Page 32 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ruth stood in front of the big blue house, awed at the size.
It was the kind of house she had dreamed of as a kid, when she was stuck inside a succession of cramped, humid apartments reading Little Women .
A thought crossed her mind— I would be happy if I lived here —before she quickly rejected it.
A house couldn’t make someone happy. Although, she thought, as she stared up at this gorgeous behemoth and imagined fireplaces and bookshelves, it couldn’t hurt.
She had felt something similar the first time she’d visited her father’s penthouse apartment in the Seacrest Building.
He had moved there after his wife died, because the family home contained too many memories, and Ruth had been amazed at the expansive views across the ocean and Richard’s book collections and photos from his life.
The photos dotted around the place were primarily of his wife and daughter, but he had proudly pointed out to Ruth a new photo of the two of them on his desk—a selfie he’d had framed.
It had made her smile at the time, had made her feel part of the family, until later, at his birthday party, when Ruth had noticed how everyone had avoided looking at the picture just as much as they had avoided having to make awkward small talk with her.
But that was seven years ago. A different lifetime.
And Ruth had left all of that back in Florida, if only briefly. It was like the credit card she had used to pay for this trip. Today, she could spend freely, but she knew that at some point in the future, her bill would arrive.
The Leosville saga was what true crime fans loved: murderous housewives, picturesque settings, and the secret underbelly of small-town America.
Ruth knew that she had to balance out Daphne’s interviews about David’s murder with local color about the town, her impressions and, most importantly, interviews with people who remembered David and Daphne.
Give the listeners a bit of a palate cleanser.
She felt safe here, far from Officer Rankin, the Montgomerys, and Daphne’s stalkers.
It was also a relief to take a break from Daphne herself, even though she was the focus of this entire trip.
It was getting harder to be in the same room with Daphne, to set aside Ruth’s own personal grievances and act like an impartial journalist. Especially as Daphne seemed to have a sixth sense for the topics Ruth was trying to avoid, the painful details she didn’t want to reveal to a cold-blooded killer.
And that was the problem. She had traveled almost fifteen hundred miles, the entire length of America’s east coast, but the one thing she couldn’t escape were the memories.
EPISODE SEVEN: 2022
RUTH (Voiceover): I walked up the steps, anxious to see if I could talk to the people who lived in this gorgeous house.
I also got out my recording equipment because I knew that from a legal standpoint, it was better if they knew that I was a journalist and was recording them right from the start.
I hoped they might show me around. I imagined how strange it must be for them to stand in the bedroom where David Priestly died, completely unaware that in sixty years someone would finally be telling his story, his real story.
I rang the doorbell and a woman around my age answered.
I noticed immediately that she was wearing heels. In the daytime. In her own home!
FEMALE HOMEOWNER (warily): Can I help you?
RUTH: Hello, my name is Ruth Robinson. I’m a journalist and I’m making a podcast called The Four Murders of Daphne St Clair . Maybe you’ve heard of it?
FEMALE HOMEOWNER: No, I haven’t heard of it.
RUTH: Well, uh, Daphne St Clair is a ninety-year-old woman who just confessed to killing a number of men throughout her life.
FEMALE HOMEOWNER (sounding distasteful): Oh, that does sound familiar. But why are you here at my house?
RUTH: Well, one of the husbands she killed lived. . . here.
FEMALE HOMEOWNER: Here? You’re telling me she murdered someone in my house?
RUTH: Yes, sixty years ago. A man named David Priestly.
FEMALE HOMEOWNER: They did say the home had been in the same family for over a hundred years, I think the name was Priestly. So, you’re visiting town to interview people for your. . . podcast?
RUTH: Yes. And I don’t suppose, you could show me around the house? Or I could maybe interview you about the house?
FEMALE HOMEOWNER (coldly): Now, why would I want everyone knowing a murder happened in my house? I don’t even want to know that. I think you had better leave now, before I call the police.
[Sound of a door shutting firmly.]
Ruth got back in her car and drove away, feeling the woman’s eyes watching her until the house disappeared around the corner. That conversation had been a failure, but Ruth was hopeful that tomorrow’s interview with Belinda Vaughn would go better.
Every time she interviewed Daphne, she made sure to pump her for as much verifiable information as possible: addresses, people’s names, timelines.
The podcast needed additional interviews, of course, but Ruth also knew that she needed to be able to corner Daphne, to box her in with as much truth as possible so she’d have less room to lie.
After interviewing Daphne about Leosville, Ruth had taken the list of names and tried to find people who still remembered her.
She was looking for people in their eighties and nineties who still lived in the area and would agree to talk to her.
One by one, the names withered and dropped from her list until one remained: Belinda . The Queen Bee.
Ruth drove down Main Street, following the directions to her hotel.
Looking around, she had the feeling that not much had changed since Daphne had lived there six decades before.
The lawns were manicured, the red brick gleamed, and Ruth couldn’t see a single panhandler or vacant shopfront.
Somehow the opioid epidemic that raged through every other small town in America seemed to have skipped this place, the land fentanyl forgot.
In every shop window and crowded corner Ruth felt as if she could see Daphne, young and gorgeous, a crow in a pack of canaries, just out of the corner of her eye, slipping away whenever Ruth tried to get a better look.
The next day, Ruth woke up to a text from her mother wishing her a safe trip but also requesting that she spend this time away really thinking about whether this podcast was worth it. Ruth ignored it.
She checked Jenn’s Instagram, noting that Jenn had a new book out and was signing copies in a Palm Haven bookstore.
Clearly their breakup hadn’t sent Jenn into a doom spiral like her.
Ruth’s life had always been messy, but Jenn had met Ruth at a particularly low moment, when Ruth’s whole life had been knocked off course and Ruth was trying to figure out if it was healthier for her to completely ignore the past or try to solve the mystery that was slowly consuming her.
She had swung between repression and obsession until finally, the relationship had ended, ironically just before Ruth had gotten the sign she’d been waiting for: Daphne’s confession.
Ruth found Belinda sitting in the lounge of Willowdale Seniors Home.
Ruth noticed immediately that the older woman had put a lot of effort into her appearance, coating her sparse eyelashes with mascara and draping her rounded body in a beaded jacket and slacks that made her look like a guest at a wedding.
Belinda looked disappointed when she saw Ruth was wearing jeans and hoodie, but perked up when Ruth complimented her.
“I love the jacket. You look so glamorous.”
“Oh well, I like to dress up. My generation always took pride in their appearance, unlike people today,” she said with a smile.
Ruth couldn’t tell if that was a jab at her but even if it was, what would she have done?
Belinda was the only important interview she had for the weekend, the rest was just getting local color and flipping through old newspapers at the town library.
“I agree. It was so much nicer when men wore suits and hats, and women went out with their hair done,” Ruth said, mimicking the boring old shit her grandmother’s friends used to say.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Belinda replied, pleasantly surprised.
“Well, I’m glad I could help you with your research.
I have to say, I’m surprised Daphne turned out to be a murderer and even more surprised that she’d turn herself in when no one suspected her.
I thought she was just your garden-variety gold digger. ”
“So, what was your first impression of Daphne?” Ruth asked, hurriedly pulling out her recording equipment before she missed any more insults. Belinda laced her hands together and leaned back, obviously ready to hold court.
“Can I swear? Because Daphne, or Cecilia as I knew her, was a real. . . bitch—” Belinda bit off the word and slid it through her teeth, as if it was a particularly chewy piece of toffee.
“Daphne would go on and on about how exciting it was in Manhattan, all the fabulous stores and how many celebrities she had met. But I always knew she was just trash wrapped up in a bow. I didn’t have time to worry about her though, I was focused on being the best wife and mother I could be,” she finished, staring down her nose at her guest. Ruth had assumed all the petty stuff would be washed away when you were staring death in the face but clearly, she was wrong.
People were people, no matter their age. And people were usually awful.
“Is your husband. . . around?” Ruth asked, not sure how to ask someone if their husband was asleep by the fireplace or in an urn on the mantel.
“We’re not together anymore,” Belinda said sourly. “Not for thirty years now.” She deflated when she said it, as if talking about a treasured career that ended in redundancy.