Page 21 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair
Chapter Fifteen
PreyAllDay:
So there’s no murder this week? I like my true crime gruesome! Ruth better bring up the body count or I’m going back to Graphic Detail and Last Podcast on the Left !
BurntheBookBurnerz:
You’re mad that no one was murdered? That’s twisted.
PreyAllDay:
GTFO, we’re all here for the same thing.
ShockAndBlah:
I dunno, I like my true crime funny.
StopDropAndTroll:
KK, we’ll go find u some more funny murders then. That’s more fucked up than liking the gross stuff btw.
ShockAndBlah:
So where’s this son of Daphne’s? We know who the daughters are, but where’s the son? We don’t know his last name so we can’t google him.
BurntheBookBurnerz:
It is strange that the media has been discussing the twins so much but not him.
CapoteParty:
He’s probably dead then.
ShockAndBlah:
But she does seem to really love her son. Is that. . . crazy? Can you be a good parent and a serial killer?
PreyAllDay:
BTK’s daughter said he was a good dad.
StopDropAndTroll:
Nah, I bet she’s lying.
BurntheBookBurnerz:
Do you just think every woman is lying? Wtf is wrong with you?!?
StopDropAndTroll:
Haven’t been wrong yet.
Harper called me on the phone. It was 3:30 p.m. so she must have just gotten home from school. I could tell by her hushed, breathless voice that she was phoning me covertly, likely from her bedroom closet.
“Hi, Grandma,” she said. I had tried desperately to get the grandchildren to call me something more glamorous, like GiGi or DeeDee, but Diane and Rose had been insistent that I be called Grandma.
I suspected they were signaling that I was old now and no longer desirable, shunted off to the kitchen with a baking tray full of cookies.
They were always jealous of the attention I got, particularly from men.
“How nice of you to call,” I said. “What’s new?
” We didn’t talk that often on the phone; we were always better in person, where we’d talk for a few minutes and then pick up true crime books and start reading together.
She seemed to appreciate the silence, after a lifetime of her mother signing her up for horseback riding lessons and demanding she go on playdates with children who hated her.
“I wanted to tell you that everyone online is talking about your podcast and well, about you!”
“That’s nice, dear,” I said. “What are they saying?”
“Oh, you know, that you’re a monster.”
“Fair enough,” I replied.
“They’ve nicknamed you the Gray Widow,” Harper said. “You know, like a black widow but old.”
“Really?” I asked. “But that’s so boring! That’s almost as bad as the Giggling Granny.”
“Who’s that?”
“Oh, she was this killer who used to laugh every time she talked about killing her husbands. They also called her the Lonely Hearts Killer, which is more dignified, but the Giggling Granny was the one that stuck. Maybe I should come up with my own nickname and get Ruth to use it on the podcast. Something like the ‘Toxic Temptress’ or the ‘Borgia of Florida.’”
“That’s a good idea. Although I don’t think the ‘Borgia of Florida’ sounds good; it’s kind of hard to say. So, how’s it going with the podcast? I’m loving it so far!”
“Should you be listening to that? Well, I’m not your mother.
Anyway, Ruth isn’t quite what I expected.
She’s nosy and a bit self-righteous; sometimes I catch her staring at me like I’ve pissed in her cornflakes or something.
And she’s a bit sneaky. But it’s interesting, anyways,” I said, reclining in my armchair.
This was the dream of every geezer at Coconut Grove: their grandchildren calling them unprompted, wanting to know about their lives.
And all I had to do was confess to multiple murders.
I guess ‘how I met Grandpa at the church dance’ and ‘scrimpin’ and savin’ to buy a winter coat’ weren’t the barnstorming stories the old folks thought they were.
“Well, I can’t wait for the next episode.
Everyone at school wants to talk to me now.
Yesterday, Buckley brought his emotional support parrot to school but no one cared; they were too busy asking me questions about you.
You know, how many people you killed, why you confessed, if you chopped anyone up, those kinds of things. ”
“That’s nice,” I said, having no clue what an emotional support parrot was.
Harper went to a very expensive private school where kids were fed tofu puddings and did yoga instead of dodgeball in gym class.
It hadn’t stopped her from being bullied though and I was glad that she’d finally found her ticket to popularity.
Sorry, Buckley, the Gray Widow trumps parrots.
We were still talking when my phone began to beep, signaling that I was getting another call. Two calls, it was a big day for my landline!
“Harper, I should go. This might be my lawyer,” I said. He had helped change my number and only a handful of people knew the new one: my daughters, my lawyer, and Ruth.
We said goodbye and then I switched to the other call.
“This is the front desk,” a cool voice said at the other end. Ah, so just another Coconut Grove employee who hated my guts.
“And?” I prompted.
“We just had a phone call from a private investigator. He wouldn’t say who his client is but he’s calling around to the senior centers in the area, trying to find you.
We’ve refused to talk to him or confirm if you live here but I must ask you to stay away from your windows and keep your curtains drawn.
We don’t know who this man is working for, or even if he is an investigator, so we’re treating him as a possible threat. ”
“So, I’m supposed to sit inside with my curtains closed like a prisoner just because someone’s looking for me? Isn’t that excessive?” I demanded.
A pause and then the voice continued, lower and hoarser, as if she was furious but didn’t want anyone else to hear.
“I don’t really care what you do. I’d tell you that you’re putting other people in danger by being here, but you don’t care!
And we’re stuck with you until the cops cart you away!
So yes, someone out there is looking for you, someone who might want to cause you harm.
It’s not my problem what you do with that information. ”
And then she hung up. Huh, not exactly the quality of customer service I was used to, back when I was just Warren’s girlfriend and everyone liked me. But clearly, they were all still smarting from the whole ‘murdering Warren’ thing. Jeez, forgive and forget already!
Still, I got up and shuffled across the floor with my walker, raising my arthritic arms slowly to shut the curtains.
Beyond the lawn was a thick copse of trees draped in Spanish moss and misty in the blue twilight.
I stood there for a second, considering these trees for the first time since I’d moved into the Grove.
Anyone could be out there, watching, waiting.
What would they see right now? An old, white face peering back at them? The face they recognized from the TV?
I wondered if I was going to wake up one night to find a dark figure at the end of my bed, his hands already creeping up to my throat, ready to fulfil some twisted obsession or perhaps avenge an old grievance from the past.
With a huff, I snapped the curtains shut and then checked that the doors were locked.
Let them come. Just. . . not yet.