Page 36 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

CapoteParty:

Hey, does anyone know if you can actually call Daphne? I heard a rumor that she’s in an old folks’ home and that you can call her on the phone.

PreyAllDay:

There’s no way that’s true. Too many guys would be getting their rocks off by calling her.

BurntheBookBurnerz:

Interesting that that’s where your brain went automatically. Says a lot about you. . .

StopDropAndTroll:

[This comment has been removed by a moderator.]

Chapter Eighteen

Ruth walked slowly along the beach, clutching a thermos of coffee and inhaling the heady ocean air. The sky was still tinged pink from the sunrise and the sand was bathed in a soft light.

She had woken up early, with a head full of to-do lists, and another missed call from her mother. Ruth had hoped to sleep in because she had stayed up past one, trying to wade through all the emails she was receiving, from places likeThe New Yorkeror NPR, asking for interviews or inviting her to write pieces. She tried to defer as many as she could until after the podcast was finished, but it was all so tempting.

Ruth had also spent hours the night before editing the latest podcast episode, which was now calledThe Three Murders of Daphne St Clair. The Geoffrey story had been fascinating and would be a real bombshell for his daughters, Rose and Diane, but Ruth was still waiting to hear about a different murder, and it was getting harder to stay patient. Now it was morning, and she had woken up with a racing heart and a pounding headache and needing to do something other than stare at her laptop.

Even though it was still early, the beach was already full of people exercising and walking their dogs, and Ruth marveled at how anyone could be so vigorous so early in the morning. Many of the people she saw were wearing headphones. Were any of them listening to her podcast? Ruth liked to think about her listeners. She often pictured them, scattered around the country, even the world, walking their dogs on a cloudy day, stuck in traffic on a dreary commute, strolling aimlessly through their neighborhoods with screaming babies strapped to their fronts, listening to her voice. It was a comforting thought.

A cluster of luxury apartment buildings stood like blonde sentinels along the road, all built by Sunshine Development. The Ashburton, the Blue Diamond, the Seacrest, some of the most expensive condos in the area. Ruth’s eyes slowly traced a route up the curving lines and shimmering glass walls of the Seacrest Building until they landed on the penthouse. It was magnificent, the prow of a grand ship turning out to sea. Ruth knew the views from inside were even more spectacular. She missed seeing them.

This beach meant a lot to Ruth. The first time she ever met her father was in a café here. She had just turned twenty-six and he was in his mid-seventies. She hadn’t even known his name until he emailed her out of the blue and introduced himself. They had met a few days later, and Richard had apologized for his absence, admitting that he’d kept his distance to stop his wife from finding out about the affair. But after she died from cancer the year before, he was now trying to change his life. He had retired from both his medical practice and his family business (Sunshine Development), sold his home in the suburbs, and started dating again. But his biggest wish was the opportunity to get to know Ruth. That was the year their relationship settled into a really good place; he had seemed so proud of her achievements and her ambitions, he’d believed that Ruth could do anything, and he wanted to help her.

Months later, he had made her a promise on this beach that would change her life forever. He had been thinking about his legacy, a pressing issue for a man in his seventies with diabetes and a number of other health issues, a man who had watched his beloved wife wither away from cancer. He told her that he hadn’t been there for her as a child but now he wanted to give her some real security as an adult. Ruth thought about that moment often, when she had believed that she finally had a father who loved her and that everything was going to be okay. It had been a happy memory for only a moment. And then, for many years after, it was a source of pain.

Ruth took another sip of coffee and stared out at the rolling waves. It felt good to take a break from her laptop, however brief. But Ruth knew that she could only afford a moment’s respite. Daphne could be carted off to prison any day now and, once that happened, Ruth would lose her chance at making a new future for herself, one that looked more like what her father had promised her, back when she still believed in happy endings.

Ruth was running out of time.

“Hey, Grandma, I’m still listening to the podcast.” Harper always seemed to call in a hushed voice, likely because she had squirreled herself away in a corner to hide from her mother.

“What do you think?”

“It’s interesting, but kinda weird for me. I mean, that guy you killed was technically my grandfather,” Harper said.

I nodded. “Well, you never would have met him; he was on his way out no matter what I did. Harper. . . I can’t stop you listening but try to remember that I’m more than those murders.”

“Are you sure you can trust Ruth?” Harper asked. “She doesn’t really seem like she’s on your side. The things she asks you. . . it’s almost like she’s working for the police.”

“I don’t think she’s a cop. She actually seems to hate the local police; I think she’s got history with them. But I understand what you’re saying. She is sneaky.”

“Have you ever googled her? I was looking at this Reddit thread about the podcast and it has all these links to true crime articles she wrote. I read one she did about the Miami New Year’s party. She’s really into investigating unsolved mysteries.”

“Oh. . . well that’s good to know,” I said, wishing I had asked Harper to google her for me before I hired her. What did I really know about Ruth? You know, other than she had terrible taste in clothes and no money. I didn’t want someone to investigate me, I just wanted someone to press record and share my story on the Internet. Maybe I had been hasty, hiring her and trusting her with my secrets.

“Anyways, I saw some old photos of you on Sexy Devils,” Harper said.

“What in God’s name is that?” I asked. “If it’s some kind of skin flick then I don’t want to know, and neither should you.”

“It’s an Instagram page that shares pictures of hot criminals, mostly murderers. It’s really popular.”

“I’m honored,” I replied sarcastically. I’ve never even been on Instagram although I probably would have loved it when I was in my prime. I could have taken pictures of myself all day long when I was young and beautiful. “So, who else made the cut on this illustrious page?”

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