Page 11 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

Chapter Eight

Ruth’s phone rang as she was parking her car at Coconut Grove. It wasn’t a number she recognized but she answered, in case it might be someone calling her about Daphne.

“Hi, Ruth, it’s Officer Rankin. I don’t know if you remember me. . . It’s been a while.”

“Yes, I remember you,” Ruth said, gripping her steering wheel. She had already rolled her windows up and so she sat in the stuffy car, feeling the heat rising around her, as if she were a lobster in water slowly being brought to a boil.

“You’re probably surprised to hear from me,” he said with a chuckle, as if the idea of Ruth being caught off guard made him smile.

“Uh, yes, I am,” Ruth said curtly. In fact, she’d been hoping to never hear from Officer Rankin again. Or any of the Palm Haven police, really.

“Well, the thing is, Ruth, this podcast you’re doing.

. . it’s a problem. It’s a problem for the Montgomerys and it’s a problem for the police.

And well, let’s just say I represent both those interests.

So, I would suggest you leave this alone.

This is an active investigation. We still don’t know why she’s confessed to all this or even that she’s telling the truth about the other murders.

You could end up subpoenaed; some might even see you as obstructing justice.

We really don’t know how a DA or a judge would see it.

They might just throw the book at you, make an example to all the other influencers and wannabe journalists making life difficult. ”

“Making life difficult for the Montgomerys?” Ruth asked.

“For all of us, Ruth,” he said softly, a threat held back between his teeth. Ruth had always wondered how close the Montgomerys were to Officer Rankin, how much influence they had on the cases he tried to pursue, the people he wanted to investigate. This conversation made it a lot clearer.

Ruth threw the car door open and took a deep breath, trying to stay calm, even as a million profanities began to form on her lips.

“I’m not interfering with the investigation. And the First Amendment protects the press. Besides, this podcast could be helpful. I’ve got detailed recordings of Daphne confessing to crimes,” Ruth responded.

Rankin grunted. “You’re lecturing me about the law? I’m a police officer, Ruth. I think I know a bit more about the law than you do. And when motivated enough, we can usually find some kind of infraction. . .”

“Is that a threat?” Ruth asked, feeling a spike of fury travel through her. They thought she was still some na?ve girl in her twenties that they could push around. But they didn’t understand. It was 2022 and no one trusted cops anymore.

“Of course not, the police don’t threaten anyone, especially not journalists. Consider it a suggestion. This podcast. . . well, it could cause a lot of problems for you,” he said, his voice smooth and satisfied, as if he understood exactly who held the power here.

“Great, well, thanks for the feedback,” Ruth muttered. She hung up and stormed into Coconut Grove, barely waiting for the attendant to escort her. She slammed her feet down with considerable force on the carpeted floor, trying to burn off the lingering dread that phone call had given her.

“Someone kill your cat?” Daphne asked, shuffling over with her walker to sit in her armchair.

“I don’t have a cat,” Ruth grumbled, throwing herself down on the seat across from her.

“And yet you seem like you should. So, what’s wrong?” Daphne asked.

“I just had a phone call from the Palm Haven police, essentially threatening me not to do the podcast. The cops around here are just ignorant, incompetent bullies!” Ruth fumed, clenching and unclenching her fists.

She took a deep breath, reminding herself that she was a journalist, a professional, and she wanted Daphne to see her calm and collected.

“Yeah, I can’t say I’m a big fan of the thin blue line myself,” Daphne said, still studying her. Ruth didn’t like being scrutinized by her; Daphne was too good at reading people.

Ruth took a deep breath. The conversation with Officer Rankin had provoked her, but she knew she needed to calm down and focus on the interview. The best way to flip the proverbial bird to thugs like Officer Rankin was to put out a banger of a second episode.

“Obviously we’re still doing the podcast. So, tell me about your first murder,” Ruth said.

After she’d cracked the whip last time, Daphne seemed to be behaving much better.

Her first episode had been a complete success and Ruth had begun to feel hopeful that she might just get what she’d come for, ideally while netting a bit of cash along the way.

“Well, you never forget your first,” Daphne responded with a laugh. Ruth resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she just sat silently until Daphne continued, like a teacher waiting for the class clown to settle down.

“He was a. . . boyfriend. Seems kind of funny to call a man in his thirties a boy, but he was my first boyfriend. I had only been in Winnipeg a few weeks when I met him.”

“So, you were sixteen. Do you still think about him?”

“No, he’s dead,” Daphne said with a shrug.

“Once they’re dead, you can just. . . forget them.

” Ruth glanced away so Daphne wouldn’t see her grimace.

It was such a heartless thing to say, especially as family members of Daphne’s victims might be listening.

But then again, it was a fantastic quote for the podcast. It was a strange experience, to be sitting here, talking with Daphne while simultaneously editing it all in her head, polishing it for her imaginary audience.

“But people won’t forget you after you’re dead, not now.”

“Yeah, that’s the point,” Daphne said. “Ninety-nine percent of the people alive today don’t want to be forgotten, but almost all of them will be.

Let’s face it, you wouldn’t give a shit about Ted, a guy who died in another country over seventy years ago, if it weren’t for me. That’s gotta count for something.”

Count with who? Ruth wondered.

EPISODE TWO: 1948–1952

RUTH: What were your first impressions of Winnipeg?

DAPHNE: Well, I’d never been in a real city. I knew so little about the world that I couldn’t think too much about it or I would have started to panic. Instead, I just had to plunge in, like a cow barreling through an old fence. I needed my life to get better.

RUTH: What was better to you?

DAPHNE: Well, at that time, I think I wanted to be safe. I wanted a job, the freedom to make my own choices, and maybe a little excitement. I found a room in a boardinghouse pretty quickly. My room was a single bed crammed into the old larder.

RUTH: What’s a larder?

DAPHNE: Christ, I thought you had a college degree!

You must have gone to one of those fake colleges they advertise on TV.

It’s a room where you store food, like a pantry but colder.

As I was saying, I liked the house because people were always moving in and out, so I knew no one would pay attention to me.

But the problem was, I couldn’t find a job.

The town was full of former farmers who’d watched their dreams dry up and blow away in the Depression, and former soldiers who watched their squadrons get torn up and blown away in the war, and all of them wanted jobs.

And every day I went without work was another day I ate my money.

Soon, I only had enough for one more week at the boardinghouse and I was scared.

RUTH: Scared of going home?

DAPHNE: Oh, I knew I’d never go back to Lucan.

I would have jumped in front of a train before I did that.

But just scared of being on the street, of maybe even having to sell my body for money, when I was already so sick of men.

It’s funny, all these years later, I can still remember how terrified I was.

I’d just lie in bed at night, paralyzed by the weight of it all.

And that’s when I met Ted, at my lowest point.

But that’s always when you meet men like Ted—when life has beaten the fight outta you. . .

That last desperate week was one of the worst times of my life.

I walked all day, looking for work around the city, my whole body coursing with anxiety.

My feet hurt from the dead wife’s shoes, but I couldn’t wear my old boots because then everyone would know exactly what I was.

Most of them guessed anyways. I walked into a bakery and the woman behind the counter took one look at me, sunburnt and nervous, in an outfit that didn’t belong to me, and told me they didn’t hire trash.

I tried every shop and restaurant I could find, but none of them had a job for a teenage girl with no schooling and no work experience other than dirt farming.

A shop owner pointed at the veterans lining up outside, hoping someone would give them a day job as a laborer, and asked me what made me think I was better than them.

I hung my head and left, even though I really wanted to ask him what made him think he was better than me, even if all I had was a suitcase full of stolen clothes that I was already starting to sell off to other women in the boardinghouse.

I had moved to Winnipeg with something new—hope—and having it taken away so quickly hurt worse than never having it.

I couldn’t eat. My mouth was full of a sour, dry taste, and my stomach churned constantly.

I felt like the whole world was about to end.

All I could hear was a loud, ticking clock, drowning out the rhythm of my own heartbeat.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you crying for?” A voice, low and warm. I was sitting on the back steps again, furiously wiping away loose tears, scraping my face with my red and bony hands. I had two days left at the boardinghouse before my money ran out.