Page 38 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

Chapter Twenty-Seven

After I left Diane’s house, I bought a condo on Sweetwater Beach in a luxurious building called the Blue Diamond.

My apartment was an airy palace with gauzy curtains and a balcony that overlooked the ocean.

I sat out there in the evenings, drinking coffee and thinking about death.

I had seen it happen so many times, had watched that indefinable spark fade from someone’s eyes, rendering them dull and clouded, and yet I still didn’t understand the whys and hows of it all.

It was the same feeling I had the first time I held my son James, unable to believe that I had created life, that I could be so close to the mysteries of the universe and still not understand any of it.

After a couple months on the balcony, I realized that I needed to put down my coffee and do what I do best. Meet some men. I didn’t think it would make me happy but at least it was a good distraction. And who doesn’t love a dinner on someone else’s dime?

If you’re looking for old rich men who are tired of drinking alone, Florida is your El Dorado.

There were plenty of fish in the sea so long as you didn’t mind a fish with wrinkles.

I might have been in my seventies but I had a trim body, an ass like a peach, and a face that didn’t look like it had melted.

Of course, dating at my age meant you had to hear about the wars they fought in (my dating pool spanned World War Two, Korea, and the start of Vietnam) but as long as you were willing to listen to the same old story about how they held poor Shorty’s hand as his guts fell out, then they’d do whatever you liked.

I had all kinds of fun. I spent countless afternoons on yachts and sailboats.

I ate the best seafood in Florida and developed a taste for top-shelf rums and tequilas.

Men bought me a whole new wardrobe of designer resort wear and gave me brown Louis Vuitton bags that matched their leathery skin.

And the best part was that they barely wanted to screw you.

If you tired them out a couple times at the start of dating, then they were satisfied that they were still virile.

And everyone could conserve their energy for salsa dancing and trips to the Caribbean.

HauteHistoire: “Hello TikTokers, I’ve got a bonus aesthetic for this episode!

So this is our yacht girl ensemble, slightly updated for the older lady living her best life down in tropical climes.

We’ve got our wide-legged white jeans, our ribbed Breton-striped tank, and the chunky brown Louis Vuitton bag that just screams ‘A new money man bought this for me!’ Like the Burberry bag in Succession , it’s sure to rub WASPs the wrong way but that’s the fun of Florida; it doesn’t matter.

We’ve got the gold Versace sunglasses and some heeled sandals because Daphne doesn’t seem like the kind of woman to favor a sensible shoe even on a boat.

This is a sunny look for a shady person and just perfect for a woman getting on the apps in her seventies while trying to leave her murderous past behind! ”

One evening I was out with a new guy called Joseph McLaughlin. He was in his late seventies and was originally from Chicago (the Winnipeg of America), where he’d made a fortune in property development before retiring to Florida.

Joe was nice enough although he was tired and seemed to be struggling to hold up his end of the conversation, which annoyed me.

Dating was different in your seventies, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be romanced by a stroke victim.

Still, we sat on the restaurant patio watching the ocean shimmer in the pink evening light and drank chilled white wine.

It was pleasant but forgettable and I was already filing Joe under B for ‘Backup’ in my mental rolodex when he asked if I wouldn’t mind escorting him back to his place.

“I just feel so light-headed. I think the wine might be interacting with my medication,” he murmured, wiping his forehead. I wondered if this was a seduction ploy (if so, it was a poor one) but he really did look weak and clammy so I agreed.

Joe lived alone in one of those modern glass houses that look like nothing.

I walked him into the house, my arm hooked in his as he hunched against me.

I could feel his body shaking with the effort of standing.

It was clear that Joe had lived alone for a long time.

Despite being an expensive house, it was barely furnished.

The furniture was all nondescript and beige, as if he’d bought it directly from a hotel.

I walked Joe into the living room, a large room that only contained one La-Z-Boy, a giant TV and a bulb dangling from a tilted plastic lampshade.

I was just about to ease him down into the chair, already looking forward to leaving this museum of sad old men, when Joe stiffened and made a grunting noise.

Before I could grab him, Joe fell to the floor and started wheezing and clutching his chest. I’m no doctor but you don’t get to seventy-five without being able to recognize a heart attack.

His panicked eyes found me, and I could see how afraid he was, how much he wanted to live.

I turned around, searching for a telephone to call an ambulance.

And then I . . . just stopped. Slowly, carefully, I sat down in the La-Z-Boy and watched him convulse on the floor.

He could barely speak but he was moaning, trying to ask why I was doing this.

But I couldn’t explain. I hoped he knew it wasn’t personal though.

The date wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t that bad.

I didn’t poison him, and I doubt an ambulance would have saved him, but it sure was fun sitting there, knowing I had the power to call for help or not.

I felt like a person who had strayed from their faith and suddenly found themselves back in church, experiencing a revelation.

I sat there with him, as his wild white eyes began to shut, knowing I was witnessing his final moments in this world.

It was thrilling, a dark kind of power that very few people ever discover or feel able to enjoy. I loved it.

Afterwards, I left his house, shutting the door behind me but leaving it unlocked. His cleaner or a neighbor would find him eventually. I walked away, confident that if anyone did see me, they’d forgot me almost instantly. That’s the best and worst part of growing old: becoming invisible.

After Joe died, I found myself wishing more old men would die in front of me. But no matter how much I tried to get their blood pressure up, it never happened again. I didn’t take it any further though. After all, I had come to Florida for the same reason as everyone else: to retire.

ShockAndBlah:

Literal chills. That is so messed up. I feel like I need to listen to five episodes of My Dad Wrote a Porno just to detox from that.

PreyAllDay:

Here’s his obituary. I found it online.

ShockAndBlah:

Aww it says that for decades he helped refugees get affordable housing in Chicago. Is what Daphne did a crime? Not getting help?

BurntheBookBurnerz:

I don’t really know about the law; I went to art school. It FEELS like it should be? Maybe it’s manslaughter?

StopDropAndTroll:

Of course YOU went to art school. Who gives a fuck at this point about counting her crimes? She’s going to die in prison anyways.

ShockAndBlah:

She’s living this dream life in Florida and she’s still pulling shit like this. I just don’t get it.

CapoteParty:

She probably doesn’t either.

BurntheBookBurnerz:

It almost feels like she’s devolving. You see that happen with some killers—they just become more depraved and reckless. It’s not about the money or revenge anymore; she gets a kick out of seeing men die. That’s probably why she killed Warren.

PreyAllDay:

Yeah, like Ted Bundy. He starts out luring college girls into his car, but by the end he’s breaking into sororities to slaughter groups of them. His last murder was a twelve-year-old girl, by far his youngest victim.

ShockAndBlah:

Funny, isn’t that when Ted Bundy moved to Florida? Maybe it’s Florida that makes these killers devolve.

PreyAllDay:

Well, that’s the Florida Man phenomenon for you. . . even serial killers aren’t immune.

CapoteParty:

Out of curiosity, does anyone know what senior center she ended up in? I’m visiting Florida soon and thought it would be cool to see where this is all happening. I know the town but there’s so many old folks’ homes. . .

StopDropAndTroll:

Really? In Florida? Surprising.

PreyAllDay:

Hey I’m local. I think they’re trying to keep it quiet, you know to stop someone from offing her. But. . . my cousin used to work at Coconut Grove Seniors Center, and she remembers Daphne and Warren Ackerman. . . so there you go.

The day’s interview did not get off to a good start.

Ruth had tossed and turned all night, getting up to check and recheck that every curtain and blind in her house was firmly shut and that both locks on her door were in place.

At one point, a garbage can had fallen over outside and Ruth had been startled awake, certain that someone was breaking down the door.

To make matters worse, Ruth kept running through the Joe McLaughlin story Daphne had told her.