“Okay…”

“Walter Baker was a worthless piece of shit,” she spat, then gave me a knowing look. “That’s not speculation. That there is pure fact.”

I’d seen their homestead and knew what he’d supposedly done to Lula. I wasn’t about to argue with her.

“Rumor had it that he did a job for Hank, but he screwed it up somehow. Some people say Hank shot him in cold blood, then pinned the whole thing on Louise. Tried to drown Lula because she witnessed the murder.”

I couldn’t help remembering how terrified Lula had looked when I’d mentioned Hank’s name. I’d seen him shoot a man without blinking an eye, but I couldn’t imagine him drowning a child. Not the man I knew. “Do you think that’s true?”

“Shoot, no,” she said with a wave of dismissal. “Hank would never have hurt a child. If anything, Hank only hired the man to help him provide for Lula and Louise. They were poor as dirt. But I have no trouble believing Walter screwed it up.”

“What were the other rumors?”

“That Walter was doin’ a job for Bart Drummond, and things went south. That Bart had him killed.”

“Do you think that’s a possibility?”

“Why would Louise take the fall?” Thelma asked. “And killing isn’t really Bart’s style. At least not so openly. The few times dead people have been linked to him, there was a murderer who wasn’t tied to him.”

“Because he called in a favor,” I said to myself.

“What?” she asked. “You know about Bart’s favors?”

“Only a little,” I confessed.

“You sure know a lot about that town considering you’ve only been there a month.”

“I’m a fast learner. What do you know about Bart’s favors?”

“Makin’ a deal with Bart Drummond is like makin’ a deal with the devil himself,” she said. “Some people call him a crossroads demon.” Her brow shot up. “You know what that is?”

“When you go to an intersection and summon a demon for a favor? Only you have to sell your soul to get it.”

She nodded. “That’s right. Except instead of goin’ to a crossroads, you’d show up on Bart Drummond’s back doorstep.” Shaking her head, she clucked again. “Only the truly desperate seek a deal with that devil.”

“They’d take the fall for him in a murder,” I said. “Because he’d already have their souls.”

“Yep.” She pushed out a sigh. “I don’t hear about Bart’s favors all that often anymore. He doesn’t have the power that he once had. He’s an old man now, although I doubt he’ll go quietly into the night.”

“I just saw him and Emily at Walgreens before I came to see you,” I said. “They said they’ll be breaking ground soon on a new resort.”

“I heard they were doin’ something like that,” she said in a disapproving tone. “But they need to just let Drum die. It’s a town full of evil and discontent. Just let it die.”

I wasn’t sure I agreed with her attitude, but I hadn’t lived there for six or seven decades either.

Connections formed in my head, one thing linking to another. Emily had mentioned that Lula’s mother had shown up at their doorstep right before the murder. Had she asked for a favor? Had she killed her husband for Bart and claimed he was drowning Lula to justify it?

“What about Todd Bingham?” I asked. “If I do my math right, he was running his father’s business by the time Lula’s father was shot.”

“He was much too small-fry to be any part of that mess,” Thelma said.

I wasn’t so sure. Todd Bingham was ambitious and arrogant. I doubted he would have had the patience to wait long before starting a campaign to get his share of the pie. What if he’d inserted himself into it somehow? If Louise knew about it, it would explain why she’d been so adamant that Lula cut ties with him. But that was all speculation, and one thing I knew from listening to all those true crime podcasts was that you never presumed someone guilty or innocent. You only followed the facts and the clues.

Thelma had given me a wealth of information. We now had multiple avenues to search, but I needed to figure out what to tackle next. While I still wanted to check out the resort, I wasn’t sure that was the best use of my time. Bart Drummond seemed like a prime suspect, but Bingham was tied to this thing every which way I looked. Greta may not have recognized the man at the café as part of his enterprise, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t. Bingham didn’t strike me as the sort to publicize all of his connections. I couldn’t chase every lead at once, and I had to use my time wisely. Besides, I didn’t even have a photo of Lula. How was I going to ask about her at the spa?

My second week in town, out of curiosity, I’d tried to look her up on Facebook, but like most people in Drum, she didn’t have a Facebook account. Or IG. Or Twitter. With no internet to update their status, what was the point? It occurred to me that the lack of social media breadcrumbs tossed around in Tweets and Insta posts probably made things harder for local law enforcement.

“Thank you, Miss Thelma,” I said, getting to my feet. “This has been so helpful.”

“Something’s happened to my Greta, hasn’t it?” she asked, but her voice was strong. “Ginger didn’t say why you wanted to talk to me.”

I took a breath. “Yes, ma’am. She didn’t come home last night, and she didn’t show up to work today. Lula disappeared the night before, and I don’t think she took off voluntarily this time. I think whoever took Lula may have taken Greta.”

“Why?” she asked, her back stiffening.

I needed to own up to my own role in all of this. “Because I was asking Greta questions about Lula, trying to figure out what had happened. I think I may have poked a bear and put Greta in harm’s way.” My voice broke. “I’m so very sorry.”

Her chin lifted and fire filled her eyes. “You listen here. Greta was doin’ what she does best—takin’ care of someone. She was looking out for her friend as best she could. And now you’re lookin’ out for the both of ’em.” Her eyes hardened. “So you watch your back and find ’em, you hear?”

I nodded solemnly. “Yes, ma’am.”

I left her room and headed toward the door, but the wall of headshots caught my attention again. The man in the wheelchair was gone, giving me better access to it. Above the photos was a sign that read, Greener Pastures Employees, but it was a photo of a man off to the side, under a title of New Hires, that caught my attention.

He wore blue scrubs and had a serious expression. Underneath his photo read Shane Jones, Janitor.

He had dark brown hair and a heavy gold chain around his neck.

He was the man I’d seen out back at Wyatt’s garage, and I’d bet my new winter coat he was also the man who’d paid Greta a visit.

Chapter Twenty-Two

I snapped a photo of his headshot, then hurried over to the front desk. “Excuse me,” I said to the woman, who was still watching something on her screen. “Can you answer a question for me?”