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Prologue
They found him on Thursday morning, wrapped in his duvet as neatly as the paper around a cigarette. He always slept like that but today his face was gray and still. The attendants at the Coconut Grove senior home phoned the hospital, and even though they had performed this ritual many times, the sadness hung a little heavier in the air. Warren Ackerman had been a favorite resident, a charming gentleman who loved to croon ballads to make the nurses smile. He had entered the home a widow and the other residents, who were predominantly female, had acted like schoolgirls, giving him red lipstick smiles and chocolates from their birthday boxes.
After almost a year, Warren had chosen a girlfriend, and the red lipstick was shelved. Being with Daphne St Clair had only made him happier and his dance steps were even lighter when he twirled next to her wheelchair. And now, all that joy and the promise of one more chance to love, and to be loved, was over.
Daphne stood there, watching them carry the shrouded stretcher away, wrapping her frail arms around herself. She looked so small and alone that the other residents turned away, remembering all the shared histories dissolved in a single moment. Almost all of them had made the painful journey from wives to widows, and seeing Daphne and the stretcher only reminded them that they’d be leaving Coconut Grove the same way someday.
The attendants gave Daphne extra care, easing her back onto her pillows, offering soft blankets and company, but she wanted to be left alone. Her twin daughters lived locally but visited with the same frequency as snow here in Florida. It was a shame, really, because Daphne was a lovely old woman: lively but sophisticated, with the regal bearing of someone who had been beautiful for most of her life. Even though age had faded her looks, the memory of being admired still illuminated her features.
When dinner ended and Daphne still hadn’t left her room, Rachel—one of the attendants—decided to call her daughter Diane. Daphne clearly needed a reminder that she wasn’t alone, that people loved her, and that was a daughter’s job. When Diane answered, Rachel informed her of Warren’s death, suggesting that she call and check in on her mother. Diane said she might be able to find the time, but she wasvery busy.
“Hi, Mom, I heard you lost someone today,” Diane said.
“Yes, I did—a very nice man named Warren,” Daphne replied. She sounded more subdued than usual.
“I didn’t even know you had a boyfriend,” Diane replied.
“We’ve been seeing each other for almost a year. He was a great comfort to me during the pandemic,” Daphne explained quietly.
“It’s very sad, Mom, but it’s kind of inevitable in an old folks’ home. Anyways, it’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it? To have a boyfriend at your age?” Her daughter sounded distracted, as if she was watching TV.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to embarrass you,” Daphne said woodenly. “Anyways, I’d like to go to bed now.”
“Okay. . . well, I’ll try to come visit soon. Maybe I’ll bring Harper,” Diane said, but her mother had already hung up. She felt a twinge of guilt that she hadn’t been kinder, but she brushed it off. Her mother was a tough old broad. A good night’s sleep and she’d be back to her usual self.
After she hung up the phone, Daphne sat on the edge of her bed, the mattress so plush and thick that the soles of her feet only brushed against the floor. She didn’t turn the light on and instead sat in the gray-blue twilight that washed her walls. It was that liminal time, the moment between the daylight and the night, when everything seemed too dark but a lamp too bright. Even as the light faded further, Daphne sat there, staring at the blank space around her.
Finally, she picked up the phone on her nightstand and began to dial, her movements precise and without hesitancy.
“Palm Haven Police Station, how can I help you?”
“Hello,” she began, clearing her throat and then continuing. “A man named Warren Ackerman was found dead at Coconut Grove Senior Living Facility today. Everyone is assuming he died of old age, but he was actually murdered. And I killed him. In fact, I’ve killed a lot of people. . .”
The First Murder
Chapter One
STATEMENT FROM THE PALM HAVEN POLICE DEPARTMENT
“Good morning. Two days ago, a woman named Daphne St Clair contacted the police and confessed to a series of murders that span four states, two countries, and seven decades. These alleged murders involve several men that Ms. St Clair was romantically involved with. One of these murders, the poisoning of Warren Ackerman, occurred three days ago at a local retirement home. Yesterday, an autopsy was conducted on Mr. Ackerman, and we now have enough credible evidence to charge Ms. St Clair with murder in the first degree. At this time, we will not be disclosing any information about the other murders as we have no independent evidence to confirm them. Ms. St Clair also used many aliases over the years, which will need to be investigated. However, we will be liaising with law enforcement in other jurisdictions, who are very interested in what Ms. St Clair has disclosed.
“The murder of Warren Ackerman, which occurred here in Florida, will be the focus of our investigation. We have already been able to preserve a significant amount of relevant evidence, as this murder is so recent. This case is complicated by the fact that Ms. St Clair is ninety years old and in poor health. The District Attorney’s office is currently exploring options for facilities that could incarcerate Ms. St Clair in a safe and humane way, but there is a shortage of spaces. We will provide more updates as this case progresses. Thank you.”
The day after the police made their statement, my lawyer Arthur Tisdale came out to see me. He stood by the window of my sitting room in his three-piece suit, staring out at the senior center’s lawn that was so green, it seemed to glow in the Sunday afternoon sun. Tisdale was apparently a very famous defense attorney, the kind of man who made sure that a real estate tycoon or pro-basketball player in Florida could break every law on heaven and earth and never find out if orange is their color.
“I must say it’s very unusual for a serial killer to confess, especially when they’re not under any suspicion,” he said, studying me as if I was mystery meat.
“I guess when He made me, God broke the mold,” I quipped, but Tisdale didn’t crack a smile.
“We’ll need to have you assessed, to make sure you’re mentally sound. Both to have made the confession but also to enter a plea. And we’ve got a good shot of keeping you out of prison until we enter a guilty plea, because your age and health concerns will make it very difficult for prison authorities to accommodate you, and the staff tell me you don’t have the mobility to flee.”
“Okay,” I said, faintly disappointed that nothing was really going to change yet. I was already imprisoned in my room, no longer allowed to visit common areas or spend time with the other residents. Jeez, you kill one old man and suddenly no one wants to sit at your lunch table. I knew the residents hated me and even the staff who delivered my meals and bathed me did so with stony faces. I don’t know if you’ve ever had someone who thinks you’re scum wash your back, but I wouldn’t recommend it.
“It’s also important you don’t leave the home, because this will be a high-profile case, with multiple investigations and many victims, and someone might want to hurt you. I’ve already had a few people contact our office, trying to get in touch with you. Some will be journalists, but others could be more malicious.”
“Well, I guess I’m like the full moon; I bring all the crazies out,” I said with a laugh.
“But I do want to make clear that a guilty plea will result in prison time eventually. There are people in their eighties and nineties in prison in this state.”