Page 14 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

Chapter Ten

One night, Ted came over. He was plastered, drunker than I’d ever seen him. His eyes were rolling around inside his face like he was on a carnival ride. But he was happy because he had won big gambling, bigger than he’d ever won before.

“Maybe, if you ask me real nice, I’ll take you to dinner tomorrow,” Ted said, trying to light a cigarette. It took him four tries to find his mouth.

“That’d be nice,” I said woodenly, not caring if we went to dinner. My treats were the nights he didn’t come over. When he was here, he blotted out my entire existence, like a shadow over the sun.

“Ah, to hell with you,” he slurred, flicking his cigarette at me. “Why would I take such an ungrateful bitch out to dinner?”

“I’m not ungrateful,” I muttered, stooping down to pick up the cigarette that lay smoldering on the floor. My floor.

“You are! Nothing I do for you is ever good enough!” he snapped, slamming his hand down on the table.

I grew still. I realized that he was in a dangerous mood, that everything was balanced on a knife point.

If I did the wrong thing, then it all would come crashing down.

So, I did nothing. Sometimes I wished I had that kind of power, a man’s power, to change the weather in the house just with my mood.

“Oh? Now you’re too good to even answer me?” Before I knew it, he was out of his seat. He wrapped his fist in my hair and pulled hard. “Don’t forget, I saved your ass. If it weren’t for me, you’d be dead in a gutter by now!”

“I know, thank you so much, Ted,” I said in a soothing voice, even though it felt like my scalp was lifting off my skull.

“Look, it’s been a big day for you. Why don’t you go home, sleep it off, and tomorrow we’ll celebrate properly!

” I opened the door gently, hoping that he’d stagger home, that I’d make it through another night.

But instead, Ted made a noise of pure, wordless rage and lunged at me, wrapping his hands around my neck.

He was squeezing with all of his strength, collapsing my throat as easily as if he were crumpling paper.

My eyes fluttered. I was going to die in this apartment, having wasted my short, shitty life.

Just another girl that a man decided to kill.

In a final act of desperation, I raised one leg and kneed him in the balls. By that point I was seeing white holes in my vision, like snow covering up a cabin’s window. But my knee connected, there was a moan, and I felt his hands fall from my neck.

I took rapid breaths, trying to clear my vision. Ted had staggered onto the landing, just outside my open door. He was doubled up, clutching himself. For a second, I thought the moment had passed, that we could call it a night, shocked at how far this whole thing had gotten.

“You fucking bitch!” he snarled, straightening up. Ted’s hands were already raised, set on throttling me, when I kicked him in the stomach. He tilted backwards, his arms swinging like a dancer in a music hall, and then he fell down the stairs, going head over heels until I couldn’t see him anymore.

I stood at the top, trying to hear anything over the sound of my own wheezing breath.

Silence. I waited longer, my hand hovering on the doorknob in case he came running up the stairs and I needed to barricade myself in the apartment.

But then, finally, I got up the courage to descend into the darkness.

He was lying on the ground, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. I barely recognized him. His face was minced meat from the trip down the stairs and there was a big gash on the side of his head.

I knew he was dead the moment I saw him. I stood there, amazed at how a whole life could be snuffed out in a flash. My body was tingling and I felt strangely excited, like I was sitting front row at a magic show and had been dazzled by a trick.

I leaned down and pulled his wallet out, carefully extracting his gambling winnings, leaving a little cash behind so he didn’t look like he’d been robbed.

The places where Ted gambled were seedy, back-alley spots, the kinds of places that didn’t exist by day.

No one would ever know that he’d won big.

I hurried upstairs and grabbed the few things I owned, hiding my bag under my coat.

I needed to get out of there as quickly as possible, just in case the neighbors had heard us fighting.

People kept their heads down in this neighborhood and I doubted anyone would alert the police, but if the cops came knocking, someone might tell them about Ted’s girl upstairs.

I paused for one last, tender glance at Ted’s body.

Seeing him lying there made me feel brave.

And then I stepped over his body and out into the night.

I needed to get to the station and get a ticket on the next train going anywhere big.

It didn’t really matter where I started, I already knew where I was going.

Theft had gotten me to Winnipeg. Murder was going to take me to New York City.

“And that was my first murder,” Daphne said. “That was when I learned I was capable of killing someone.”

“But it was self-defense. So, how can you really say that’s murder?” Ruth asked, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. This death didn’t tell her anything about Daphne, about what she was capable of. This wasn’t the kind of murder she was hoping to find.

Daphne was quiet for a moment. She was scrutinizing Ruth’s face with cold, flat eyes. She’s trying to decide how much truth to give me , Ruth thought.

“It was murder because of how I felt after I did it. I didn’t feel regret. I felt. . . calm. Like I had finally taken control.”

There was a long silence, punctuated finally by Daphne laughing, an angry little snort of a laugh.

“These early episodes are making for grim listening. I wish we didn’t have to go through this laundry list of men who treated me like shit. If I could, I’d just forget the first twenty years or so of my life.” She sighed. “I almost feel embarrassed about how much crap I took.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Ruth said. “You didn’t have a choice.” She wondered if that was what murder represented for Daphne: a choice.

“Well, there you go, now you know how I went from pastoral farm girl to cosmopolitan murderer,” Daphne said, slapping her bony hands against her knees to punctuate her sentence.

Ruth nodded. She’d already noticed that Daphne spoke in a strange mixture of colloquialisms, profanity, and five-dollar vocabulary words (occasionally mispronounced as if she’d only seen them in text), the voice of a very well-read person with little formal education.

“Almost a rags-to-riches story,” Ruth said, smiling so Daphne knew it was a joke. Should she be joking with Daphne? It might get Daphne to trust her, to believe that she was on her side.

Daphne snorted. “More like hick to homicide.”

ShockAndBlah:

That’s not murder. He was going to kill her if she didn’t kill him!

PreyAllDay:

When are the real murders gonna start? I hate those podcasts that take twelve episodes to cover one freaking murder!!! You can do a murder in thirty minutes and move on!

ShockAndBlah:

Tough day?

StopDropAndTroll:

This is only if you BELIEVE her! SHE’s the one saying he was abusive. SHE’s the one saying they were fighting that night! Maybe she just pushed him down the stairs to steal his money!!!

PreyAllDay:

But if you think she’s lying about everything why bother listening???

StopDropAndTroll:

Becuz I wanna see her get nailed to the wall.

BurntheBookBurnerz:

Fucking incel.

PreyAllDay:

Do we think Daphne confessed just to become famous?

ShockAndBlah:

Well if she did. . . it’s working!

StopDropAndTroll:

Only idiots want to become famous.

BurntheBookBurnerz:

Honestly, this isn’t the kind of fame I would ever want. But then again, I didn’t spend my life murdering people either so I don’t really know what’s going on inside her head. I’m sure Ruth will figure it out eventually.

It was early evening and Ruth was home, picking at her girl dinner of crackers and grapes while she stared at Jenn’s Instagram, salivating over the sight of her pomegranate stew and almond rice.

They were the same age, but Jenn had been a real adult, a ‘freezing her eggs for future babies, going to the farmer’s market, writing a schedule’ person, whereas the only thing Ruth ever froze was burritos.

After dinner, Ruth popped down to the apartment mailboxes. Some part of her was hoping she might find a letter for Jenn that would give her an excuse to contact her, even though she knew that was pathetic.

Instead, she found a manila envelope with her name on it. Ruth frowned and began tearing it open as she walked up the steps to the apartment. The letter read:

Dear Ruth Robinson,

I have become aware of a new project you’ve undertaken, a true crime podcast about a local crime story, and have shared this information with the rest of the family and our lawyers.

I would urge you to think carefully about continuing such a harmful podcast that paints our community in a bad light.

Palm Haven is a warm, friendly place and we want investors and tourists to focus on its positive aspects.

I would also warn you that this podcast should contain no reference to the Montgomery family, the Sunshine Development Group or any of its trustees.

Any comments that bring us into disrepute will be treated as slander and pursued at the highest legal level.

Please remember that as a tenant of a Sunshine Development Group property, you should also refrain from any activities that damage our business interests.

Best,

Lucy Montgomery

Ruth wadded up the letter and threw it in the trash in a fit of anger.

Lucy Montgomery was chief realtor for the Sunshine buildings and personally handled the luxury sales for the company.

Ruth always had the sense that she had a lot of influence in the family as well as the company (although at forty-seven, Lucy wasn’t exactly a girlboss).

When Ruth had spent time with the Montgomerys, she had noticed that everyone kowtowed to Lucy, even her aunts and uncles.

Only her father seemed capable of keeping Lucy in line, as if he’d developed an immunity to her power games.

And now Lucy had set her sights on Ruth and her exciting new podcast.

Lucy had gotten everything in life. It was time Ruth claimed her share .