“Head on home, Cathy. You're mother told you not to say out past sundown until they catch this sicko.”
“We're neighbors, Clyde. I trust you. So does she. I'll go after I help with this firewood.” Clyde grinned.
“Are you sure I ain't what she was worried about?” He raised his ax.

Bobby read his paper in the diner.
“Another cyanide death, John. One of ours. He lived here thirty years, went to Our Lady, drank his usual cuppa Joe here, and collapsed right outside.”
“And yesterday ax murderer got the Greene girl. Crazy times, Bobby”
“Ain't they?”
“You like yours black, right?”