Page 2 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

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.”

“I know,” I said. “This is Florida. Tough on crime. And I suppose killing old people is bad for business in the retirement state.” I also knew they didn’t take kindly to serial killers.

Aileen Wuornos had been executed here and so had Ted Bundy.

The local yokels had even thrown ‘Bundy Burn’ parties on his execution day.

“Finally, other states may seek to extradite you for crimes committed in their jurisdictions. In the coming months, you will likely be getting visits from these investigators from other states, to assist with their inquiries. I, of course, will be present. But I don’t think you need to be too concerned about extradition.

These processes are—” he cleared his throat, looking embarrassed “—lengthy, and to put it delicately . . . ”

“I’ll probably die first,” I interrupted him.

“Who’s dying now?” a voice demanded. I looked up and saw my sixty-year-old twin daughters Rose and Diane and my granddaughter Harper being ushered through the door.

“Ah. I see you have visitors. That’s fine, we were essentially finished,” Tisdale said, waving formally and slipping out. Diane’s eyes followed him on the way out. She always was a sucker for a good suit.

“Well, what brings you two out?” I asked.

Even though they only lived an hour’s drive away, it had been months since I’d seen them last. People don’t like visiting their elderly parents.

I get it; most old people only have one topic of conversation: the many exciting ways their bodies are packing it in.

I’ve always been interesting, even if people didn’t fully grasp that until now.

Here’s a fun fact about life: when your children are young, you can’t imagine the assholes they’re capable of becoming.

But give it enough time and you’ll see for yourself.

My son went from being a good child to a clever, decent man but unfortunately my twins flopped like soufflés.

I gave them everything but instead of making them satisfied, they just wanted more, more, more.

When I was pregnant with the twins, my nails started cracking and I lost two teeth.

They were leeching the minerals from my bones, literally devouring me alive.

And that’s how they’ve always been: four grasping hands and two mean little mouths demanding more.

My girls were both engaged in a furious fight against time, injecting their faces with so much Botox and filler that their skin seemed tight and shiny, like overfilled balloons.

From a block away, they did look attractive; they both dyed their hair a honey blonde and they had golden tans and flashing white teeth.

But all I saw when I looked at them were price tags.

Even their teeth were veneers. Their real teeth, the ones I had watched poke through their gums and taught them how to brush, had been whittled down to spikes and covered in porcelain.

“Okay, your little cry for help has worked; we’re visiting you. Now will you tell the police you made this up to get attention?” Diane said as she paced in front of my chair, her voice dripping with condescension, as if I were a child who told her class she rode a dinosaur to school.

“Diane—” I began but was interrupted by a groan and a flap of a manicured hand.

“Mother, I’ve told you a million times, call me Dian- ah . Diane sounds like the name of a waitress.”

“Oh, so a woman with a job? Yes, much better to sound unemployed,” I said with a sniff.

“I birthed you. I think I earned the right to name you.” I knew I was being hypocritical.

Diane wanted to change one syllable of her name, whereas I changed my name as often as I did phone providers.

But Diane’s insistence on a classier name emphasized the greedy streak that dominated the twins’ characters.

They would trade every scrap of happiness they possessed for a swimming pool, a black American Express card, and a desirable zip code. In fact, they already had.

“Diana’s name isn’t the point,” Rose interjected. Darling Rose, always the second to speak and the last to think. “Mother, what is going on? You told the police you killed an old man?”

“Well, among others,” I said mildly. “I’ve killed a lot of men actually. I might need to sit down with pencil and paper to work out how many.”

“Is this a dementia thing?” Rose asked Diane in low tones.

Diane shrugged. “Her doctors say no. And I don’t know about the. . . others, but the police think she’s telling the truth about Warren.” Diane glanced at me and raised her voice, just on the off-chance I’d turned senile in the last ten seconds.

“MOTHER, ARE YOU GETTING CONFUSED? MAYBE YOU JUST THINK YOU KILLED THOSE PEOPLE. . . OR FANTASIZED ABOUT IT?”

“No, sweetheart. If I actually killed every person I fantasized about killing then I would be much more prolific than, say, the Green River Killer or the Golden State Killer. Both very famous murderers, you know,” I said.

I met Harper’s eyes and winked. She smiled back and then looked down at her book, pretending to read.

“You’re telling the truth?” Diane asked, roughly grabbing my arm and then releasing it when she felt how spindly it was. I used to haul a twin around under each arm and now she could have snapped me like a breadstick. Getting old is the pits.

“Bingo. Hey, parents can surprise you,” I said, feeling a surge of energy. I had spent seventy years telling lie after lie and it was exhilarating to stop pretending.

“Oh Jesus Christ! Mother, what have you done? Do you know how humiliating it is to be the daughter of a serial killer?” Diane asked, her voice rising to such a shrill pitch that I thought the mirror would crack.

“No, darling, I don’t,” I said serenely, and gave her my most pleasant smile. “My mother never hurt a fly.”

“Everyone is talking about us. I’ve canceled our membership to the club, because God knows, I can’t show my face in there. Harper’s heartbroken—she loved the tennis there,” Diane said.

“I really don’t mind,” Harper piped up. She was sitting cross-legged on my bed, reading a Harry Potter book with a stern look on her face. “I hated the club. All the other kids just wanted to take selfies and make TikToks. It’s so boring.”

I smiled at Harper. She was my favorite grandchild.

It had taken a while for me to get one that I loved.

I had to wait for Diane’s second marriage and a surrogate pregnancy after nature told her no more.

To my generation, a baby at forty-eight was unheard of, of course, but late-in-life babies seemed to be a status symbol among my daughters’ friends, the Birkin bags of the new millennium.

It made me miss the good old days, when rich women embraced old age by swanning around in fur coats and pearls, surviving on a steady diet of cigarettes and Manhattans and passing out at 4 p.m.

Unfortunately, Harper didn’t inherit my looks.

She had thick glasses and gray-brown hair that hung limply around her face like boiled spaghetti.

Her front teeth were also curiously long and rounded, like a rabbit’s.

But she was smart, and even at her age, she got the joke.

And you don’t have to be beautiful when you’re born rich.

“Don’t you understand what this could do to Reid’s political career? Why did you have to confess before an election?” Rose demanded. Her husband was a senator, just another boy who was born on third base and thought he’d hit a triple.

“Yes, I suppose you all really are the biggest victims in this,” I said gravely.

“Well, at least you understand that,” Diane muttered.

“Girls, don’t worry. Tomorrow some politician—now I’m not saying it will be your husband, Rose—will be caught with his pecker out and the newspapers will forget about me.”

“Are you deluded? Mom, there is nothing Americans love more than murder. Your story is all over the news! People are already trying to dig up information about you and your family! Harper told me she’s even heard your name mentioned on a podcast!” Diane snapped.

“Podcasts. . . those are like radio shows, right?” I asked. “A couple of them have already contacted me via my lawyer, asking for interviews.”

“What did you say?” Rose asked. I shrugged and turned to Harper.

“What do you think? Should Grandma do the podcasts?”

Harper nodded at me. “Yeah, you should go on My Favorite Murder ; that’s the best one,” she said. Diane’s eyes bulged.

“And I’ll have to pick one, will I? A favorite murder?” I asked.

“No, it’s just a name,” Harper said. “Why?” she asked, eyes lighting up with curiosity. “Do you have one?”

“Of course,” I said. “Isn’t that inevitable?”

“Look at what you’ve done!” Diane cried, collapsing onto the bed. I frowned at the way the springs squeaked. I am very particular about mattresses. I never let the children jump on them when they were kids. “Harper is going to be permanently scarred by all this!”

“I think it’s kind of cool actually. My grandma is a famous murderer!” Harper said brightly. We all frowned at her. Even I felt a bit strange about that one and I loved the little weirdo.

“Harper, go wait in the lobby,” Diane ordered, thrusting her lean, gym-toned arm at the door.

Harper frowned and skulked off, hunching over her Harry Potter book so that no one could see her preteen body.

When she was gone, Rose sat next to Diane on the bed.

It always shocked me to realize that they were in their sixties, as if my brain was stuck in the time when they were little girls, and I was in my thirties.

“Why did you do it, Mom?” Diane asked quietly.

I was surprised by the question. The twins had always been incurious, willing to accept anything so long as they got their ice creams and sparkly dresses.

I could have shot someone right in front of them and all they would have asked was if you could get bloodstains out of silk.

“Well, it’s complicated,” I began, thinking about how to explain how few options I’d had, how many people had hurt me. But Diane cut me off.

“Why did you have to confess? Fine, you did some terrible things. But nobody knew! You’re like a minute from death; you could have taken this to the grave and saved us the embarrassment!”

“Yes, I could have,” I said with a nod. “But sometimes you just want to make something happen .”

“Well, now I have to ask. Did you kill our father? The police said you confessed to killing people in different states. Was New York one of them?” Rose asked.

“Do you really want to know?” I replied. “Or do you just want to wait for the podcast? ”