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“Oh.”
Reed ended the handshake. “No, I just suggested that it might not be a good idea because of the years that have passed, the condition of the bodies.”
Margaret let out a little squeak of protest.
“I see.” Her husband sighed heavily. “It’s probably for the best.”
“If you think so.” She wasn’t convinced.
Her husband was nodding his near-bald head. “I do.”
“Well . . . well, I was . . .” She pulled herself together and said, “I was just asking about little Rosie.”
“You found her?” Le Roy’s eyebrows quirked up expectantly.
“No, not yet.”
“But you’re still looking.”
“Of course. I just came by to ask some questions.”
“Oh.” Margaret’s face fell, but she bravely sniffed back her tears. “I guess I should be glad about that. I’ve been after the police for years and no one seemed to care . . . but then maybe it doesn’t matter. The girls were already gone.” Her gaze slid to the canary. From its perch, it pecked incessantly at a tiny mirror dangling from the top of its cage.
“If you could tell me about the day they went missing,” he suggested.
Margaret sighed. “What good will that do?”
“We need to find out who did this to your girls, Mrs. Le Roy. And we need to find Rose.”
Her eyes filled. “Yes, yes, of course. It’s just that it’s been so long and I thought, I prayed that the girls would be found. Alive.” Her voice cracked and she swiped at her eyes. “And why now? After all these years? Why couldn’t you have found them earlier? Before . . . before . . .” She took in a shaky breath. “This should never have happened to the girls, never! I don’t know how many times I was down at the police department! If you people had located them when they went missing, if you’d done your job then, they might be alive today! Oh . . . oh . . . dear God.” She was weeping, her shoulders shaking.
“Oh, baby.” Ezra took a spot next to her on the couch and wrapped his arms around her. “Come on, Margie, honey. The detective is just doing his job. Maybe you and I, we should pray, huh? How about that?” He placed his forehead onto hers and began to whisper a prayer.
Reed looked down at his hands, giving them time, the canary pecking softly against its own reflection.
“. . . and please, Lord, help us locate Rose and may she be found healthy, a now-grown woman . . .”
Reed’s heart sank. What were the chances? This was probably just false hope, but he didn’t interrupt.
“. . . accept them into heaven . . .”
Reed waited.
“. . . in the name of our savior, Jesus Christ, we pray. Amen.”
“Amen,” Margaret repeated, calmer, her eyes dry. Her husband released her, and she focused on Reed again. “Forgive me, Detective,” she said calmly, though her face was still blotchy from her spate of tears. “I know you’re here to help us. What . . . what can I tell you?”
“How about we start with the day that the girls went missing?”
She let out her breath slowly and told them the story, just as he’d heard it from Delacroix and read for himself before driving here. Margaret explained that she and her husband at the time, Harvey Duval, had been together, going through open houses as they had been planning to move, and they’d had dinner later at a crowded restaurant. They’d allowed the girls, even the youngest, to go to the local cinema with their older brother, Owen.
At the mention of her son, Margaret looked away, to the window, her hands working the handkerchief in her lap. “Oh, dear,” she said, and Reed followed her gaze. At the edge of the yard a large news van was rolling to a stop, its satellite scraping the lowest branches of one of the live oaks.
“I’ll handle them,” the reverend said, on his feet quickly. He snapped the blinds shut and headed out the front door.
Margaret licked her lips. “You know,” she admitted, “for years I called the newspaper and TV stations and tried to drum up interest, attempted to keep the story alive, if you will.” She swallowed hard. “I think I talked to your wife, she’s a reporter for the Sentinel, right?”
“Yes.”
