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Celibeth Jones wore a man’s heavy denim jacket, coveralls, and a pair of scuffed brogans. Thick, gray hair straggled from beneath a tattered stocking cap. She walked briskly, resolutely, looking neither to the right nor to the left; her bushy, black eyebrows were knitted together in a permanent scowl.

“Is she angry about something?” Henon asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Otis answered.

“I was hoping to have friendly neighbors.” Henon stared unabashedly as the elderly woman passed the barbershop window. Celibeth glared back at him. “Wow! If looks could kill, I’d be dead. She’s positively intimidating.”

“You better be intimidated,” Otis said grimly. “She killed her husband.”

“Otis!” Hezekiah threw the newspaper down on the floor.

“And got away with it,” Parker chimed in.

Hezekiah slammed the door on his way out of the shop.

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