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FEMALE HOMEOWNER:Here? You’re telling me she murdered someone in my house?
RUTH:Yes, sixty years ago. A man named David Priestly.
FEMALE HOMEOWNER:They did say the home had been in the same family for over a hundred years, I think the namewasPriestly. So, you’re visiting town to interview people for your. . . podcast?
RUTH:Yes. And I don’t suppose, you could show me around the house? Or I could maybe interview you about the house?
FEMALE HOMEOWNER (coldly):Now, why would I want everyone knowing a murder happened in my house? I don’t even want to know that. I think you had better leave now, before I call the police.
[Sound of a door shutting firmly.]
Ruth got back in her car and drove away, feeling the woman’s eyes watching her until the house disappeared around the corner. That conversation had been a failure, but Ruth was hopeful that tomorrow’s interview with Belinda Vaughn would go better.
Every time she interviewed Daphne, she made sure to pump her for as much verifiable information as possible: addresses, people’s names, timelines. The podcast needed additional interviews, of course, but Ruth also knew that she needed to be able to corner Daphne, to box her in with as much truth as possible so she’d have less room to lie.
After interviewing Daphne about Leosville, Ruth had taken the list of names and tried to find people who still remembered her. She was looking for people in their eighties and nineties who still lived in the area and would agree to talk to her. One by one, the names withered and dropped from her list until one remained:Belinda.The Queen Bee.
Ruth drove down Main Street, following the directions to her hotel. Looking around, she had the feeling that not much had changed since Daphne had lived there six decades before. The lawns were manicured, the red brick gleamed, and Ruth couldn’t see a single panhandler or vacant shopfront. Somehow the opioid epidemic that raged through every other small town in America seemed to have skipped this place, the land fentanyl forgot. In every shop window and crowded corner Ruth felt as if she could see Daphne, young and gorgeous, a crow in a pack of canaries, just out of the corner of her eye, slipping away whenever Ruth tried to get a better look.
The next day, Ruth woke up to a text from her mother wishing her a safe trip but also requesting that she spend this time away really thinking about whether this podcast was worth it. Ruth ignored it.
She checked Jenn’s Instagram, noting that Jenn had a new book out and was signing copies in a Palm Haven bookstore. Clearly their breakup hadn’t sent Jenn into a doom spiral like her. Ruth’s life had always been messy, but Jenn had met Ruth at a particularly low moment, when Ruth’s whole life had been knocked off course and Ruth was trying to figure out if it was healthier for her to completely ignore the past or try to solve the mystery that was slowly consuming her. She had swung between repression and obsession until finally, the relationship had ended, ironically just before Ruth had gotten the sign she’d been waiting for: Daphne’s confession.
Ruth found Belinda sitting in the lounge of Willowdale Seniors Home. Ruth noticed immediately that the older woman had put a lot of effort into her appearance, coating her sparse eyelashes with mascara and draping her rounded body in a beaded jacket and slacks that made her look like a guest at a wedding. Belinda looked disappointed when she saw Ruth was wearing jeans and hoodie, but perked up when Ruth complimented her.
“I love the jacket. You look so glamorous.”
“Oh well, I like to dress up. My generation always took pride in their appearance, unlike people today,” she said with a smile. Ruth couldn’t tell if that was a jab at her but even if it was, what would she have done? Belinda was the only important interview she had for the weekend, the rest was just getting local color and flipping through old newspapers at the town library.
“I agree. It was so much nicer when men wore suits and hats, and women went out with their hair done,” Ruth said, mimicking the boring old shit her grandmother’s friends used to say.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Belinda replied, pleasantly surprised. “Well, I’m glad I could help you with your research. I have to say, I’m surprised Daphne turned out to be a murderer and even more surprised that she’d turn herself in when no one suspected her. I thought she was just your garden-variety gold digger.”
“So, what was your first impression of Daphne?” Ruth asked, hurriedly pulling out her recording equipment before she missed any more insults. Belinda laced her hands together and leaned back, obviously ready to hold court.
“Can I swear? Because Daphne, or Cecilia as I knew her, was a real. . . bitch—” Belinda bit off the word and slid it through her teeth, as if it was a particularly chewy piece of toffee. “Daphne would go on and on about how exciting it was in Manhattan, all the fabulous stores and how many celebrities she had met. But I always knew she was just trash wrapped up in a bow. I didn’t have time to worry about her though, I was focused on being the best wife and mother I could be,” she finished, staring down her nose at her guest. Ruth had assumed all the petty stuff would be washed away when you were staring death in the face but clearly, she was wrong. People were people, no matter their age. And people were usually awful.
“Is your husband. . . around?” Ruth asked, not sure how to ask someone if their husband was asleep by the fireplace or in an urn on the mantel.
“We’re not together anymore,” Belinda said sourly. “Not for thirty years now.” She deflated when she said it, as if talking about a treasured career that ended in redundancy.
“So, do you remember anything strange about Daphne?” Ruth asked.
“Well, she was very attached to her son. Which is funny because I think most women would have made a real fuss over identical twin girls. This was before everyone went to a scientist to have six babies put in them at once. But no, it was the boy she favored. He was a sweetheart. How’s he doing?” Belinda asked. “I imagine it’s been strange finding out mommie dearest is a killer,” she said with barely disguised satisfaction.
Ruth wondered what it was about women that they took such pleasure in everyone else’s misfortune? A woman could dine out on infidelity or divorce, making a messy meal out of it, sucking out the marrow and licking her fingers at the end. Maybe you couldn’t be lofty and noble when the world denied you so much power. You had to live down in the dirt, scrabbling for crumbs and cataloguing other people’s faults and failures.
“They’ve been estranged for decades, so we don’t even know if he’s heard about his mother’s confession,” Ruth said. Belinda nodded, flattening her lips and tucking them inside her mouth.
“Well, I guess we have that in common. My son William is not in touch either. We had a falling-out about his. . . lifestyle,” Belinda said.
Ruth sighed. She never understood how someone could lose a child over something as intrinsic as sexuality. Ruth had never even bothered explaining her sexuality to her mother. Louise was just informed of any new romantic developments in her life and whether the person coming to dinner was vegan, paleo, or just a boring old vegetarian.
“You know, that was the best time in my life, when the kids were young. I felt like I really had a purpose,” Belinda said wistfully. It always made Ruth sad when old women talked about how happy they’d been when their husbands were alive and their children were young. It reminded her what was coming for them and what would come for her someday. Even Daphne could get a little nostalgic about her younger days, although she was usually reminiscing about killing men and spending all their money, which was less sweet.
RUTH:What happened after David died? Not to get all Angela Lansbury on you, but no one suspected foul play?
BELINDA (indignantly):Who? And why would anyone think it was foul play, when his own doctor was going around saying it was cancer? I wish that damned fool was still alive—he’d have some explaining to do!
RUTH:Yes, sixty years ago. A man named David Priestly.
FEMALE HOMEOWNER:They did say the home had been in the same family for over a hundred years, I think the namewasPriestly. So, you’re visiting town to interview people for your. . . podcast?
RUTH:Yes. And I don’t suppose, you could show me around the house? Or I could maybe interview you about the house?
FEMALE HOMEOWNER (coldly):Now, why would I want everyone knowing a murder happened in my house? I don’t even want to know that. I think you had better leave now, before I call the police.
[Sound of a door shutting firmly.]
Ruth got back in her car and drove away, feeling the woman’s eyes watching her until the house disappeared around the corner. That conversation had been a failure, but Ruth was hopeful that tomorrow’s interview with Belinda Vaughn would go better.
Every time she interviewed Daphne, she made sure to pump her for as much verifiable information as possible: addresses, people’s names, timelines. The podcast needed additional interviews, of course, but Ruth also knew that she needed to be able to corner Daphne, to box her in with as much truth as possible so she’d have less room to lie.
After interviewing Daphne about Leosville, Ruth had taken the list of names and tried to find people who still remembered her. She was looking for people in their eighties and nineties who still lived in the area and would agree to talk to her. One by one, the names withered and dropped from her list until one remained:Belinda.The Queen Bee.
Ruth drove down Main Street, following the directions to her hotel. Looking around, she had the feeling that not much had changed since Daphne had lived there six decades before. The lawns were manicured, the red brick gleamed, and Ruth couldn’t see a single panhandler or vacant shopfront. Somehow the opioid epidemic that raged through every other small town in America seemed to have skipped this place, the land fentanyl forgot. In every shop window and crowded corner Ruth felt as if she could see Daphne, young and gorgeous, a crow in a pack of canaries, just out of the corner of her eye, slipping away whenever Ruth tried to get a better look.
The next day, Ruth woke up to a text from her mother wishing her a safe trip but also requesting that she spend this time away really thinking about whether this podcast was worth it. Ruth ignored it.
She checked Jenn’s Instagram, noting that Jenn had a new book out and was signing copies in a Palm Haven bookstore. Clearly their breakup hadn’t sent Jenn into a doom spiral like her. Ruth’s life had always been messy, but Jenn had met Ruth at a particularly low moment, when Ruth’s whole life had been knocked off course and Ruth was trying to figure out if it was healthier for her to completely ignore the past or try to solve the mystery that was slowly consuming her. She had swung between repression and obsession until finally, the relationship had ended, ironically just before Ruth had gotten the sign she’d been waiting for: Daphne’s confession.
Ruth found Belinda sitting in the lounge of Willowdale Seniors Home. Ruth noticed immediately that the older woman had put a lot of effort into her appearance, coating her sparse eyelashes with mascara and draping her rounded body in a beaded jacket and slacks that made her look like a guest at a wedding. Belinda looked disappointed when she saw Ruth was wearing jeans and hoodie, but perked up when Ruth complimented her.
“I love the jacket. You look so glamorous.”
“Oh well, I like to dress up. My generation always took pride in their appearance, unlike people today,” she said with a smile. Ruth couldn’t tell if that was a jab at her but even if it was, what would she have done? Belinda was the only important interview she had for the weekend, the rest was just getting local color and flipping through old newspapers at the town library.
“I agree. It was so much nicer when men wore suits and hats, and women went out with their hair done,” Ruth said, mimicking the boring old shit her grandmother’s friends used to say.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Belinda replied, pleasantly surprised. “Well, I’m glad I could help you with your research. I have to say, I’m surprised Daphne turned out to be a murderer and even more surprised that she’d turn herself in when no one suspected her. I thought she was just your garden-variety gold digger.”
“So, what was your first impression of Daphne?” Ruth asked, hurriedly pulling out her recording equipment before she missed any more insults. Belinda laced her hands together and leaned back, obviously ready to hold court.
“Can I swear? Because Daphne, or Cecilia as I knew her, was a real. . . bitch—” Belinda bit off the word and slid it through her teeth, as if it was a particularly chewy piece of toffee. “Daphne would go on and on about how exciting it was in Manhattan, all the fabulous stores and how many celebrities she had met. But I always knew she was just trash wrapped up in a bow. I didn’t have time to worry about her though, I was focused on being the best wife and mother I could be,” she finished, staring down her nose at her guest. Ruth had assumed all the petty stuff would be washed away when you were staring death in the face but clearly, she was wrong. People were people, no matter their age. And people were usually awful.
“Is your husband. . . around?” Ruth asked, not sure how to ask someone if their husband was asleep by the fireplace or in an urn on the mantel.
“We’re not together anymore,” Belinda said sourly. “Not for thirty years now.” She deflated when she said it, as if talking about a treasured career that ended in redundancy.
“So, do you remember anything strange about Daphne?” Ruth asked.
“Well, she was very attached to her son. Which is funny because I think most women would have made a real fuss over identical twin girls. This was before everyone went to a scientist to have six babies put in them at once. But no, it was the boy she favored. He was a sweetheart. How’s he doing?” Belinda asked. “I imagine it’s been strange finding out mommie dearest is a killer,” she said with barely disguised satisfaction.
Ruth wondered what it was about women that they took such pleasure in everyone else’s misfortune? A woman could dine out on infidelity or divorce, making a messy meal out of it, sucking out the marrow and licking her fingers at the end. Maybe you couldn’t be lofty and noble when the world denied you so much power. You had to live down in the dirt, scrabbling for crumbs and cataloguing other people’s faults and failures.
“They’ve been estranged for decades, so we don’t even know if he’s heard about his mother’s confession,” Ruth said. Belinda nodded, flattening her lips and tucking them inside her mouth.
“Well, I guess we have that in common. My son William is not in touch either. We had a falling-out about his. . . lifestyle,” Belinda said.
Ruth sighed. She never understood how someone could lose a child over something as intrinsic as sexuality. Ruth had never even bothered explaining her sexuality to her mother. Louise was just informed of any new romantic developments in her life and whether the person coming to dinner was vegan, paleo, or just a boring old vegetarian.
“You know, that was the best time in my life, when the kids were young. I felt like I really had a purpose,” Belinda said wistfully. It always made Ruth sad when old women talked about how happy they’d been when their husbands were alive and their children were young. It reminded her what was coming for them and what would come for her someday. Even Daphne could get a little nostalgic about her younger days, although she was usually reminiscing about killing men and spending all their money, which was less sweet.
RUTH:What happened after David died? Not to get all Angela Lansbury on you, but no one suspected foul play?
BELINDA (indignantly):Who? And why would anyone think it was foul play, when his own doctor was going around saying it was cancer? I wish that damned fool was still alive—he’d have some explaining to do!
Table of Contents
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