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“But time goes by, other stories become more interesting, more ‘relevant.’ And so my girls faded away and now . . .” She shook her head, her graying hair sweeping the back of her neck. Her lips pursed. “Now we have to find Rose.” Her eyes met his. “That’s your job, Detective.”
“Yes. So, about the day the girls disappeared.”
“Worst day of my life . . . well, if you don’t count this one, I suppose.” She went on with her story. She and her husband had come home and learned that Owen had lost his sisters. He hadn’t gone to the movies with them but instead had spent the late afternoon and evening with his girlfriend, Ashley McDonnell. Her lips had tightened at the mention of the girl. “She’s a piece of work, let me tell you. She’s married now, has children of her own. But back then she and Owen were hot and heavy, if you know what I mean.” One eyebrow arched over the rim of her glasses in obvious disapproval. “Owen was hot to trot. Couldn’t get enough of that little tease.” Her lips pinched down in disapproval. “But then, after . . . after the girls vanished, well, of course they broke up. She dropped him like a hot potato.”
“Does she still live around here?”
“Yes.” Again the expression of disapproval. “After dating a plethora of local boys, especially the rich ones like Tyson Beaumont and Jacob Channing, she married a local boy who made good, some kind of software developer or something. Lives out on Tybee . . . fancy place.”
“You’ve been there?” he asked, as Tybee Island wasn’t far, about half an hour by car.
“Oh, my, no. I mean, I’ve been out on the island and drove by, but I haven’t been in. Don’t want to.”
“What about your son?”
“Innocent!” she snapped, indignance flaring in her eyes. “Don’t go there, Detective. The police have dragged Owen’s name through the mud. Over and over again. I know you all think he’s a prime suspect, but he would never, never have harmed his sisters. He adored those girls!”
“He was adopted by Harvey Duval?”
“Yes.”
“And his biological father?”
Her cheeks flushed crimson. “Out of the picture. Was from the time before Owen was born.” She inched her chin upward. “Owen’s never known him, and that’s for the best.”
“But he has a name.”
“He’s not involved! For all I know that son of a . . . he might be dead. He’s absolutely irrelevant, so just leave his name out of it!”
Making a mental note to find out about the man who elicited such a harsh response from Margaret, Reed heard the front door open, then close with a soft thud. A few seconds later, Ezra returned. He handed Margaret a business card. “Kimberly Mason. With WKAM. Says she’s talked to you before.”
“Barely gave me the time of day,” Margaret sniffed, but clutched the card.
“She wants an interview. I asked her to call and we would work it out. Possibly later this afternoon.”
“Fine.” She turned her ey
es back to Reed. “We’re about done here, I think.”
“Just about,” Reed said. “I’d like to talk to your son, so if you have a phone number, e-mail or an address, I’d appreciate it.”
Margaret’s shoulders stiffened, but the reverend was nodding. “No problem. Margaret has that information and probably a lot more that would help the police.” He smiled benignly at his wife as she silently bristled. “She’s kept up with the case, of course, and made certain she updated the names and numbers of anyone who knew the girls. Isn’t that right, honey?”
Obviously irritated with her husband for being so forthcoming, she nodded curtly.
“If I could see it?”
“I’ll make copies,” she said. “And e-mail the information to you.”
The reverend said, “I know, I mean the detective and I know this is hard, honey, but the police are just trying to help.”
“Too late for that.”
“Maybe not for Rose. You have to have faith.” Her husband gave her a squeeze. “Remember: ‘Don’t be afraid; just believe.’ ”
“Mark 5:36,” she whispered, and cast her eyes downward.
“Right.”
