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“Probably a son,” Reed said. “We think a runaway. Male.” He didn’t say any more than that, but the police were narrowing their search and were waiting to compare dental records to a teen who had run away from a foster home a few years back. How had the boy died? That had yet to be determined, but a drug overdose was likely. Tissue samples might be able to confirm the suspicions.
“You haven’t found her, have you?” Margaret asked. “Rose. You still don’t know where she is.”
“No.” Reed shook his head, hoping that his frustration didn’t show through, that his expression remained calm, though he was frustrated and still had no idea what had happened to the third sister.
“Margaret, you’re asking the detective things he doesn’t know,” the reverend said, trying to assuage her.
She was having none of it and folded her arms over her chest, stretching the sleeves of her blouse as she walked to the canary’s cage and stared at the little bird swinging and twittering on its perch. “It’s because of me that she’s gone!” Margaret said softly. “Because I sinned. Unfaithful.”
“Honey, ssshh. Not now,” her husband warned, touching his wife on the arm, trying to quiet her while he said to Reed, “This isn’t a good time, Detective. As you can see, Margaret’s very upset.”
She flung his arm off. “Yes, I’m upset, Ezra. Who wouldn’t be? My son is gone. My only son!” She blinked hard and crossed back to the couch. From a side table she plucked several tissues from a decorative box. “Is it true what they’re saying? That he . . . that he took his own life?” she asked, her lips trembling.
“We don’t know that.”
“He . . . he wouldn’t!” She was shaking her head and dabbing at her eyes. “He just wouldn’t. Not Owen. Nuh-uh. He’s a God-fearing boy. He wouldn’t have killed his sisters, and he wouldn’t have taken his own life. He has—had—his problems, yes, but I know he didn’t do this.” Her voice cracked and she closed her eyes, took in a shuddering breath. “It’s not Owen who sinned,” she admitted. “It’s me.”
“Oh, no.” Her husband was shaking his head rapidly, but Margaret was undeterred.
She squared her shoulders. “I need to tell you something, Detective. Something I probably should have told you years ago about—”
“No, honey!” Ezra cut in, sending a worried look Reed’s way. “This isn’t the time and you’re talking about a family matter. A personal matter. Just between you and the Father, but not . . . not the police.”
/> “Rose was not Harvey’s daughter!” Margaret inched her chin upward. “There. I’ve said it. After all these years.”
Reed listened. Waited.
“He, um, Harvey, my husband at the time. He didn’t know it.” She looked away, out the window. Ashamed. “And Rose . . . she didn’t know it, either. Was way too little.” She flapped a hand, as if brushing aside any arguments her husband might be making. “But the truth is that Baxter Beaumont and I were . . . we were involved romantically, and I got pregnant and I know Baxter is Rose’s father.”
“You’re certain?” Reed asked as Ezra’s lips pursed tight.
“I’m a nurse. That’s how it all started. The affair. When I was Beulah’s nurse. And of course I had a paternity test done. DNA. There’s no doubt about it. Rose is Baxter’s child.” She straightened her shoulders again, lifting her head almost defiantly as if she expected Reed to castigate her.
So Nikki’s wild theory was correct. The room went silent, only the sound of the canary pecking at his little mirror and the hum of the air conditioning making any noise at all.
Margaret was tearing up again, sniffing and touching the corners of her eyes with a nearly shredded tissue. Reed finally asked, “Did your other children know?”
“About Rose’s father? No, no one did. Well, except for Baxter, of course, but we . . . we decided it was best to keep it a secret, just between us, at least for the time being. We were both married and his wife, Connie-Sue, she suspected, I think, though it never came up and then time went by and we . . . we ended it, to save our marriages, and then . . . oh, and then . . .” Her voice was getting higher, tears flowing more rapidly. “And then the girls disappeared.” She let out a long, unsteady breath. “It’s just so hard to think they’re all gone.” Her face crumpled and her husband came to her, wrapped his arms around her.
“I think we’re done here,” Ezra said, looking over his wife’s shaking shoulder to stare at Reed.
“Just a couple more things,” Reed said. “Can you tell me, was Owen left-handed?”
“Yes, all my children inherited that from my side of the family. Even Rose. It was really too early to tell, but she favored her left, ate with it, colored with it, combed her hair with it. And Owen definitely. Like me. Not the least bit ambidextrous.”
“Did he have any enemies?” Reed asked, and she turned in her husband’s arms.
“Oh, yes,” she said, angry again. “Too many to count, but they were all because of you cops and the press. He was your number one suspect when the girls disappeared and the press never let him forget it. The way I look at it, Detective, you’ve got my son’s blood on your hands.”
* * *
Nikki slipped through the darkness, the smell of the earth and river in her nostrils as she kept to the side of the road. Night had descended. Aside from the silvery glow of the moon reflecting on the river, the area was dark and thick, the noises of the night surrounded her. Crickets chirped, mosquitoes buzzed and a breath of wind whispered through the pines, all normal. All unsettling as she realized how alone she was. She thought about calling Reed but dismissed the thought until she was certain about what was going down. She wasn’t going to call her detective husband because Ashley Jefferson had come to the lodge by herself as some sort of personal journey in dealing with her grief over the death of Owen Duval.
Though Nikki expected Ashley to be meeting someone and she believed that whoever it was had something to do with Owen’s and possibly his sisters’ deaths, she had to be certain. This could, possibly, end up being a wild-goose chase, though deep in her heart, she didn’t believe it.
No, she thought, circumventing a branch protruding into the lane, this hastily made journey was about Owen and his siblings. She knew it. She could feel it. Whatever meeting was so hastily convened was to do with the Duval girls and what had happened to them.
But cops, her husband included, didn’t run on instinct or intuition. They needed cold, hard facts. Evidence.
