Page 7 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

“Diane, I’ve already got a platform for the podcast, and I intend to start releasing episodes immediately. And I can guarantee you a podcast that features interviews with a serial killer is going to be huge. This is your chance to share your perspective.”

“What perspective? I didn’t know a thing about this until she confessed.”

“See? You need to tell people that. Because if you don’t, people will see two daughters who lived a very long time with a serial killer for a mother. And they might start to wonder. . . how could you havenotknown?” Ruth said, surprised at how forceful she sounded, as if the thrill of the chase was awakening some long-dormant impulses in her.

There was a prolonged silence, as Diane considered Ruth’s words, and the threat hidden beneath them.

“If I do this, you need to protect our reputations. In hindsight, there might have been some. . . suspicious events over the years. But we really didn’t know anything. Children just accept whatever their mother says.”

“I won’t distort any facts. But I won’t try to smear you. You were just kids, after all,” Ruth said, trying to phrase her words carefully so that she could keep her options open. If the twins were guilty of anything, it was probably ignorance with a dash of willful blindness. But they might be as criminal as their mother, and she had to be prepared to nail them to the wall if she needed to.

“Will Rose participate as well?” Ruth asked.

“I’ll speak for both of us. She has to be very careful with her husband being a senator.”

“Okay. So, I’ll want to set up some interviews with you in the coming weeks. But what I need right now is some background information. What is your mother’s birth name? And where did she grow up?”

“I know her first name, but I don’t know her maiden name. Her real name is Loretta. She told me one night after too many wines, said she’d always hated it.”

“And her hometown?”

“It’s in. . . Canada,” she said, as if it was a dirty secret. “It’s a place called Lucan in Southern Saskatchewan. I only know that because sometimes she would rant about how she was never going back there, how we were lucky to grow up in a city full of exciting people. I can’t say I disagree with her,” Diane said with a dry laugh.

“Okay, I can work with that. Just one last question. Would you say she was a good mother?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. When Diane spoke again, her voice was lower and thicker, as if she was congested.

“I don’t know. Depends on the day.” And then she hung up.

Later, Ruth sat watching coverage of Daphne’s case on TV. While the police had released very little information, someone (probably a Coconut Grove staff member) had leaked pictures of Daphne to the media, a few shots of her as an old woman and one of her looking glamorous and young in a Fifties bikini. Everybody was dissecting the images and the unconfirmed report that Daphne was a serial poisoner. Body language experts debated whether she had ‘evil eyes,’ feminists and men’s rights activists argued over what this case represented, there was even a comedy sketch where a man dressed up as an old crone pretended to host a cooking show where all the guests ended up dead. Daphne was being discussed in other mediums too. The incels on Reddit were using Daphne to back up all their poorly thought-out theories about women. Ruth had read think pieces in major newspapers that talked about how Daphne represented an era, a problem, a question, even though no one was quite clear on which one.

Everyone was talking about Daphne. Particularly women. This mysterious man-killer seemed to comfort them in a secret, shameful way, this idea that there might be something dangerous lurking within all of them, that they might not be as fragile as men presumed. And of course everyone wanted to know why exactly she had confessed. What kind of self-respecting serial killer turned themselves in?

Ruth was watching a CNN expert discuss incarcerating the elderly when she glanced down at her phone and noticed that she had a missed call from her mom. Louise Robinson worked in a call center near Tampa. It was mind-numbing work, but it was more manageable for Louise than waitressing and delivery gigs since Louise had been diagnosed with early onset Parkinson’s disease. After a life of working hard as a young, single mother, now Louise was working even harder to stay afloat in a country that had very little time for people with chronic illness. It was hard watching her mother get sicker, hard watching the doctors play Whac-A-Mole with the million different symptoms that reared up, hard thinking about how much Louise’s illness would cost as it progressed, a cost Ruth would have to bear alone.

With a twinge of guilt, Ruth decided not to call her back. She hadn’t spoken to her mother in a while, and she worried that if she did speak to Louise, she’d end up telling her about the podcast. She hoped she hadn’t heard about it already. It was the worst feeling in the world, worrying her mom, and Ruth had been doing it for years. But this was different. Her mom was going to hate this.

Chapter Five

Ruth returned to Coconut Grove the next day with a renewed commitment to get the story out of Daphne. She was early so she sat in her car, organizing her bag and answering emails. On impulse, Ruth checked Jenn’s Instagram, looking for any clues about her new life. She did it almost unconsciously but the pain of seeing Jenn’s face surprised her every time, like pressing her thumb into a sore spot on her body. Her most recent post was about a book signing and Ruth scrutinized an image of Jenn standing suspiciously close to an unidentified woman. Was she dating already? Should Ruth start dating again? It was hard dating in your thirties; people had certain expectations about what a person should have achieved by then. Her romantic life was another thing that had been rocky for the last six years, and her sexual fluidity only meant that she’d frustrated and disappointed people of all genders.

It was morning but the day was already hot and humid, as if she was breathing through a pillow clamped over her mouth. Ruth sighed and stared out at a nearby billboard for the Sunshine Development Group, the largest property development company in the city. Those billboards were all over the city, reminding everyone that while they toiled away writing poorly paid articles about celebrity butt implants, wealthy families like the Montgomerys—the owners of Sunshine Development—got rich building slums and McMansions, passing their wealth and their companies down from generation to generation. Ruth’s apartment building had been built by Sunshine Development, and every time she passed the sign at the entrance, she fantasized about putting her fist through it.

Once again, an attendant escorted Ruth to Daphne’s room. This time, the attendant handed Daphne her pills. Daphne disappeared into the bathroom while Ruth set up her equipment. Once she had emerged and settled into her armchair, Ruth launched into her questions.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” she said.

“Listen, I’m ninety years old. That’s a lot of life to get through. Let’s just jump to when things get interesting,” Daphne started but Ruth interrupted her.

“No, I think the beginning is important. People love hearing that kind of stuff. Where did you grow up?”

“New York. A little apartment in Midtown,” Daphne said quickly, tossing it on the table like pocket change.

“Really? Because your daughter said you’re from a small town in Canada,” Ruth said, trying not to look triumphant. There was a flash of darkness in Daphne’s eyes. Ruth had angered her. Well, too bad.

“Well, why ask if you already knew the answer?” Daphne asked sourly. She crossed her arms over her cherry silk blouse and glowered.

“I wanted to know if you would lie to me,” Ruth replied plainly, settling her unopened notebook on her lap. The recording equipment was doing the heavy lifting, leaving her free to focus on the expressions that flickered across Daphne’s face, as quick as a starling passing in front of the sun. She watched Daphne smooth the anger off her face, leaving it as crisp and clean as a freshly ironed sheet.

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