My Favorite Murder with Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark - MFM Minisode 331

Episode Date: May 15, 2023

This week’s hometowns include listening to mediocre dude bands and the queen of a parent-teacher organization. See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

This is exactly right. Hello! And welcome. To my favorite murder. The mini-soad. Hi. Mysteries. Mysteries and histories. I don't...

You know that podcast Mysteries and Histories? It's this one. We just renamed the mini-soad. Actually, that's not bad. It's kind of good. Do you have a mystery or a history that you want to read? I think I have both. Let's do it.

Let's jump in. Do you want me to start? Yeah, tell me a mystery or a history. Check out this mystery history. The subject line is, my dad's career is a bookie and professional gambler. Yes, yes, yes, yes. It's an inverted mystery, which is a declaration of the truth.

Hey, y'all. This takes place 40 miles south of Boston in the 1960s through 2011. My dad, and then in parentheses it says stepdad. Aw. I love that. Was a real stand-up guy. He married my mom in 1967 when I was four. His sperm donor father wanted nothing to do with my mom and I.

And then in parentheses it says loser. Yeah, for sure. In 1975, when I was 12 and in school, we were all to write a paper about what our dads did for a living. So at home I asked questions and was told by my mom, your dad is an accountant, which was boring. So he was not picked to talk to our class on career day. At our house once a week, his friend Joey dropped off a money-sized brick

wrapped up with an elastic in a brown lunch bag. And Joey would tell me, leave this on your dad's desk. I can't, I can't really do a Boston accent. Yeah. Or like a mobster's accent. Leave this, leave this. You want to do it? You got it.

No, you had it. Leave this on your dad's desk. There you go. But that was, what's dad's? I don't know why I put that spice on it. Can you just try a Boston accent real quick? Hey, leave this on your dad's desk. That's my own accent.

I can't do it. That was, that was Irvine all the way. How would Ben Affleck do it? Think of it that way. I don't know. At the time, I never questioned it. During football season and other sporting events, my dad would have to, in quotes, do the phone in his office,

no matter if it was Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, you name it. Dad, in quotes, doing the phone was a priority. We also went to the dog track. And then in parentheses, it says grayhound racing on a daily basis. What? I woke up. Yeah, they're just living at the dog track. Jesus.

You know how accountants do? Yeah, right. This is my favorite sentence maybe of any hometown we've ever gotten. I woke up one night to my parents screaming with delight as my father threw handfuls upon handfuls of cash in the air. And then in parentheses, it says like money booth. My mother always had a new car while my dad always drove an older used car and us kids never wanted for anything.

For my mom's birthday one year, there was literally a new car in our driveway with a giant red bow on the roof. He was a really good man. In 69, my younger sister was born with profound physical and mental disabilities and required a lot of care. When other men might flee, he was always there. Family always came first. He often cooked dinner to help my mom and we always ate as a family.

He died in 2011 after fighting aggressive lung cancer. At his funeral, his friend Joey told me that my dad and he were quote, once at a meeting with Whitey Bulger and associates. My mom showed me copies of his tax returns and his listed occupation really was professional gambler. Wow. I also have a younger brother who has an even more colorful and illegal career, but that's a story for another time.

Georgia and Karen, I've been a fan since the beginning. Thank you for being our strong voice when it comes to mental illness, women's issues and representing those who often go overlooked. Respectfully, Kim. Kim, thank you. Kim, we kicked it off with a fucking salute to Kim's dad. Yeah. She didn't say his name.

Stepdad is his name. But best dad, best bookie dad. Love it. Come on. Great job. This is called, I will never give up on this story. So you might as well give it a go. It just starts. It's 2023.

Who the fuck on earth has a witty greeting left in the tank? This is a meet cute slash coincidence story. Let's get into it. The year 1970 fucking to the place Santa Cruz, California, the specific location, an outpatient group home for children on the autism spectrum. I know not necessarily a storybook setting for love, but just wait.

My mom, Nancy was a recent college graduate. She was about to start her first real adult job at this clinic where she had volunteered during college, except for the one semester when she'd studied abroad. She also had a friend, let's call her Kathy, who kept bugging my mom to come see her boyfriend's band play. My mom having sat through more than her fill of long nights of mandatory listening to mediocre dude bands.

Hi, what's up? Hi, I lived it. Then there always made an excuse not to go. Cut to my dad, Gary, also a recent graduate of the same college. As it sometimes happens, my dad was struggling to find his path in life. And then in all caps says, sing a dad. He was still in a mediumly happy long distance relationship

with his high school sweetheart, Connie. And then it says, notice, I'm using all the names per your request. Yes. Who lived in Denver. His get told him that it was time to end the relationship and move on. He felt that his heart was in California and he wanted to stay. But after searching for work unsuccessfully all summer,

his practical mind told him his only real option was to get real, cut his losses, move to Denver, and find a mediumly happy job and marry Connie. So subtle. My dad literally packed up his entire apartment through a raging going away party for himself, where his band played, see where I'm going with this. Yes.

And said his goodbyes. The morning came for him to leave. And he loaded up his car to get on the road to his new life in Denver. He was fighting back tears as he got ready to go that morning and later said that every bone in his body told him he was supposed to stay, but he didn't know how to make that work. On his drive towards the highway, he decided to make one last stop and say goodbye to the beach,

a place he loved and spent a lot of time. After shedding a few tears, he was trudging back up the hill towards his car when he spotted a pay phone. Suddenly it occurred to him that he should call his old boss from the great college internship he'd had one semester just to say goodbye and thank you. He thought to himself, if I have a dime in my pocket,

and then it says yes, it literally cost one dime to make a phone call in 1972, what even is time, then I'll call her. He reached into his pocket and found one dime, so he called. His boss Joyce happened to pick up a minor miracle in and of itself in those days of no cell phones or answering machines. She was thrilled to hear from my dad. She said she'd been trying to contact him for weeks, but hadn't been able to get a hold of him.

My dad didn't have a phone at his apartment. The 70s sound like a real confusing time. It was just, there was a lot less communication. And I have to say, I don't know if it was worse or better. It's hard to say. I agree. We should have just stopped at the little cassette fucking, what's it called?

Answering machine. Answering machine, yeah. Should have stopped there, technology. She was hoping that he'd consider accepting the new job that had just opened up because he'd done such a great job during his internship. Fuck. Even though his car was packed up with all of his belongings,

he'd moved out of his apartment, and his girlfriend was waiting for him in Denver. My dad gratefully blurred it out. Yes. Poor Denise. Was it Denise? Connie. Connie.

Poor Connie. You guessed it. The job was at the autistic clinic where my mom worked. Although my parents went to the same school and knew many of the same people they'd never managed to meet. My mom was studying abroad the one semester when my dad worked at her clinic. And it turned out that he was also in the band

that she stubbornly, and then it says wisely, refused to go see. But finally fate stepped in and brought them together. Jesus. All these chances to me and it didn't happen. Wow. Then like last fucking string of his teeth stayed. And like he's on the beat.

Okay. It's just, I love this crazy. And also it's like trust your gut. Like, good Lord. On my dad's first day of work, he was assigned to shadow my mom. They had a tough day working with the kids. And at the end of the day, my dad gave my mom a huge hug and a grateful thank you.

My mom says she somehow instantly knew in that moment that she'd found her person. Many decades of a loving marriage and two kids and two grandkids later, I'd say that's true. My parents devotion to each other has been an incredible demonstration for me and my sister of what it means to be kind, patient and brave. And as my dad always says,

it was all because he had a dime in his pocket. Ugh. That are sweet update because obviously I've written this in before with no luck. After a brutal 20 year battle with Parkinson's disease, my dad passed away in June of 2020. Literally on Father's Day, just as an extra fuck you from the universe.

We miss him dearly every day, full stop, but slash and he and my mom were devoted to each other until the end. The memory of my dad's courageous choice to follow his instincts inspires me every day and I try to be as brave and open as he was in that moment. Stay sexy and always carry lots of spare change. Corrine, she, her.

Corrine. Always carry lots of spare change for machines that literally don't exist anymore. Totally. Oh, Corrine, you're so lucky to have parents that found each other and were in love the entire time they were married. Absolutely devoted to each other.

Well, as a person who actually did have parents who loved each other very much the whole time, it's a very lucky thing. Well, it's just a very rare thing. It's hard. It is. I know they didn't love each other every single day the same way, but then they'd talk about it

and make jokes about how, you know. They were a good example of how to stick through it. Yeah. Well, you know what? I'm switching mine then because I picked a different one, but now I think I need to read this one. Okay. Okay.

And the subject line is all the things you like and the hooray you need. And it just starts high-wonderfuls. Long-time listener, first-time caller, figured we all needed to hear about some happiness right about now. You asked for coincidences, so here you go. What's funny is we don't know when this email came in,

but it always applies in this fucking world we live in right now. Thank God for Gen Z. Okay. Back in 2011, my boyfriend and I moved up to New York from Georgia. Georgia. Hey.

We were together for four years, but we were young and I wanted to be free and drink my way through all of NYC, so we broke up when he went to medical school. For eight years, I partied and online dated through the wealth of NYC men, and then in parentheses it says, as terrible as you can imagine.

And we only kept in contact here and there via short texts. Fast forward to 2021, so it's 10 years later. And I was walking down the street wearing my ex-boyfriend's Iron Maiden T-shirt from a concert we went to together, and I just decided to become sober. After my mother ended up in the hospital for about the third time,

from majorly injuring herself from drinking, and I had a terrible fight with my family, I needed someone to talk to. I needed someone that knew me from my Georgia life and someone that knew me from my New York life, and there he was, walking towards me. My ex-boyfriend from eight years ago, and I was wearing his T-shirt.

Oh. Not only that, but he and his new girlfriend had just moved across the street. Oh. He was now my neighbor. I was even friends with his super. I cried as I realized that I had strangely been asking for this, and then a parenthesis says,

even though I was looking like shit. We started hanging out on the weekends, and he greatly supported me during my early days of sobriety, going to dinners, art museums, and showing me once again that I could have fun without substances. No, I did not become the other girl, but I was there for him right when things got particularly ugly with a new girlfriend.

We now like to say that we came into each other's lives right when we needed it, and have been dating again for about a year. Oh. SSDGM, and be careful what you wish for. And then a parenthesis says, or just keep all of your ex's things. Jackie, she, her.

Oh. Thanks. Right? Yeah. I like that we can share for her because she didn't break up another person's relationship that broke up on its own, so it's fine. That's right.

And it's hard because I think there are those bonds, like that is obviously always a challenge, where it's like when someone has a serious bond and it's like an old girlfriend, a first girlfriend, that kind of thing. Totally. Like you knew me. You're the only person who knew me from that life

before this one, that kind of thing. Yeah. Yeah. Oh, sweet. Okay, this is called the first time I hitchhiked. Oh. Uh-huh. Hello, all.

I would go on and on, but let's just say you all are amazing, and I love you. Now buckle up. Nothing to do with murder, but it's a great story anyway. It was the summer of 1996, and I had just graduated from high school. I grew up in a little bitty town in Wyoming

that was just over the border from Utah. Now, when I say small town, I mean small. The closest place to shop or eat at a restaurant that was not fast food is a 63-mile drive to Park City, Utah. Jesus. And between my town and Park City, there is almost nothing, just the great wide open.

It was late July. My best friend, let's call her Emily, and I decided to ride down to Park City to do a little shopping. Emily was driving. She had an adorable Honda CRX, and we felt so grown up going on this excursion without our parents.

We spent the day shopping in the outlet mall and grabbed a quick bite to eat before heading back towards Wyoming. As we cruise along the I-80, no, it just says I-80, but I'm from California. As we cruise along I-80, we had the windows rolled down and music blasting, sun shining, and feeling so free

without a care in the world. About 20 miles out of Park City, the car suddenly dies. We floated over to the shoulder of the road and parked. It's that moment when you're trying to brainstorm what could be wrong with your car, but you know that you had no idea. I suddenly wish that we had my mom with us.

Oh, sweet baby angel. Now, this is before cell phones, and even if there were cell phones, I doubt they would have worked in this area even today. We debated what to do next. We could wait in the car until we didn't know what. We could start walking to the next exit that had a gas station about five miles down the road.

That seemed like the best option. We put on the hazard lights and got out and started walking. It's late July and extremely hot. We had walked for about a mile when an older man pulled over in an even older car. He asked us if we wanted a ride. Now, don't judge. We were young and naive.

It was the 90s. We were really overheating from the sun. We were pretty scared about walking on the shoulder of a very busy freeway. There were a lot of things racing through my mind, but my main thought was that I was supposed to be home soon, and my mother wouldn't know where I was. Yes, even as an 18-year-old,

I was more concerned about being late and getting in trouble than getting in a car with a total stranger. Sorry, but just the heat alone, I would have gotten into that car. Absolutely. I'm not good at heat. Yeah, walking in the sun, knowing you're like,

oh, we got five miles ahead of us that I would have. You could feel the heat of the asphalt through your shoes. The sunburn would have started immediately on me. Because you know they're not wearing SPF. It's the 90s. Yeah, that's right. So we get in. Emily and I were terrified visibly.

We sat together in the front bucket seat sharing a seat belt. We thought that would be safer. Crying. This man didn't say a word about us sharing a seat or are crying. He just drove us down the freeway to the next exit and pulled into a gas station parking lot. We got out visibly relieved and said, thank you. He said it was no problem.

But then he said, you girls should not be getting into cars with strangers. That could have turned out differently. And then he drove away. And that man was Ted Bundy. Shit. Emily and I were shaken, but feeling pretty good that we had survived.

We entered the gas station to call her dad. We found the pay phone. Oh, the 90s. Scraped together enough change from our wallets and made a long distance call to her dad's office. We explained the situation. Her dad said he would call a tow truck to pick us up and we would go get the car.

He would start on his way from Wyoming and meet us at the gas station after we got the car. Okay. When the tow truck arrived, we got in with the driver. Again, no thought to this being a stranger who could now take us anywhere. Oh, the innocence. We chatted with the driver and started to explain

where the car had broken down. As we approached the area of the car, I told him it's just past that bridge. And he replied, where all the fire trucks are. As he slowed down on the opposite side of the freeway, we saw two fire trucks, two ambulances, and at least three highway patrol cars in the area around her car.

The tow truck driver crossed over the median to the side of the freeway with Emily's car and approached the emergency vehicles. When we exited the truck, an officer asked what we were doing, and Emily said, where's my car? As we looked, we saw Emily's car smashed to pieces in a gully about 100 feet off the road. Oh, fuck.

There was a second car that had obviously hit Emily's, but it looked much less damaged down in the ditch as well. The ambulance was loading a woman from the second car onto a gurney. She was crying and kept saying, I fell asleep. I fell asleep. Was anyone hurt? But perhaps the most horrifying part

was that all of the other emergency response people and officers were fanned out in the gully and surrounding area in a clear search pattern looking for our bodies. The emergency responders assumed that the car had been occupied and were looking for bodies from the car. Oh, my God.

We explained who we were and what happened, and the much relieved emergency responders came up to speak with us. As far as I know, the woman from the other vehicle was OK. I often wondered what would have happened if we had stayed in the car or not hitchhiked with that stranger. Mm-hmm.

It's chilling to think that we had probably just missed being smashed in that car by only about five or 10 minutes. And what are the chances that someone would fall asleep in the exact location of Emily's car? So fucking weird. So crazy. Then, when listening to episode 329 of your podcast,

I realized almost 30 years later that this was the time that the great base and serial killer was in this area killing young women. Probably young women that he picked up on the side of the road. Oh, fuck. Something I did...

I hadn't read this part. Something I did not know about until listening to your show. Wow, that really could have been different. We are so lucky that it was just a nice gentleman who wanted to help us out who stopped for us that day. Yeah. Well, that's my story. Sorry it was so long.

Thank you, lovely ladies, for all that you do. You mean more than I can say. Stay sexy and don't hitchhike unless absolutely necessary, question mark. Love, Jen. Jen, that's almost like one of those, like, philosophical questions where it's like, do you sit in a car on the side of the freeway

and wait or do you take action? I will say if you ever have to pull over on the side of the road, always keep your... And you have to stay in your car. Always keep your seat belt on. Oh. I learned that a long time ago from an accident I heard about, but keep your seat belt on

when you're like, if you're waiting for a tow truck or whatever. But try not to pull over on the freeway ever. Yeah. Roll your ass onto a freeway exit. It's better to fuck up your rims than it is to pull over on the freeway. That's right.

You know, if you have a flat or whatever. That reminds me of that night that I ran over that piece of plastic when you and James and I were coming home from somewhere. That was fucking insane. And I was screaming at you guys not to pull over. Neither of you would listen to me. I know.

It's true. I was just like, what did I just hit? And then it was like, in my mind, it was going to drag and then catch on fire and blow us up. Yeah, it was definitely dragging. There's a lot of minuses for that one. Thank God Vince was there.

Can you imagine if you and I fucking... Oh no. Just immediately, it's all screaming in the car. Yeah. I'm not going to read you the subject line. Okay. Hey y'all, write to it. In 2002, I was in the second grade

in a small elementary school in the rural south. My mom was queen of that elementary school PTO, which is the parent teacher organization. And when they decided to host a magazine sales fundraiser, she was all period over, period it, period. Why was she so obsessed with this fundraiser, you ask? Because the student with the top sales per grade got to enter a money booth.

Oh shit. Yes. For children. She shamelessly peddled real simple and Southern Home and Garden for weeks. And finally it was announced. I, parentheses, she had won. Her mom won the magazine drive for her.

Oh my God. Because she loved that prize so much. Not fair. It's how that shit is rigged. Yes. When you're growing up and you have a mom that works. Yes. And a mom that doesn't, can't participate in shit like that.

Yeah. And you watch those like super helicopter parents that get in there and they're just like, this is crazy. Leanne won. And you're just like, fuck you. Anyway. Got it.

I was small for my age. Three and a half feet tall in second grade to put it into perspective. That's crazy. You don't know what that means. I mean, it's truly tiny. It's tiny, tiny. Okay.

But I was coming to win. Oh, so the tiny baby is going into the money booth. Aww. That's so cute. I was coming to win. My mom and I decided the following strategy. I would throw myself onto the floor of the booth, trapping bills below my body.

Then I would take them down the neck of a men's large sweatshirt. She bought me at the local Walmart. Oh my God, mom. It was large to give me more space for cash. Yeah. We know. You don't have to explain that to us. Cut to the day of the money booth.

I am pumped. We were in the very 1990s gym. You can smell it, 90s kids. And I am called over to enter the booth. I stood confidently in the booth and threw my 40 pound tiny body over as much cash as possible. Our careful preparation, ending up working. And I caught $75.

Holy shit. Yes. I was a high roller. And when I got home, I asked my mom to take me to the grocery store so I could treat my sister to kid cuisine. Aww. I know. The rest of that money sustained my kid's self for almost a year.

I mean, here's what's amazing. That mom busted ass. Yeah. And then let her kid keep that money. Totally. It wasn't some sort of like, and now you're going to buy the groceries for the next couple months. That's what I was expecting.

So it sustained my kid's self for almost a year. I even got to purchase a set of blow pens with my winnings at the local Toys R Us. I don't know what that is. Hmm. I don't know. Blow pens. Is that when you, when you had those little straws and you put

some like almost like this gum at the end of it and you can blow them up, but you got really light headed and dizzy. I can't imagine they sell those anymore. Oh, those were like those plastic balloons. Yeah. Remember those? And they smelled like glue. We were basically huffing glue.

You were like absolutely huffing glue on those. I wonder if that's what she means. I think it's a thing that's like, it, you blow colors. Yeah. I think you're right. Out onto paper. Yeah. But not sure.

Okay. 90s kids, let us know. Long live the early 2000s and long live small towns where there's truly nothing to do. Anyway, that's it. Stay sexy and always ask your competitive mom to help you with your money boost strategy. Madison, she, her.

Good one, Madison. Nice. Nice job. And congratulations. I mean, if you're listening and you have a, you should, at your next family event holiday slash holiday slash whatever birthday party, please ask crowds of people. Has anyone here been in a money booth?

You need to be our on the ground investigative dress and find these money booth stories. Cause people have been in them. Yeah. Eyes and ears guys. We need you. Please do your homework. Okay.

This is called STEM shenanigans, tomfoolery, escapades and mischief. I know how you'd love a good grandma, prank or ghost story. Well, hold on to your butts because I have a three in one. My grandma, Wilma or Willie was known to have a mischievous streak, especially after raising six kids and countless grandkids. She was never above a practical joke. One time she forgot the sugar in her famous lemon pie and casually watched as my mom grabbed a piece and took a giant bite.

But this isn't that story. In our small town, my grandma used to love walking around and planting flowers, some of which are still present around town today, despite her passing in the nineties. When I would visit, we would sometimes take a nice afternoon walk. One afternoon when I was young, our casual stroll, let us pass the local cemetery. Grandma told me a story of a traveling salesman who suddenly

passed away in our town in the late 1800s, leaving only his satchel full of samples behind. Well, the story goes that no one knew how to reach his family about his passing. So he was buried in our local cemetery. A local sculptor moved by this man who died alone, didn't want the stranger's grave to go unmarked, so he carved a realistic stone version of his suitcase to

service his tombstone. Fortunately, the sculptor was much better at art than spelling. So the monument reads, here's where he stopped last, misspelling the word stopped. So there's only one P and stopped. Grandma told us that this misspelling outraged the man's ghost, and he would haunt the area surrounding the cemetery, looking for the person who botched his headstone.

In fact, there's a keyhole in the top of the suitcase, Tombstone. And if you yell, hey, what are you doing down there into the keyhole? You can hear him say, nothing. Of course, being young, gullible, and not one to shy away from a ghost story, I decided to try it. I yelled into the keyhole and waited for my answer.

Then it dawned on me. My grandma was behind me, giggling the whole time. Well, what did he say? She asked, nothing. I said, in a somewhat disappointed tone, she got me. In reality, the man's name was James S Jacobs, and his death was neither suspicious nor mysterious. He lived in our town.

He died in his home after a short illness in 1891 and was buried near his family who did not believe in putting up headstones. His family's graves are nearby but unmarked, and his father is the one who commissioned the monument for his son. The tombstone has actually been featured in Ripley's Believe It or Not, multiple books and travel guides.

Stay sexy and prank your grandkids into learning how to spell Amanda, and then she included a picture of the grave. Oh, as well. Because, so sorry, the grandma was lying entirely about the whole thing. She made the entire story up. The entire story up, and then the nothing.

See, we've talked about this before. In my mind, and in my world, that is an expression of love. Somebody takes the time to prank you, to think it through, to be like, you can see that grandma driving around by herself coming up with that and being like, this is going to be great. It's like teaching your kid how to use their imagination,

but also not to get tricked. Yes. To bolo in life, you know, be on the lookout. Yes. Please bolo, children. Bolo. Always. Oh, that was it, right?

That's our last one. That's it, yeah. A delightful packet of stories there. Yeah. Thanks for writing in, everyone. Appreciate your histories and your mysteries. Oh, my God. What a mysterious and historical mini-sode this has been.

Truly. Stay sexy. And don't get murdered. Goodbye. Elvis, do you want a cookie? Yes. This has been an exactly right production. Our producer is Alejandra Keck.

And this episode was engineered and mixed by Stephen Ray Morris. Stephen! Email your hometowns and fucking hurrays to myfavoritmurder at gmail.com. Follow the show on Instagram and Facebook at myfavoritmurder and Twitter at myfavemurder. Goodbye.