Page 3 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

Chapter Two

It was around that time that I decided to actually do a podcast. Nobody read books anymore.

Even when I was born, folks were worrying that the radio would kill reading.

Now, people wanted everything in a sentence or less or their minds started wandering.

Besides, I was ninety years old; I wanted my story to come out now .

I could have done a documentary or a TV interview, but podcasts seemed to be the new thing.

And Harper loved them, so that sealed the deal.

Choosing the podcast, however, would be a tough decision.

I had been contacted by a handful of people through Arthur Tisdale, who had disapprovingly passed on the messages (lawyers never approved of interviews), and so, on Tuesday, I sat down and called each of them back.

It had been less than a week since I had killed Warren, less than a week since I’d done the most radical thing I could think of: confess.

And already life was getting interesting again.

The first was a woman called Holly Blue, although I suspect that if I checked her birth certificate, I would find something blander.

“I do a podcast called Badass Women , and I would love to do a whole season devoted to you. My last season was on Heidi Fleiss, a woman who ran an upscale prostitution ring in Hollywood. I also did a season on Bonnie Parker, you know from Bonnie and Clyde?”

“Tell me, what exactly is your definition of badass? Is it a good thing? Because you seem to be mostly focusing on whores and killers,” I said, squinting in confusion.

“A badass woman is independent. She knows what she wants out of life and isn’t afraid to get it.

She often goes against what society expects of her, whether that’s in how she dresses or who she sleeps with.

You may not like her, but you have to respect her,” Holly replied.

She recited her spiel in a sing-song way, as if she’d memorized it.

“So, it’s okay for women to murder people to get what they want?” I asked.

“Well, maybe not murder,” Holly backtracked. “But you know. . . if she wants to wear revealing clothes or sleep with a lot of guys, no one should judge her for that. Or if she wants to have adventures, or become an outlaw, that’s cool.”

I hung up, already bored of this woman’s ramblings.

The next people I talked to, a trio named Andy, Tobin, and Greg, immediately turned me off by telling me they did “comedy true crime” and that they were “stand-up comedians” as well as podcasters.

“Yeah, so we tell crime stories, but we improvise and riff along the way. Some people can’t handle it, because we’re not afraid to get a little offensive, but most of our listeners fucking love us,” Andy bragged. He seemed like a boy who communicated mostly through high fives.

“What kind of jokes would you be making about me?” I asked. There was a pause as they considered this. If they had been smart, they would have soft pedaled it, tried to get me on board. But then again, if they had any sense, they would have become stockbrokers, not comedians.

“Well. . . you just killed your elderly boyfriend, so we’d probably make some jokes about your sex life, you know, whether your pussy was full of dust. And you poisoned him, so we’d probably do a bit where we realize that you’ve put something in our drinks and panic because we think you’ve roofied us and are going to rape us.

And then I guess we’d be relieved when we realized that we were going to die instead.

” Their raucous laughter echoed down the phone.

“Right. So, the joke is I’m an old lady and no one wants to have sex with me,” I said acidly. “Groundbreaking stuff.”

Of course, I turned them down. When you’re old, you really have to savor the time you have left. And none of that time should be spent listening to man-boys cracking bad jokes.

The fourth person was Gayle MacPherson, an NBC reporter for Dateline .

“So, I should say up front that I have my doubts about asking you to participate in this podcast,” Gayle began bluntly. “If we did agree on it, you’d have to know that I would be asking you tough questions.”

“Well, this is an interesting way to pitch to someone,” I said.

“Look, we’ll be doing a podcast about you whether you participate or not,” Gayle said briskly. “Admittedly, it’s not great timing for us, as we just wrapped a podcast about two elderly women who were killing men for insurance money.”

“Sorry for the inconvenience. I should have waited and confessed next year,” I chipped in, but she kept talking over me.

“But we have to do your story. It’s perfect for Dateline . And we’ve had a lot of success with our women killer podcasts. I don’t know if you’ve listened to ‘The Thing about Pam’ or ‘Mommy Doomsday’ but they’ve been big hits.”

“Congratulations,” I said. I felt as if we were in a business meeting, and she was about to start going over the numbers with me. Didn’t she understand that I had something valuable? According to Harper, murder podcasts were a dime a dozen. But a murderer’s podcast? That was new.

“So, are you interested in participating?” Gayle asked.

“No,” I said.

“Fine by me,” she said flatly and hung up.

The final person I talked to was a woman named Ruth Robinson, a journalist in her early thirties who lived locally. She’d never written for any newspaper I had heard of, and she seemed as new to the podcasting world as I was.

“So, what’s your plan for the podcast? Because I’ve had pitches from Badass Women , Died Laughing , and Dateline ,” I said.

I didn’t tell her that I had already rejected all of them.

If I didn’t go with Ruth, I’d have to buy Harper some recording equipment and tell her to have at it.

That might be worth it just for the look on Diane’s face.

“ Dateline ? Wow, okay. I don’t really have a plan, exactly.

. .” Ruth said, her voice quavering. “I thought that we would just sit and talk about your life, and then I could shape that into a story. I’d want to do some background research as well, try to talk to other people in your life or even people who are experts on. . . your situation.”

“ I’m the only expert on my situation,” I retorted.

“Oh of course,” Ruth stuttered, backing down.

I was thankful that we were on the phone so she couldn’t see me smile.

“I suppose I’d just want to do a podcast from your perspective.

There are so many true crime shows out there where a presenter just tells you about a crime.

But hearing a show where the perpetrator tells their story?

That’s so unique.” Her earnestness was almost dripping through the phone.

She was like a Girl Scout pushing Thin Mints.

“What would you call it?” I asked, enjoying giving Ruth a good grilling.

“Well, I thought The Murders of Daphne St Clair could work, as your name is so elegant,” Ruth said.

“A bit wishy-washy,” I harrumphed, rolling my eyes. “But I’m willing to give this a try. And if you’re not a good fit, I’ll pull the plug.”

“Really? Wow, thank you so much. I promise, you won’t regret this!” she squeaked.

“Come by tomorrow afternoon,” I said. “But don’t tell anyone else where I live. I’m supposed to be keeping that under wraps for safety reasons.”

There was nothing special about Ruth, she just seemed much less annoying than the other people who wanted to tell my story to the masses and make a buck off it.

In fact, she seemed unsure of herself, which suited me fine.

People are like dogs; it’s better for everyone when they know who’s in charge .