Page 4 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

“Well. . . you just killed your elderly boyfriend, so we’d probably make some jokes about your sex life, you know, whether your pussy was full of dust. And you poisoned him, so we’d probably do a bit where we realize that you’ve put something in our drinks and panic because we think you’ve roofied us and are going to rape us. And then I guess we’d be relieved when we realized that we were going to die instead.” Their raucous laughter echoed down the phone.

“Right. So, the joke is I’m an old lady and no one wants to have sex with me,” I said acidly. “Groundbreaking stuff.”

Of course, I turned them down. When you’re old, you really have to savor the time you have left. And none of that time should be spent listening to man-boys cracking bad jokes.

The fourth person was Gayle MacPherson, an NBC reporter forDateline.

“So, I should say up front that I have my doubts about asking you to participate in this podcast,” Gayle began bluntly. “If we did agree on it, you’d have to know that I would be asking you tough questions.”

“Well, this is an interesting way to pitch to someone,” I said.

“Look, we’ll be doing a podcast about you whether you participate or not,” Gayle said briskly. “Admittedly, it’s not great timing for us, as we just wrapped a podcast about two elderly women who were killing men for insurance money.”

“Sorry for the inconvenience. I should have waited and confessed next year,” I chipped in, but she kept talking over me.

“But wehaveto do your story. It’s perfect forDateline. And we’ve had a lot of success with our women killer podcasts. I don’t know if you’ve listened to ‘The Thing about Pam’ or ‘Mommy Doomsday’ but they’ve been big hits.”

“Congratulations,” I said. I felt as if we were in a business meeting, and she was about to start going over the numbers with me. Didn’t she understand that I had something valuable? According to Harper, murder podcasts were a dime a dozen. But amurderer’spodcast? That was new.

“So, are you interested in participating?” Gayle asked.

“No,” I said.

“Fine by me,” she said flatly and hung up.

The final person I talked to was a woman named Ruth Robinson, a journalist in her early thirties who lived locally. She’d never written for any newspaper I had heard of, and she seemed as new to the podcasting world as I was.

“So, what’s your plan for the podcast? Because I’ve had pitches fromBadass Women,Died Laughing, andDateline,” I said. I didn’t tell her that I had already rejected all of them. If I didn’t go with Ruth, I’d have to buy Harper some recording equipment and tell her to have at it. That might be worth it just for the look on Diane’s face.

“Dateline? Wow, okay. I don’t really have a plan, exactly. . .” Ruth said, her voice quavering. “I thought that we would just sit and talk about your life, and then I could shape that into a story. I’d want to do some background research as well, try to talk to other people in your life or even people who are experts on. . . your situation.”

“I’mthe only expert on my situation,” I retorted.

“Oh of course,” Ruth stuttered, backing down. I was thankful that we were on the phone so she couldn’t see me smile. “I suppose I’d just want to do a podcast from your perspective. There are so many true crime shows out there where a presenter just tells you about a crime. But hearing a show where the perpetrator tells their story? That’s so unique.” Her earnestness was almost dripping through the phone. She was like a Girl Scout pushing Thin Mints.

“What would you call it?” I asked, enjoying giving Ruth a good grilling.

“Well, I thoughtThe Murders of Daphne St Claircould work, as your name is so elegant,” Ruth said.

“A bit wishy-washy,” I harrumphed, rolling my eyes. “But I’m willing to give this a try. And if you’re not a good fit, I’ll pull the plug.”

“Really? Wow, thank you so much. I promise, you won’t regret this!” she squeaked.

“Come by tomorrow afternoon,” I said. “But don’t tell anyone else where I live. I’m supposed to be keeping that under wraps for safety reasons.”

There was nothing special about Ruth, she just seemed much less annoying than the other people who wanted to tell my story to the masses and make a buck off it. In fact, she seemed unsure of herself, which suited me fine. People are like dogs; it’s better for everyone when they know who’s in charge.

Chapter Three

EPISODE ONE: 1932–1948

RUTH:Hello, my name is Ruth Robinson and I will be interviewing Daphne St Clair. So, what do we know so far? We know that Daphne has been charged with the first-degree murder of Warren Ackerman here in Florida. We also know that Daphne has confessed to killing more people across numerous decades and in different locations. She has given details about these murders to the police, but these details have not been shared publicly yet. And because Daphne has confessed to murdering Warren and will almost certainly plead guilty, she will never have a full criminal trial. So, this podcast is a record of history, a chance to get to the heart of the facts before Daphne is imprisoned, or—realistically, considering her age—dies, taking the stories with her. Keep in mind, however, that Daphne will probably only give you her version of events. So, let’s solve a mystery together. Let’s find out who Daphne St Clair is. And what, exactly, has she done?

Ruth Robinson was escorted through Coconut Grove by a grim-faced woman. She was very petite and Ruth, who was five foot eleven, towered over her. She walked briskly, ushering Ruth past rooms where wrinkled faces peered out at her. She might be projecting, but the residents looked frightened. The senior center felt hushed and leaden, as if the knowledge that a murder had been committed in their midst, that the killer was just down the hall, had paralyzed them all.

“Wait, do you mind if we stop at the bathroom?” Ruth asked as they passed a washroom. The woman huffed in irritation but stopped walking, glowering outside as Ruth went in.

Ruth stood at the sink, feeling a strange wave of anxiety wash over her. She splashed water on her face and fixed her lank ponytail in the mirror, staring at her reflection. It wasn’t exactly awe-inspiring. Sure, she had good eyebrows, thick and dark, with a strong arch. But her skin was sallow, which was rare for a lifelong Floridian, and a recent breakup had left her with sleep-deprived shadows under her eyes as dark as bruises.

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