Page 59 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

“No,” Daphne said, dragging herself up with the walker. “I’m just a bit sick. My guts are bothering me.” She limped across the floor, wilting over her walker. Ruth could tell by the way she closed the door that she would be in there a while.

In one smooth motion, Ruth leapt up and scurried over to Daphne’s bedroom, trying to move as quietly as possible.

Back at the beginning of the podcast, Daphne had been incensed to find Ruth looking around her bedroom and so Ruth had given it a wide berth ever since. But something had been niggling at Ruth ever since that day, a little incongruity that bothered her. Most of the things in Daphne’s closet were new, the bags and boxes gleaming and fresh. But tucked away in the back there had been a battered brown shoebox from Roger Vivier, so old that it must have been from the Sixties or Seventies. Daphne wasn’t the kind to keep old shoes, no matter how fabulous, and Ruth had found herself thinking about that shoebox ever since, wondering what it contained.

She pulled down the box, glancing behind her to make sure that Daphne was still in the bathroom. The box was light and clearly didn’t contain shoes. Ruth knelt down on the plush carpet and pulled the lid off. Sitting on top was a small mesh bag containing five rings: a glistening emerald, two diamonds that sparkled like snowflakes (one in a gold band and one in platinum), a canary yellow diamond, and an antique sapphire. Were these Daphne’s engagement rings? It certainly seemed possible.

Under the rings were a stack of pictures. Many of them with the faded, pastel colors of 1960s photography. Ruth recognized Daphne, as tall and glamorous as a model, with slender curves and a wardrobe to rival a movie star’s. Here was Daphne in a leopard-print coat and hat, holding the hand of a dark-haired boy in a peacoat. Here was Daphne sitting on a velvet couch, swathed in black tulle, smoking a cigarette, while her twin toddlers played with dolls in front of her. Ruth smiled. Daphne really had been stunning. A consolation prize for all the other disadvantages she’d been born with and a tremendous asset when combined with her ruthless ambition.

There were pictures of men too. A slim, balding man with jug-ears and a big smile sprawled on the floor wrestling with the kids. Based on their ages in the picture, Ruth assumed this was David. A younger man in a slim, stylish suit with a cigarette hanging from his lip. Possibly Geoffrey. Another photo of a handsome, black-haired man with his arm around an impossibly young Daphne, all black hair and red lipstick smiles. That had to be Carl, James’s father. Countless pictures of the kids, from early childhood all the way up to the twins’ weddings and even a few baby photos of her grandchildren. She didn’t see a picture of Warren. There were other men in the photos, although none she recognized or could conclusively identify.Where was he?

And that was when she spotted it. A formal family picture, everyone dressed in their good clothes, posing stiffly for a photographer. Daphne was standing, resplendent in a silk shirt and tuxedo pants, dripping in jewelry. Diane and Rose wore sequined dresses, two beautiful blonde preteen girls. They weren’t smiling but stared straight into the camera, looking serious. James sat next to them, a young teenager with dark hair shielding his eyes and a suit with a flared collar. He had a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. This was not a happy family picture.

But it was the other two people in the photo that gave Ruth pause. There was a man standing next to Daphne, his wedding band glinting in the photo as he flashed a big toothy grin. He was tall and middle-aged, his dark hair speckled with gray, and was wearing a three-piece suit. Ruth frowned. She didn’t recognize this man. Ruth had thought that Daphne had been single after David for quite a while. No one had ever mentioned another marriage.

And then there was the girl. She was sitting between James and one of the twins. Dressed in a navy sweater and pearls, she was smiling at the camera, a velvet hairband tucked into her shining hair. She was younger than James but only looked slightly older than the twins.

Who was this third girl? She had dark hair and fair skin like Daphne, so it was possible they were related. Ruth felt a flicker of unease. Had Daphne covered up the existence of a fourth child? One born just before the twins? Ruth could think of only one reason someone like Daphne might do that. But surely that was too big a secret to keep. Diane and Rose would have remembered a sister. Of course, James would have remembered too. Was that why he went away?

The toilet flushed.

Ruth clapped the lid down on the box and hurriedly shoved it back into the closet, almost slipping on the slick carpet. While she could hear the tap running, Ruth hurried into the living room and sat down as quickly as possible, trying to steady her breathing. She was petrified that, later, Daphne might notice that the pictures were in a different order in the box, but it was too late to go back. Besides, she had bigger concerns than Daphne getting suspicious of her. That picture of the unknown girl haunted her, made her question everything she’d learned so far in this podcast.

Who was Daphne St Clair?

DAPHNE:I was seventy-five when I left Diane’s house and moved into a luxury apartment building on the beach. I lived in that apartment for eleven years and every day I felt surprised to still be alive. I’d killed my first man over half a century ago and I suppose I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since.

RUTH:But here you were, in a luxury apartment—

DAPHNE:Paid for by a string of dead husbands, I know. It turns out the Bible-thumpers were wrong, the wages of sin are premium coastal real estate.

RUTH:And during those eleven years, did you commit any more murders?

DAPHNE:Nope.

RUTH (sounding frustrated):Why would you stop after all these years? Especially when you’d just gotten a rush from watching an old man die?

DAPHNE:Sorry, I guess I should have killed more people for your entertainment. What can I say? I’m an enigma, even to myself. I was just. . . tired of it all.

RUTH:Daphne, this is important. Tell the truth.

DAPHNE:I am! Nothing really happened in those years. Well, Diane remarried and in 2010 had an absurdly late-in-life daughter. I couldn’t help but feel bad for that poor sucker: forged in a premenopausal oven, carried by a surrogate, and spat out into a marriage on its last legs.

RUTH:You really love her, don’t you? Your granddaughter?

DAPHNE:I suppose I have a soft spot for her.

RUTH:This is probably going to reverberate through her life forever: what you did. How will she be able to trust anyone? Knowing that her grandmother is a lying murderer? How can she have a normal life after what you did?

DAPHNE:Whooee, someone’s suddenly very concerned about the children! Look, my granddaughter grew up rich, in no small part because of the opportunities I gave her mother. So, when she’s sitting in a house with an Ivy League degree and a trust fund, I’m sure she’ll find a way to muddle through.

RUTH:Fine. But what finally made you leave that apartment? Were you trying to escape something you did?

DAPHNE (sounding confused):No? I was eighty-six years old. And aging ishard. You’re exhausted and frail. And the whole time you’re haunted by the person you used to be, who could dance the night away and never had to worry about places to sit and walk-in showers. The final straw was when I fell in the bathroom. I lay there for hours, thinking about my life. I really believed that I would die there, which was frustrating because I’d always hoped the end would come without me noticing. But finally, the doorman found me and that’s when I moved into a retirement home.

The Sixth Murder

Chapter Twenty-Eight

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