
l’occasion.
Je demandai au premier passant: «Savez-vous où demeure M. le
docteur Marambot?» Il répondit sans hésiter, avec l’accent traînard
des Normands: «Rue Dauphine.» J’aperçus en effet, sur la porte de
la maison indiquée, une grande plaque de cuivre où était gravé le
nom de mon ancien camarade. Je sonnai; mais la servante, une fille
à cheveux jaunes, aux gestes lents, répétait d’un air stupide: «I y est
paas, i y est paas.»
J’entendais un bruit de fourchettes et de verres, et je criai: «Hé!
Marambot.» Une porte s’ouvrit, et un gros homme à favoris parut,
l’air mécontent, une serviette à la main.
Certes, je ne l’aurais pas reconnu. On lui aurait donné quarante-
cinq ans au moins, et, en une seconde, toute la vie de province
m’apparut, qui alourdit, épaissit et vieillit. Dans un seul élan de ma
pensée, plus rapide que mon geste pour lui tendre la main, je
connus son existence, sa manière d’être, son genre d’esprit et ses
théories sur le monde. Je devinai les longs repas qui avaient arrondi
son ventre, les somnolences après dîner, dans la torpeur d’une
lourde digestion arrosée de cognac, et les vagues regards jetés sur
les malades avec la pensée de la poule rôtie qui tourne devant le
feu. Ses conversations sur la cuisine, sur le cidre, l’eau-de-vie et le
vin, sur la manière de cuire certains plats et de bien lier certaines
sauces me furent révélées, rien qu’en apercevant l’empâtement
rouge de ses joues, la lourdeur de ses lèvres, l’éclat morne de ses
yeux.
Je lui dis: «Tu ne me reconnais pas. Je suis Raoul Aubertin.»
Il ouvrit les bras et faillit m’étouffer, et sa première phrase fut
celle-ci:
—Tu n’as pas déjeuné, au moins?
—Non.
 —Quelle chance! je me mets à table et j’ai une excellente truite.
Cinq minutes plus tard je déjeunais en face de lui.
Je lui demandai:
—Tu es resté garçon?
—Parbleu!
—Et tu t’amuses ici?
—Je ne m’ennuie pas, je m’occupe. J’ai des malades, des amis.
Je mange bien, je me porte bien, j’aime à rire et chasser. Ça va.
—La vie n’est pas trop monotone dans cette petite ville?
—Non, mon cher, quand on sait s’occuper. Une petite ville, en
somme, c’est comme une grande. Les événements et les plaisirs y
sont moins variés, mais on leur prête plus d’importance; les relations
y sont moins nombreuses, mais on se rencontre plus souvent.
Quand on connaît toutes les fenêtres d’une rue, chacune d’elles
vous occupe et vous intrigue davantage qu’une rue entière à Paris.
C’est très amusant, une petite ville, tu sais, très amusant, très
amusant. Tiens, celle-ci, Gisors, je la connais sur le bout du doigt
depuis son origine jusqu’à aujourd’hui. Tu n’as pas idée comme son
histoire est drôle.
—Tu es de Gisors.
—Moi? Non. Je suis de Gournay, sa voisine et sa rivale. Gournay
est à Gisors ce que Lucullus était à Cicéron. Ici, tout est pour la
gloire, on dit: «les orgueilleux de Gisors». A Gournay, tout est pour le
ventre, on dit: «les mâqueux de Gournay». Gisors méprise Gournay,
mais Gournay rit de Gisors. C’est très comique, ce pays-ci.
Je m’aperçus que je mangeais quelque chose de vraiment
exquis, des œufs mollets enveloppés dans un fourreau de gelée de
viande aromatisée aux herbes et légèrement saisie dans la glace.
Je dis en claquant la langue pour flatter Marambot: «Bon, ceci.»
 Il sourit: «Deux choses nécessaires, de la bonne gelée, difficile à
obtenir, et de bons œufs. Oh! les bons œufs, que c’est rare, avec le
jaune un peu rouge, bien savoureux! Moi, j’ai deux basses-cours,
une pour l’œuf, l’autre pour la volaille. Je nourris mes pondeuses
d’une manière spéciale. J’ai mes idées. Dans l’œuf comme dans la
chair du poulet, du bœuf ou du mouton, dans le lait, dans tout, on
retrouve et on doit goûter le suc, la quintessence des nourritures
antérieures de la bête. Comme on pourrait mieux manger si on
s’occupait davantage de cela!
Je riais.
—Tu es donc gourmand?
—Parbleu! Il n’y a que les imbéciles qui ne soient pas
gourmands. On est gourmand comme on est artiste, comme on est
instruit, comme on est poète. Le goût, mon cher, c’est un organe
délicat, perfectible et respectable comme l’œil et l’oreille. Manquer
de goût, c’est être privé d’une faculté exquise, de la faculté de
discerner la qualité des aliments, comme on peut être privé de celle
de discerner les qualités d’un livre ou d’une œuvre d’art; c’est être
privé d’un sens essentiel, d’une partie de la supériorité humaine;
c’est appartenir à une des innombrables classes d’infirmes, de
disgraciés et de sots dont se compose notre race; c’est avoir la
bouche bête, en un mot, comme on a l’esprit bête. Un homme qui ne
distingue pas une langouste d’un homard, un hareng, cet admirable
poisson qui porte en lui toutes les saveurs, tous les aromes de la
mer, d’un maquereau ou d’un merlan, et une poire crassane d’une
duchesse, est comparable à celui qui confondrait Balzac avec
Eugène Sue, une symphonie de Beethoven avec une marche
militaire d’un chef de musique de régiment, et l’Apollon du Belvédère
avec la statue du général de Blanmont!
—Qu’est-ce donc que le général de Blanmont?
—Ah! c’est vrai, tu ne sais pas. On voit bien que tu n’es point de
Gisors? Mon cher, je t’ai dit tout à l’heure qu’on appelait les habitants
de cette ville les «orgueilleux de Gisors» et jamais épithète ne fut
mieux méritée. Mais déjeunons d’abord, et je te parlerai de notre
ville en te la faisant visiter.
Il cessait de parler de temps en temps pour boire lentement un
demi-verre de vin qu’il regardait avec tendresse en le reposant sur la
table.
Une serviette nouée au col, les pommettes rouges, l’œil excité,
les favoris épanouis autour de sa bouche en travail, il était amusant
à voir.
Il me fit manger jusqu’à la suffocation. Puis, comme je voulais
regagner la gare, il me saisit le bras et m’entraîna par les rues. La
ville, d’un joli caractère provincial, dominée par sa forteresse, le plus
curieux monument de l’architecture militaire du XIIe siècle qui soit en
France, domine à son tour une longue et verte vallée où les lourdes
vaches de Normandie broutent et ruminent dans les pâturages.
Le docteur me dit:—Gisors, ville de 4,000 habitants, aux confins
de l’Eure, mentionnée déjà dans les Commentaires de Jules César:
Cæsaris ostium, puis Cæsartium, Cæsortium, Gisortium, Gisors. Je
ne te mènerai pas visiter le campement de l’armée romaine dont les
traces sont encore très visibles.
Je riais et je répondis:—Mon cher, il me semble que tu es atteint
d’une maladie spéciale que tu devrais étudier, toi médecin, et qu’on
appelle l’esprit de clocher.
Il s’arrêta net:—L’esprit de clocher, mon ami, n’est pas autre
chose que le patriotisme naturel. J’aime ma maison, ma ville et ma
province par extension, parce que j’y trouve encore les habitudes de
mon village; mais si j’aime la frontière, si je la défends, si je me
fâche quand le voisin y met le pied, c’est parce que je me sens déjà
menacé dans ma maison, parce que la frontière que je ne connais
pas est le chemin de ma province. Ainsi moi, je suis Normand, un
vrai Normand; eh bien, malgré ma rancune contre l’Allemand et mon
désir de vengeance, je ne le déteste pas, je ne le hais pas d’instinct
comme je hais l’Anglais, l’ennemi véritable, l’ennemi héréditaire,
l’ennemi naturel du Normand, parce que l’Anglais a passé sur ce sol
habité par mes aïeux, l’a pillé et ravagé vingt fois, et que l’aversion
de ce peuple perfide m’a été transmise avec la vie, par mon père...
Tiens, voici la statue du général.
—Quel général?
—Le général de Blanmont! Il nous fallait une statue. Nous ne
sommes pas pour rien les orgueilleux de Gisors! Alors nous avons
découvert le général de Blanmont. Regarde donc la vitrine de ce
libraire.
Il m’entraîna vers la devanture d’un libraire où une quinzaine de
volumes jaunes, rouges ou bleus attiraient l’œil.
En lisant les titres, un rire fou me saisit; c’étaient: Gisors, ses
origines, son avenir, par M. X..., membre de plusieurs sociétés
savantes;
Histoire de Gisors, par l’abbé A...;
Gisors, de César à nos jours, par M. B..., propriétaire;
Gisors et ses environs, par le docteur C. D...;
Les gloires de Gisors, par un chercheur.
—Mon cher, reprit Marambot, il ne se passe pas une année, pas
une année, tu entends bien, sans que paraisse ici une nouvelle
histoire de Gisors; nous en avons vingt-trois.
—Et les gloires de Gisors? demandai-je.
—Oh! je ne te les dirai pas toutes, je te parlerai seulement des
principales. Nous avons eu d’abord le général de Blanmont, puis le
baron Davillier, le célèbre céramiste qui fut l’explorateur de
l’Espagne et des Baléares et révéla aux collectionneurs les
admirables faïences hispano-arabes. Dans les lettres, un journaliste
de grand mérite, mort aujourd’hui, Charles Brainne, et parmi les bien
vivants le très éminent directeur du Nouvelliste de Rouen, Charles
Lapierre... et encore beaucoup d’autres, beaucoup d’autres...
 Nous suivions une longue rue, légèrement en pente, chauffée
d’un bout à l’autre par le soleil de juin, qui avait fait rentrer chez eux
les habitants.
Tout à coup, à l’autre bout de cette voie, un homme apparut, un
ivrogne qui titubait.
Il arrivait, la tête en avant, les bras ballants, les jambes molles,
par périodes de trois, six ou dix pas rapides, que suivait toujours un
repos. Quand son élan énergique et court l’avait porté au milieu de
la rue, il s’arrêtait net et se balançait sur ses pieds, hésitant entre la
chute et une nouvelle crise d’énergie. Puis il repartait brusquement
dans une direction quelconque. Il venait alors heurter une maison
sur laquelle il semblait se coller, comme s’il voulait entrer dedans, à
travers le mur. Puis il se retournait d’une secousse et regardait
devant lui, la bouche ouverte, les yeux clignotants sous le soleil, puis
d’un coup de reins, détachant son dos de la muraille, il se remettait
en route.
Un petit chien jaune, un roquet famélique, le suivait en aboyant,
s’arrêtant quand il s’arrêtait, repartant quand il repartait.
—Tiens, dit Marambot, voilà le rosier de Mme Husson.

Je fus très surpris et je demandai: «Le rosier de Mme Husson,

qu’est-ce que tu veux dire par là?»
Le médecin se mit à rire.
—Oh! c’est une manière d’appeler les ivrognes que nous avons
ici. Cela vient d’une vieille histoire passée maintenant à l’état de
légende, bien qu’elle soit vraie en tous points.
—Est-elle drôle, ton histoire?
—Très drôle.
—Alors, raconte-la.
—Très volontiers. Il y avait autrefois dans cette ville une vieille
dame, très vertueuse et protectrice de la vertu, qui s’appelait Mme
Husson. Tu sais, je te dis les noms véritables et pas des noms de
fantaisie. Mme Husson s’occupait particulièrement des bonnes
œuvres, de secourir les pauvres et d’encourager les méritants.
Petite, trottant court, ornée d’une perruque de soie noire,
cérémonieuse, polie, en fort bons termes avec le bon Dieu
représenté par l’abbé Malou, elle avait une horreur profonde, une
horreur native du vice, et surtout du vice que l’Église appelle luxure.
Les grossesses avant mariage la mettaient hors d’elle,
l’exaspéraient jusqu’à la faire sortir de son caractère.
Or c’était l’époque où l’on couronnait des rosières aux environs
de Paris, et l’idée vint à Mme Husson d’avoir une rosière à Gisors.
Elle s’en ouvrit à l’abbé Malou, qui dressa aussitôt une liste de
candidates.
Mais Mme Husson était servie par une bonne, par une vieille
bonne nommée Françoise, aussi intraitable que sa patronne.
Dès que le prêtre fut parti, la maîtresse appela sa servante et lui
dit:
—Tiens, Françoise, voici les filles que me propose M. le curé
pour le prix de vertu; tâche de savoir ce qu’on pense d’elles dans le
pays.
Et Françoise se mit en campagne. Elle recueillit tous les potins,
toutes les histoires, tous les propos, tous les soupçons. Pour ne rien
oublier, elle écrivait cela avec la dépense, sur son livre de cuisine, et
le remettait chaque matin à Mme Husson, qui pouvait lire, après avoir
ajusté ses lunettes sur son nez mince:

Pain.................. quatre sous.

Lait.................. deux sous.
Beurre.............. huit sous.

Malvina Levesque s’a dérangé l’an dernier avec Mathurin Poilu.

 Un gigot.............. vingt-cinq
sous.
Sel....................... un sou.

Rosalie Vatinel qu’a été rencontrée dans le boi Riboudet avec Césaire
Piénoir par Mme Onésime repasseuse, le vingt juillet à la brune.

Radis...................... un sou.
Vinaigre................. deux
sous.
Sel d’oseille........... deux
sous.

Joséphine Durdent qu’on ne croit pas qu’al a fauté nonobstant qu’al

est en correspondance avec le fil Oportun qu’est en service à Rouen et
qui lui a envoyé un bonet en cado par la diligence.

Pas une ne sortit intacte de cette enquête scrupuleuse.

Françoise interrogeait tout le monde, les voisins, les fournisseurs,
l’instituteur, les sœurs de l’école et recueillait les moindres bruits.
Comme il n’est pas une fille dans l’univers sur qui les commères
n’aient jasé, il ne se trouva pas dans le pays une seule jeune
personne à l’abri d’une médisance.
Or Mme Husson voulait que la rosière de Gisors, comme la
femme de César, ne fût même pas soupçonnée, et elle demeurait
désolée, désespérée, devant le livre de cuisine de sa bonne.
On élargit alors le cercle des perquisitions jusqu’aux villages
environnants; on ne trouva rien.

Le maire fut consulté. Ses protégées échouèrent. Celles du Dr

Barbesol n’eurent pas plus de succès, malgré la précision de ses
garanties scientifiques.
Or, un matin, Françoise, qui rentrait d’une course, dit à sa
maîtresse:
—Voyez-vous, madame, si vous voulez couronner quelqu’un, n’y
a qu’Isidore dans la contrée.
 Mme Husson resta rêveuse.
Elle le connaissait bien, Isidore, le fils de Virginie la fruitière. Sa
chasteté proverbiale faisait la joie de Gisors depuis plusieurs années
déjà, servait de thème plaisant aux conversations de la ville et
d’amusement pour les filles qui s’égayaient à le taquiner. Agé de
vingt ans passés, grand, gauche, lent et craintif, il aidait sa mère
dans son commerce et passait ses jours à éplucher des fruits ou des
légumes, assis sur une chaise devant la porte.
Il avait une peur maladive des jupons qui lui faisait baisser les
yeux dès qu’une cliente le regardait en souriant, et cette timidité bien
connue le rendait le jouet de tous les espiègles du pays.
Les mots hardis, les gauloiseries, les allusions graveleuses le
faisaient rougir si vite que le Dr Barbesol l’avait surnommé le
thermomètre de la pudeur. Savait-il ou ne savait-il pas? se
demandaient les voisins, les malins. Était-ce le simple pressentiment
de mystères ignorés et honteux, ou bien l’indignation pour les vils
contacts ordonnés par l’amour qui semblait émouvoir si fort le fils de
la fruitière Virginie? Les galopins du pays, en courant devant sa
boutique, hurlaient des ordures à pleine bouche afin de le voir
baisser les yeux; les filles s’amusaient à passer et repasser devant
lui en chuchotant des polissonneries qui le faisaient rentrer dans la
maison. Les plus hardies le provoquaient ouvertement, pour rire,
pour s’amuser, lui donnaient des rendez-vous, lui proposaient un tas
de choses abominables.
Donc Mme Husson était devenue rêveuse.
Certes, Isidore était un cas de vertu exceptionnel, notoire,
inattaquable. Personne, parmi les plus sceptiques, parmi les plus
incrédules, n’aurait pu, n’aurait osé soupçonner Isidore de la plus
légère infraction à une loi quelconque de la morale. On ne l’avait
jamais vu non plus dans un café, jamais rencontré le soir dans les
rues. Il se couchait à huit heures et se levait à quatre. C’était une
perfection, une perle.