“No, you can’t eat dinner with your loved one,” she said with a look of irritation. “It’s liver and onion night and the chef only made enough for the residents.”

I nearly gagged. “I don’t want to eat here. I have a question about the wall of photos.”

She shook her head with a look of disgust. “I’m busy, and it’s self-explanatory.”

Busy watching Netflix, from the look of it.

“Miss,” a woman called out behind me. “We can help you.”

I spun around to look at the two women still working on the jigsaw puzzle. One of them was motioning for me to come over. Her fluffy gray hair reminded me of a cotton ball. When I approached her, she motioned to a chair between her and her friend.

“Sharon won’t help you,” Cotton Ball said. “She’s too busy watching The Witcher.”

“She’s got a thing for Harry Cavill,” the other woman said, cramming a puzzle piece into a spot that clearly wasn’t a fit. “Especially with his shirt off.”

“You mean Henry,” Cotton Ball said.

Her friend rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

“You were asking about the wall of photos?” Cotton Ball asked. “It throws a lot of people off. Those are photos of all the employees. They have such a high staff turnover rate that the residents get confused about who works here and who’s just visiting. So now they post photos with names and their jobs so we’ll know.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

The second woman made a “hmph” sound, but I suspected she was perpetually grumpy.

“What do you know about Shane Jones?” I asked. “The new janitor?”

“He only started a few weeks ago.”

“What do you make of him?” I asked.

“He’s quiet,” Grumpy Lady said. “And that’s good enough for me.”

Cotton Ball rolled her eyes. “He’s quiet, but it’s because he’s casin’ the joint. Things keep disappearing. Watches. Rings. Just last week Thelma’s granddaughter’s wallet disappeared.”

“Greta Hightower?” I asked in surprise.

“You know her?” Cotton Ball asked.

“She was visitin’ Thelma, you nincompoop,” Grumpy Lady said. “Didn’t you hear her ask Sharon?” She picked up another puzzle piece, having given up on the first. “And Greta’s wallet wasn’t stolen—it was found in the restroom.”

“And how did it get in the restroom?” Cotton Ball asked belligerently.

Grumpy Lady lifted her gaze to me and peered over the top of her reading glasses. “Nothin’ was missin’. Not even her money. They say it fell out when she went in there to pee.”

“She didn’t use the restroom that day,” Cotton Ball said in exasperation. “Someone took it.”

“So you think this new guy is stealing things?” I asked.

“If anyone took her wallet, it was Minnie Horton,” Grumpy Lady said, shaking her head. “Everyone knows she’s a klepto.”

“Minnie was out with her daughter,” Cotton Ball said. “And besides, that boy was watching Greta on her last two visits.”

“So he’s got a thing for her,” Grumpy Lady said. “Young love.”

“More like young stalker,” Cotton Ball said, her mouth pursed liked she’d sucked on a lemon. “I’ve seen You.”

I tried to squash my jealousy that Cotton Ball and Sharon had better access to streaming services than I did. “Do you know where Shane worked before?”

Cotton Ball nodded her head with a knowing look. “He said he came from pharmaceutical sales.”

Drugs. Nobody went from pharmaceutical sales to janitorial work. Not if it had been a legit sales job.

Had Bingham encouraged Shane to get a job here to spy on Greta?

“Thank you so much for your help,” I said as I stood. “Good luck with your puzzle.”

“There’s three pieces missin’,” Grumpy Lady said, focusing on another piece. “We’ve done it five times now. We’re just killin’ time until we die.”

She was just a ray of sunshine, but I made a mental note to pick up some puzzles at the Dollar General and drop them by the next time I was in Ewing.

As soon as I got outside, I sorted through everything I’d learned. Shane Jones had to work for Bingham, which meant I needed to talk to Bingham again at some point. There was no way I was letting Marco come with me today or even tomorrow, yet I was smart enough not to try going alone.

I needed to find out more about Shane Jones, and given that I’d seen him at the garage, the most logical person to ask was Wyatt. If he thought I was getting into something dangerous, I had no doubt he would try to stop me, but I’d have to take my chances.

Once I got into Marco’s car, I pulled out my cell phone and checked my service. Three bars. I called Wyatt’s garage first, but it rang multiple times before going to his answering machine. Same thing with his home phone number, but I left a message this time.

“Hey, Wyatt, it’s Carly. I came to Ewing to get a blood pressure cuff for Marco, and while I was in town, I stopped by the nursing home to visit Greta’s grandmother. I saw a photo of a guy who was behind your shop this morning. I was hoping to ask you some questions about him. I’m heading back to Marco’s now, so I’ll try your home number or Hank’s number later.”

Since the spa seemed like a pointless venture and I was still worried about Marco, I headed back to Drum. I was tense for most of the drive, imagining Shane Jones’s pickup truck at every turn, but no one tried to run me off the road or even cut me off. I made it back to Drum safely.

My makeshift sign was still on the front door at Max’s Tavern, and I struggled to block the replay of my morning with Max. I was torn between wanting to smooth things over with him and worrying that he was guilty of something that would ruin our friendship forever.

It was getting dark by the time I pulled up in front of Marco’s house, but a light glowed through the window. When I walked inside, Marco was sitting up on the sofa and he shot me a scowl. “Did you drive to Timbuktu to get the damn thing?”

I shut the door behind me. “Well, hello to you too.”

“I was gettin’ worried, Carly. You were gone forever.”

I sat in the chair next to the sofa. “You didn’t seem in a hurry, so I went by the nursing home and talked to Greta’s grandmother. While I was there, I saw a wall of photos, and one of them was of the guy who was hanging out behind Wyatt’s garage this morning. He started working at the nursing home a few weeks ago. I’m sure he’s the same guy who visited Greta at the diner, and according to one of the residents, he stole her wallet while she was visiting her grandmother and then left it in the restroom.”

He stared at me wide-eyed. “What? What guy behind Wyatt’s garage?”

“You were really out of it,” I said, then filled him in about seeing the guy at Wyatt’s, talking to Greta, going to the nursing home, and what I’d learned from Thelma and the other women.

“Shane Jones,” he said more to himself than me. “I have a friend in the department who can run his name through the system and see if he has any priors. That is, if it’s not an alias.”