Page 45 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

“I got some news,” Robert murmured. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Just tell me,” I said firmly, helping him up onto the couch. He didn’t say anything for a moment, and I resisted the urge to tap my toe like a schoolmarm waiting for an answer.

“Today I was contacted by a lawyer in California. My ex-wife has died,” he said quietly. I shrugged. Who cared? If I fell apart every time a spouse died, I’d never get anything done!

“Maybe that’s a bit sad but you haven’t seen her for over a decade,” I replied. Robert took a rattling breath and then wiped his mouth. His face seemed slack and rubbery, as if it was numb from visiting the dentist.

“The lawyer . . . he told me that Sheila was pregnant when we got divorced, that I have a twelve-year-old daughter.”

“What?”

“I’m named on the birth certificate. I just can’t believe she kept this from me,” he said bitterly. “That was Sheila all right.”

“Are you going to meet this girl?” I asked, already wondering if I might be able to spin this in a way that would benefit me. I had never been to California before.

“Meet her? She’s coming to live with us,” Robert snapped.

“What?” I said again, dumbfounded.

“Sheila’s will said that she wants Gabrielle to come live with me,” Robert said, his voice still angry. He never snapped at me. I hadn’t even met this kid and she was already affecting my marriage.

“You can’t though,” I said faintly. “You don’t even know this girl!”

“I’m aware!” Robert growled. “But what do you expect me to do? Besides, this house is full of kids anyways, we might as well throw another one on the pile!” He leapt up and stalked away.

“She might not even be yours!” I called after him.

My hope that Sheila was a lying whore disappeared the moment I met Gabrielle. She was the spitting image of Robert; the same dark hair, lean face, and gray-blue eyes. Sheila had been telling the truth. I hated the dead bitch.

Gabrielle didn’t look like a Californian. More of a Bostonian really, with her milky skin and expensive features. She stood in the hall, wrapped in the red designer coat I’d chosen for her and sent out with Robert, since we assumed she wouldn’t have clothes fit for a New York winter.

“Hello,” I said, reaching out to pat her shoulder.

“Hello,” she responded woodenly. I had thought she might be intimidated meeting me but her half-lidded eyes barely flickered. She reminded me of an iguana I had once seen perched on a branch at the zoo, not moving a muscle even as schoolchildren hammered on the glass.

“My name is Daphne Hanks. I’m not sure what you’d like to call me. You can call me Mrs. Hanks or Auntie, whatever feels right,” I said. I hoped she got the hint that “Mommy” was off the table. I waited for her to speak but she said nothing, just stared at me imperiously, so I continued.

“My kids and I are looking forward to getting to know you and show you around the city.” Not true but I felt saintly for saying it.

All those other rich wives were out there, throwing benefits to help children, but how many of them were doing the truly charitable thing of bringing an unknown child into their home?

Still no response from Gabrielle. Tough crowd. The last time I heard crickets like that was at the twins’ violin recital, but they earned those, dammit. I was just trying to be nice.

“Would you like to see your bedroom? I’m sure you could use a rest.”

She nodded and I led her down the hall.

Her bedroom had been my vanity room until recently.

I had sullenly packed away my makeup and jewelry, already feeling like this girl was crowding me out of Robert’s life.

But I had thrown myself into shopping, creating a dream bedroom for a preteen girl: white wicker furniture, a canopy bed with blue silk hangings, floral wallpaper sprigged with forget-me-nots.

I opened the door with a sense of ceremony, as if I was unveiling it, and glanced at her for a reaction, maybe a smile or a gasp.

But her expression didn’t change. She shrugged off her new coat, letting it flop to the floor and flung herself on the bed without taking off her shoes. Finally, she spoke.

“Can you shut the door, Daphne?” Gabrielle asked insolently, her eyes challenging me. I nodded and resisted the urge to slam the door on my way out.

We weren’t off to a great start.

Things didn’t improve in the following days. I’d always had a favorite child but now, at last, I had a least favorite one as well.

Gabrielle was sullen and had a habit of not responding to things I said, even when it was a direct question, which is a simple but incredibly effective way to infuriate someone. She’d glare at me as if to signal ‘I don’t want a new mother’ even though I had no interest in applying for the job.

Even worse was the way she would glom onto Robert, like a barnacle on a ship, or a flesh-eating disease.

There was something unsettling about the way she’d climb into his lap on the couch, wrapping her lanky adolescent arms around him like a much younger child.

Her eyes would glint acquisitively as she cooed at him in a babyish voice.

One time, I remember the twins studying her intently while we watched TV, as she whispered into Robert’s ear, and then averting their eyes in disgust. Even my ten-year-olds thought she was laying it on a bit thick.

My children tried to be welcoming. James took on the role of the benevolent older brother, asking her about school and offering her trips to the movies, but she largely ignored him.

The twins, who were only two years younger than her, should have been the perfect friends for Gabrielle.

But it was clear Gabrielle saw them as competition.

She’d come to her long-lost father’s home only to find two attractive blonde girls already living there.

There were problems between the girls almost immediately.

“Mom, our riding ribbons are missing,” Diane reported to me on Day Two.

I found them crammed into the cistern of the guest toilet.

“Mom, my school skirt has been cut into two.”

I spotted the scissors from the sewing box in Gabrielle’s room.

“Mom, our pillows are wet.”

I didn’t even want to solve that mystery.

It could have been bearable if I could have laughed it off with Robert, but he was totally besotted with Gabrielle.

Typical man. They spend decades declaring they don’t want children, wasting a lot of women’s time and ovarian reserves, only to announce later in life that fatherhood was the most fulfilling thing they’ve ever done.

In Robert’s eyes, Gabrielle could do no wrong. It didn’t matter how much she tortured the twins or disobeyed me, the kid with his face was perfect. And people say parenting isn’t about narcissism.

And then one day Robert announced that he wanted us to move upstate to the country.

“Absolutely not,” I said flatly. It was nighttime and we were in bed. Robert folded his hands over his blue cotton pajamas, doing his best Father Knows Best impression.

“Daphne, it would be much better for the kids. They don’t have enough space in this apartment and Gabrielle is used to a more rural life.”

“You thought the city was perfectly fine when it was just my kids living here,” I retorted.

Robert was born and raised in New York. People like him always had a hard-on for country life, which was something I found incredibly irritating.

What did they think happened out there? Birds brought you your morning coffee while a milkmaid gave you a hand job?

“I realize now that I was being selfish. Having Gabrielle here has taught me that the kids’ needs must come first,” Robert said.

I rolled my eyes. The man had been a parent for a second and suddenly he was Father Teresa. He had managed to skip the years of sleepless nights and stinking diapers and was now patting himself on the back for spending a couple of hours with a grateful twelve-year-old after work.

“But why? They’re only going to move out in a couple of years!

” I burst out, as flashbacks to Leosville danced through my head.

“Besides, it’s the Seventies, they need to know how to live in a city!

What do you think they’re going to do for jobs someday?

Goat herding?” And that was when Robert, my lovely, pliant Robert, decided to grow a backbone and pull rank.

“I make the money and if you want to keep enjoying the lifestyle I’ve given you then you’ll be moving to the country,” Robert snapped.

I sighed.

Men will claim you’re equal partners but at the end of the day, he who holds the checkbook has the power.

I wanted to shout ‘enjoy the smell of cow shit’ and storm out, but I wasn’t quite ready to quit on Robert.

He was just so very rich. Maybe I needed to bide my time and hope that he would hate rural life and realize that we didn’t belong in a place where you couldn’t get Chinese food at 2 a.m . Or at any time for that matter .