Page 34 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

Chapter Twenty-Three

I found out my son-in-law Senator Reid Prescott was running for governor of Florida from the news. No one had bothered to tell me. Reid stood at a podium, all lantern jaw and thick hair, looking like a frat boy whose father just made a rape allegation disappear.

“I have been planning to run for governor for a number of years, but recent events have only confirmed to me that decent people need to push back against the decay we see all around us,” Reid announced, shaking his head dramatically at all the societal rot he could see in the conference room of a four-star hotel.

I rolled my eyes. He always gave pompous little speeches like this, even before he became a senator. It was probably why Rose drank so much.

“Recent events being your mother-in-law’s confession to murder?

” a reporter asked. Reid placed a hand on Rose’s shoulder, who stared into her lap, the picture of demure, ladylike shame.

Yes, how very selfish of her to have me as a mother.

She should have considered the political implications for her future husband when she chose to come sliding down my birth canal.

“Yes. Daphne St Clair represents the way our modern society has eroded the Christian ideals and family values our nation was built on,” Reid replied.

Modern society? I was ninety for Christ’s sakes!

I started murdering back in the Fifties, the decade all these idiots had such a hard-on for!

They seemed to think it was all Leave it to Beaver , when in reality, people fucked their neighbors and beat their wives; they just didn’t show it on TV.

And all this tripe about family values and Christianity.

Who was more family-oriented than me? Everything I did, I did for my kids.

And where were those Christian values when I was getting raped by a preacher?

“Are either of you in contact with her now?” another reporter asked.

“Absolutely not,” Reid said vehemently. “I need to protect my family from monsters like her.”

“Why do you think she confessed? Do you think this election had anything to do with her timing?”

“It’s certainly possible,” Reid agreed. “My wife’s mother certainly does not share my political convictions.”

I snorted. What a joke. As if I needed to blow my life up to stop Reid from becoming governor. Reid didn’t need anyone’s help to lose the election, he could do it all by himself.

“What do you think should be done with her?” the same reporter asked.

“I believe that anyone who commits a heinous act like murder should receive the death penalty, regardless of their age,” Reid replied. Rose’s face remained neutral as her husband talked about sending her mother to the electric chair.

Guess I was off the Christmas card list.

The press conference went on, with reporters asking questions about me and the revelations in the podcast while Reid tried to steer the conversation back to his platform and his usual spiel about God, America, and the family.

I always found it suspicious how much conservative men liked to talk about families.

It always seemed to be the ones who were later found face-down in a pile of cocaine.

It was strange though, to see my own daughter disowning me on television, even if she wasn’t the one talking.

I knew my confession might cause some hurt feelings in the family, but I didn’t think it was really worth cutting me off.

I had given my girls so much. Didn’t I deserve a little loyalty in return?

I had never put a man before myself or my children and I’d always hoped they’d do the same.

At some point Reid gave up on outlining his political views and switched to finding a million different ways of calling me evil. I guess he wanted to differentiate himself from any candidates who were running on a pro-serial killer platform.

“If that’s not bad enough, she wasn’t even born in this country. I don’t even know if she immigrated legally,” Reid said gravely, pausing in case anyone gasped. No one did. “Daphne St Clair is. . . Canadian.” Rose covered her face in humiliation.

Another day, another visit with Arthur Tisdale, my lawyer. He wasn’t that exciting a guest but at least it broke up the monotony of the day.

“So, what’s new?” I asked. “I feel like I’ve been cooling my heels for almost six weeks and nothing’s happening.”

Tisdale smiled, a wry little grin as if he found me amusing. I wanted to slap him.

“I’ve never met someone so eager to go to prison! Before too long we’ll have a date for you to enter your guilty plea. But about this podcast. . .”

“We’ve discussed this before,” I snapped. “You don’t want me to do it and I’m doing it anyways. What’s the worst that could happen? I’m ninety years old; any prison sentence they give me will be for the rest of my life.”

“Well, yes,” Tisdale muttered. “I understand you don’t have much to lose, but what about the journalist? Ruth Robinson? She could end up subpoenaed to testify in any court proceedings. Someone might even try to charge her with something, like obstruction of justice.”

“Why? I confessed. And because of her, the lawyers will have gotten hours of information. Obstructing justice, she’s done their job for them!

This is America. The only right anyone gives a damn about is free speech,” I said.

“You can be shot in a high school by a lunatic with an AK-47, but you’re allowed to have a protest afterward.

And she can always use some of that money she’s making off me to hire a fancy lawyer like you. ”

“Well, perhaps. But if you’re so insistent about this podcast, be mindful of your safety.

A man has been calling our office every day.

I’ve also seen someone suspicious lurking around my car at work.

I think a car even tried to follow me home yesterday, but I managed to lose them.

I’ve had to tell my wife to go stay with family in Savannah because I’m concerned about our safety.

Daphne, someone is looking for you. Maybe more than one person. ”

“Well they’re not gonna find me,” I muttered, trying to sound brave even though a knot of dread was forming in my chest. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it? No one ever caught Daphne St Clair. ”