Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

So...
I checked the coffee table, no sign of it there.
My will. This place is making me suicidal.
I called the police, the hospitals, every temp agency in town.
...just as he was on his way out the door to his wife's funeral.
-What are you doing? -Wait a second.
-No! -No, you do.
-Well, I'm sorry anyway. -You want to tell me how it happened?
-I don't know, how long? -How many days?
It doesn't matter what I think.
Things were getting a little dull back at the ranch.
Like he took a bath once in a while.
-So, what are you saying? -I'm saying maybe he didn't kill Gail...
You frighten her.
When it didn't arrive after a few weeks, I figured it was lost. I gave it up.
...and I would never do anything to harm him. Never.
-We'll never make it to this funeral. -Mr. Addison isn't in yet.
Why do you come in every day?
An idea, an original thought. You've heard of them.
It could be anyone.
Can you blame her? Those envelopes limit the possibilities.
...you still got your apartheid, down there in South Africa.
What's the scheme, team? Fire drill?
...all the way across town to kill Gail Woodley.
It means, this is the '80s, Maddie...
Message number one, stop writing her.
Yes? Mr. Addison? Put him on.
Miss DiPesto, what is it?
Take the majority of your murder-suicides...
You'll buzz me when Mr. Addison arrives?
But I go on writing, and she goes on writing.
I stitched a K on his shirt so everybody would know he's a knucklehead.
...and giggle about the damn thing all night long.