Page 49 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

Chapter Thirty-Five

DRAFT: DO NOT USE IN PODCAST

RUTH: If you’re listening to this then I’ve gotten Daphne to confess to my father’s murder. That was my main motivation for this podcast. Find the truth, solve the mystery, get justice for my father, and prove to everyone that I had nothing to do with it.

DRAFT: DO NOT USE IN PODCAST

RUTH: When my father died, the police hauled me in for questioning.

His family, the Montgomery family, told the cops that I had recently come back into his life the year before and he planned to change his will, to give me half.

They made me out to be some sort of grifter who had pressured him for money, as if the relationship Richard and I were developing wasn’t real.

The police told me that someone had shot Richard with insulin, that he would have experienced seizures before going into a coma and stopping breathing.

That this person had wiped the insulin bottles and the needle clean.

They told me how my father died, and then they watched how I reacted.

It was terrifying, sitting across from two police officers, knowing if I said the wrong thing, I might start a chain of events that could destroy my life and send me to prison.

The way the cops acted. . . it was clear that they were just looking for something to prove I was guilty.

The last thing they told me was that Richard had made an appointment with his lawyer to change his will and had informed his family that he would be splitting his wealth equally between his two daughters.

But that appointment was for Monday, and he had died on the Sunday, so I wouldn’t be getting a cent.

I know the money shouldn’t matter, the sad part was losing my father, just at the moment we were finally building a relationship.

But I didn’t know that when Richard died, he’d take my whole future with him.

[There is a muffled sob.]

DRAFT: DO NOT USE IN PODCAST

I worried for months that the police would find something to connect me to the murder, or that a police officer, perhaps motivated by a connection to my father’s family, would plant some incriminating evidence.

I was afraid that I’d be made to pay for his death, and I suppose I have.

Richard’s family made sure that everyone knew they suspected me of murdering him and job opportunities had a nasty habit of drying up under their influence.

I saw police officers everywhere and knew they were just waiting for me to slip up.

I obsessed constantly about the life I would have had if Richard had lived, of how much easier everything would be.

My relationship failed and I struggled to get close to people because I was terrified of being hurt again.

Five years passed and it felt like Richard’s death would never be solved.

DRAFT: DO NOT USE IN PODCAST

RUTH: The first time I saw a news broadcast about Daphne, they showed the building she used to live in, the Blue Diamond, before going into the retirement home.

I recognized it immediately. It was the building next to the Seacrest, the building where my father had lived and died, an unsolved mystery of a wealthy, older man who had just started dating again.

Everything fit, slotting together, so smoothly and cleanly, that I knew immediately Daphne was the answer I was looking for. She had killed him.

“Actually, Daphne, I’m here because you killed my father.”

“What?” Daphne sputtered. For the first time, she looked truly surprised. Her wrinkled mouth flapped open and shut with a dry sound, like a trout gasping for breath in a fisherman’s boat.

“My father, Richard Montgomery, died on the tenth of April 2016. Not only was he a wealthy surgeon, but he was also on the board of the Sunshine Development Group, his family’s real estate empire.

Richard died in his condo, which was one building over from where you were living at the time and he’d recently told me he had started dating again.

He was in his late seventies, and a diabetic, but he died of an insulin overdose that the police treated as suspicious because he had a needle mark on the back of his neck.

You even saw a picture of him I had on my computer and said that he looked familiar.

I knew as soon as I saw the news, I felt it. It’s over, Daphne. You killed him.”

Daphne was still staring at her as if she was completely unrecognizable. Ruth knew that Daphne prided herself on her ability to read people; it was how she’d always been so good at ensnaring men. She would have never expected that someone like Ruth could fool her.

“So, this whole thing was about you trying to catch me out? Are you even a journalist?” Daphne demanded.

Ruth felt triumphant. For the first time, Daphne was on the back foot, and she had the upper hand.

“Yes, I am a journalist, and yes, I also needed the money. But I started this podcast to record your confession of his murder or to find something that tied you to his death. And to show everyone what it’s like for your victims’ families, how you’ve derailed their lives.

I lost everything when he died. His family suspected that I did it and cut me out of their lives and sabotaged my career.

The police hounded me, trying to pressure me into cracking and confessing.

My relationship ended because I was so obsessed with his death and what happened to me. I spent years on antidepressants—”

“Well, that’s just America for you. Everyone these days—” Daphne tried to interrupt, to steer the conversation, but Ruth wasn’t letting go.

“And that case cost me my inheritance. He told me the day before he died that he was planning to change his will, so that I would get half and my half-sister, Lucy, the daughter he raised, would get half. It was a lot of money, the kind of money that would have bought me a home, paid off my student debt, and allowed me to really launch my career. I think it was his way of saying sorry for not being in my life, but it also showed how much he believed in me, so it meant a lot. But the appointment with his lawyer was set for Monday and he died on the Sunday. So, I lost my father and I got nothing.”

“Bad luck,” Daphne said, wincing amiably, but Ruth barreled on, ignoring her, trying to say what she needed to say without Daphne interjecting again.

“I know it was you, so why not admit it? It’s not going to change anything for you; it’s just one more murder to add to your list of confessions, but it would give me some peace of mind.

This case. . . it ruined my life. Your life is almost over; you could help!

” Ruth stopped talking, uncomfortably aware of the pleading note in her voice.

Daphne was the only person who could give her this closure, who could finally prove that Ruth wasn’t a murderer, and she wasn’t delusional.

Daphne could absolve her of all of this.

“Well, you got me,” Daphne said, and Ruth held her breath.

“We lived on the same block, and he certainly sounds like my type. Rich and handsome. And I sure do love watching old men die,” Daphne said, a mocking smile on her face.

“It must have pissed you off. You finally thought your ship had come in and your father pops his clogs. It sure puts the dead in deadbeat dad!”

“So, you’re confessing?” Ruth asked wildly, unable to believe that this hell was finally coming to an end.

“Am I?” Daphne mused. “I don’t know that I am. Warren’s the only death I confessed to in Florida; adding another might. . . complicate things.” There was a sparkle in her eyes. She thrived on this: misery and trauma. Everyone else struggled in these moments but Daphne clearly loved it.

“Are you fucking kidding?” Ruth snapped, slamming her hand on the table, knocking her laptop on the floor.

White-hot rage surged through her, blotting out everything but the monster sitting across from her.

Should she just strangle Daphne? It wouldn’t be hard to crush that bony neck, her death would be its own kind of closure.

“It doesn’t matter now. The game is over. Just tell the truth!”

“Whooee! I’ve never seen you get this riled up.

I’m glad we’ve got that on tape for posterity!

You’re right, it doesn’t matter. Maybe I killed him, maybe it was someone else.

The world is full of people who got away with murder.

They’re just walking around, enjoying life, while the rest of you tie yourself into little knots trying to follow the rules.

” Daphne hooted with laughter, her face ablaze with triumph.

Ruth turned away, feeling her body shake with the strain of this moment, of all the years she’d spent agonizing over this case.

Why wouldn’t Daphne confess to this murder?

It wasn’t like the Gabrielle murder; it wouldn’t fundamentally change what people thought of her.

In Daphne-land, killing Richard Montgomery was just par for the course.

Was she refusing to confess to have power over Ruth?

So that she could dangle hints and watch Ruth try desperately to catch her?

Or did she just like the feeling of being in control?

Of finding one more person to hurt even now when murder was off the table? That thought made Ruth sick.

“You’re disgusting,” Ruth hissed.

“That’s not exactly a minority opinion,” Daphne said with a shrug. “Why don’t you sit down, settle your kettle, and lay out your case against me. Who knows? I might be compelled to confess.”

Daphne was smiling but there was a flinty glint in her eye.

Is she enjoying this? Ruth slowly felt her rage cool down into revulsion.

Here was this funny, intelligent, unique woman who spent the first part of her life being preyed upon only to spend the rest of her life as a predator.

What a waste of a person. Ruth couldn’t stand to be here any longer, especially now that she’d shared something so important from her life.

Ruth looked at Daphne with fresh eyes and all she saw was frustration and disappointment.

This woman couldn’t free Ruth. She couldn’t even free herself.

Ruth was going to have to find her own way to move on.

“No, we’re done here. It’s obvious that you’re going to keep lying to me, about Gabrielle and about my father. I don’t need this,” Ruth said abruptly, shoving her laptop into her bag.

Daphne seemed surprised. She probably thought this would go on as long as she wanted. That Ruth was going to sit here and say thank you for all the shit she shoveled.

“Now you’re just being ungrateful! I’ve given you the story of a lifetime,” Daphne said, her pride obviously wounded.

But Ruth didn’t care. She couldn’t sit here any longer, listening to Daphne twist the truth and find a million justifications for cold-blooded murder.

It was like poison seeping into her blood, blurring her vision and leaving her nauseous.

She would never get the truth out of her and maybe, at the end of the day, it didn’t matter.

The dead were dead, and the living would just have to find a way to muddle through.

“Yes, but every story has an ending,” Ruth retorted.

She left Daphne sitting there alone, too frail to follow her. By the time she left the building and walked into the light, Ruth felt like she could breathe again.

PreyAllDay:

So is that it? Ruth confronts her about Gabrielle Hanks’s death, they argue, and then it just ends with Daphne comparing true crime fans to people who stare at car accidents. And then the podcast just stops?!? Was that an artistic choice or do you think Ruth had a technical problem?

ShockAndBlah:

Is the podcast over?? Or maybe Ruth’s just waiting for the sentencing to pick up the story?

BurntheBookBurnerz:

You guys. . . what am I supposed to listen to now?

ShockAndBlah:

Okay weird theory, but does anyone think CapoteParty might be. . . Ruth? Think about it, they always seem to know more about the case than everyone else. And they went from posting every day, all day, to almost never being around?

PreyAllDay:

But why ask what senior home Daphne is in? Ruth obviously knows that.

ShockAndBlah:

To throw us off her scent.

BurntheBookBurnerz:

Or. . . maybe it’s Diane? Or one of her grandchildren?

StopDropAndTroll:

Or. . . just a total nobody with no link to the case. FFS y’all sound more paranoid than me and I think the government invented Sandy Hook and Covid!!!

BurntheBookBurnerz:

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PreyAllDay:

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