My Favorite Murder with Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark - MFM Minisode 347

Episode Date: September 4, 2023

This week’s hometowns include the dangers of the Alaskan mud flats and a hazmat team inspection at home.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. Mike Williams set off on a hunting trip into the swamps of North Florida, where it was thought he met his fate by a group of hungry alligators, except that's not what happened. And after the uncovering of a secret love triangle, the truth would finally be revealed. Listen to over my dead body gone hunting early and add-free on Wondering Plus. Hello! And welcome to my favorite murder, the mini-sode, being videoed too, and with Dottie, as a special guest. Dottie, for the fan cult, if you want to look at things while we talk about them, including Dottie, trying the fan cult.

All right, should would kick it off. Let's do it. You want to go first? I want me to go first. Whatever you want. OK, I'll go. My first one's called Alaska Quick Sand. Hello, badass beauties.

I grew up in a small town called Eagle River, Alaska. As children, my siblings and I were taught to respect nature, but our wild man, father, really pushed the limits. This included hiking mountains in the middle of nowhere. My bad ass mom had to hike down with a dislocated knee more than once. What? I'm going to hear that story.

How do you hike with a dislocated knee? You got to get there somehow. It was also not uncommon to be car camping with bears shaking our cars, feeding backyard mousse carrots, and of course, watching out for eagles that may snatch up the rat dog that he didn't want. And then it says, now his boopy.

Of course. The one adventure that was off limits was walking in the mud flats. The Alaska turn-again arm includes a road with 90-degree cliffs on one side and the ocean and mountain views on the other. Many people stop along this road as it is one of the prettiest places in Alaska. That being said, it is also very dangerous. As a child, there was the legend of a woman who had walked into the turn again flats and got sucked in. The legend was that the helicopter tried to attach to her and pull her out, but she was torn in half.

Spoiler alert, this is not true, but the real story is still horrific, you know. The 18 year old woman was with her new husband, for a wheeling in the flats and had gotten stuck. She had stepped off to try to push it out and began to sink. By the time help arrived, she was already chest deep. Her new husband held onto her for as long as he could, but he watched as his fully conscious wife was sucked into the sand. No. This half-cho urban legend instilled a deep fear of drowning for me, which has honestly

kept me safe in the Alaskan wilderness. Unfortunately, these mudflaps have claimed other lives. Occasionally, I will take this road and see crews practicing rescues in the mudflats with high-powered water jets. For those coming to Alaska, just a reminder that mousse will kill you, bears don't need to be touched or fed,

and our mud may be quick sand. Otherwise, it's majestic as fuck and our salmon are bigger than your toddlers. Cory. God damn, also I didn't know Moose could kill you. I thought they were like, oh, casual and didn't care. I think they're enormous. Have you seen the like, the real size of them

when it cars driving by and it's just like, they're twice the size of an SUV kind of a thing? thing. Yeah, but like what do they do to kill you? Just like trample you like a horse or like use those big teeth to bite you? I have so many at Alaskan questions, so many. All right, my first email, the subject line is 1924 Sisters Death Still Looms Large. Hello, murderinos. I just started listening to the podcast and I can't get enough. I wanted to share this 1924 mysterious death with you

that still looms large over my hometown of Campbellton, New Brunswick, Canada, just where the province of New Brunswick and Quebec are separated by a bay, but joined by a bridge. Thank you. Love all that information. On November 9, 1924, two sisters, Dorval 22 and Laudie Ramsey 19, decided to hike Sugarloaf Mountain,

a 1,000-foot mountain that shadows the community at 4 p.m. What's odd about this is that Campelton is a cold place, comparable with the Midwest due to the geographical location. It would be colder than Maine in this particular spot. In November, there would be snow and potentially temperatures as much as 30 below. And then in parentheses, it says Canadian, sorry. At 4 p.m., it would be starting to get dark. The girls also chose to ascend the North Face, not one regularly climbed because it was

treacherous. Despite the conditions, the girls reached the top. This is where accounts differ, but reports confirmed that there were tracks that showed them pacing or walking in circles on the mountain top. Some suggest that they were then chased by a bear, but bears would be hibernating at this time. Others suggest that they went up to pick blueberries, also not happening in November. Some say one sister slipped and the other tried to help.

There's other suspicions in the community, which rarely make print, that the girls had a suicide pact, or that one was pregnant out of wedlock, although pregnancy is not noted by the corner, and autopsy wasn't done. Back to the facts. The two girls' bodies were found halfway down the mountain, showing head trauma, indicating they fell or jumped from the top of the mountain.

In subsequent years and to this day, two crosses are painted on the mountain at the place the bodies were found, painted by various volunteers. Now here's where it gets even weirder. Nearly everyone in my hometown believes they are related to these two dead girls. Everyone has a story about what happened

and points out the crosses and tells their story. Bears, blueberries, suicide, you get it all. The story of these two girls is intricately woven into the fabric of the community. It first struck me as odd when I was dating my boyfriend in high school and he told me he was related to them. I said that was impossible as he and I weren't related. And then in parentheses it says, yeah, in a small community, you always do a little quick genealogy first, if you're smart. Because I was related to the two girls. My family insists that we are related to them via a distant cousin, but I've yet to be convinced.

On the other hand, I attribute this story in part in encouraging me to pursue a PhD in folklore and studying the impact of narratives on communities. That's cool. Amazing. The mountain is dangerous. And as a small community, we are all connected. And scary, terrible things can still happen in a small community. The story warns about all the dangers of our community being nestled so tightly in nature. You have to drive past Sugarloaf Mountain

to enter our community. It's in the town crest in the name of Sugarloaf Senior High School. It says go Bruins. Campbellton will never be far away from the legend of the Ramsey sisters, unfortunate and untimely death. Jody. Jody, great email. I leave. Perfect hometown.

That's what we want is the legend that everyone thinks they're fucking related to them, which is hilarious. And that you have the radish fucking career to them, which is hilarious, and that you have the radish fucking career in the world, so good job. Because of that, because of this kind of thing that like this cloud that's hanging over, and I think it's really, it's so what the true crime community feels like these days, where everybody says

they're related to these two girls, because everybody feels related to them because people's families talk about them. People's families are concerned about them. Everybody has a reason to say something and the rationale that it's because you're a distant cousin, when actually it's just a very human thing to care about like the mystery and the kind of like what would have gone on to have that happen in these two girls? Yeah, amazing.

What could it be? Yeah, that's really cool. Two great adventure emails. I want you to picture Steve Jobs, tinkering with a computer in his garage, Walt Disney drawing cartoons for his high school newspaper. Every big moment starts with a big dream, but what happens when that dream turns out to be an even bigger failure? Each week on Wondery's new podcast, The Big Flop,

host Misha Brown is joined by different comedians to chronicle some of the biggest failures and blunders in pop culture history. Each episode will have you thinking, why in the world did this get made? From box office flops like Cats the Movie, to Action Park, New Jersey's infamous theme park that had countless injuries, many lawsuits, and rides so wild it became known as Class Action

Park, or Quibi, that short form video platform with an even shorter lifespan. It's a story of a spectacular failure with lots of surprises along the way. Enjoy the big flop on the Wonder App or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to the big flop early and add free on Wonder E+. Get started with your free trial at WonderE.com slash plus. All right, let's do 1970s wedding hometown.

Hi Karen and Georgia. First of all, I wanted to send a thank you to Cheryl in Texas, whose story you read about her mother's passing and having those who love us come to get us when it's time. Yesterday was the three anniversary of my dad's death and Cheryl's message was the hug from a stranger I didn't know I needed. Now to my hometown almost murder. In honor of my dad, here is the infamous story of his and my mom's wedding. They should have been celebrating 50 years this month, truly fuck cancer. Truly. My parents were married in August of 1973 in Stanley Park, Pavilion, and Vancouver.

Another candidate I went. You can picture this 70s wedding. My mom and her bridesmaids made their long, bell-shaped, hippie dresses. My dad and his groomsmen all had long hair and moustaches. My no-nose contribution, my dad's dad, to the wedding festivities were barrels of homemade red wine that he drove down the coast in the back of his truck. Yeah.

As a result, the sediment got shaken up in the barrels and you can tell who'd had too much to drink because their mouths are all black in the photos. Ha, ha, ha, ha. Huck. My parents had a great time. They danced, they drank, they watched their family's mingle. Cut to three days later on their honeymoon,

when someone decided it was time to tell them what had been going on behind the scenes that day. Ooh, quick setup. The Stanley Park Favillion was built like an L at the time with each wing a separate venue. And like an L at the time, with each wing a separate venue, and in the middle of the L there was a common bathroom and kitchen, etc. So there's no crossover between events except in those areas. The night of my parents wedding, there was another wedding happening in the other wing,

and at some point in the evening, a man from the other reception had gone to the restroom in his wheelchair. While he was in the saw, a man from the other reception had gone to the restroom in his wheelchair. While he was in the saw, someone had reached over or under the side of the stall and shot him in the heart. What? Apparently his relatives found him in the stall and the call went out for a doctor,

and that was my grandfather's cue. He quietly left his daughter's wedding reception and attended to the man in the bathroom until the ambulance arrived. The man was taken alive to the hospital and my grandfather returned to the party with my parents none the wiser, the only sign a little speck of blood on my grandfather's white shirt. Cut to a few days later on their honeymoon and someone thought it might be interesting to share the events with my mom and dad by showing them the weekend edition of the paper. As far as we know, the man survived.

I have a photo of my parents reading the newspaper article for the first time on their honeymoon. Oh my God. And I found the article in the online archives, but I don't think they ever caught the person responsible. For what it's worth, I love it when you guys talk casually about spending time with your dad. I miss my deeply every day, all the best stuff.

That is like fascinating. Just a random 1970s wedding reception shooting. Like, was it completely random? Was this person just a bystander of victim? Or was there like revenge? Or was it this? Or like, oh my God. And it all takes place with great clothing happening in canopies and past apps,

and the smell of weed in the air, and also like in an entire party full of people doing everything they can to make sure that that doesn't get into. Right. So symbolic of life where it's like, there's the doctors and those kinds of people who are like, I'm just gonna step out. You'll never know I was gone. Maybe save a life, dip back in for the final toast. Yeah, exactly. For the YMCA.

Well, okay, I'm gonna read you half of the title of this email, which is the rare Idaho hometown. The other half gives it away. Okay, hi ladies, I trust you're both doing well. This is a little long, but an interesting read I promise let's get into it. About 10 years ago I was 19 years old, living on my own for the first time. I was living in an apartment about a block away from work, saving money to go back to school. Because I lived so close, I always drove home on my lunch breaks rather than packing one.

This day, as I pulled into the first of all, I just love, that's so me. You pick an apartment that's close to work, but you still drive to work. I immediately assumed this was a person that's like, and then I got in my 10,000 steps a day, and it's like, no, then I can drive home real quick and then drive back. Pay for gas.

I could just walk in and pay for lunch, but listen. No worry about it. So this day, I pulled into the parking lot. My entire building was cordoned off with police tape, officers everywhere, and people in full hazmat suits. It was quite a scene. Again, I was 19 and clearly lacked common sense. I went right up to the police tape and no one caught

as I slipped under and walked up the stairs to my second floor in the middle. You see a hazmat suit and you're like, I gotta get in there. Yeah, I need to have my turkey on white now. Oh, it says, I was hungry. Did not have any money to eat out and really wanted a bagel. I know that feeling.

I finished up eating and went back outside when a police officer clocked me walking down the stairs. She asked if I'd been in there the whole time. I said no, I just slipped under the tape to get some food in a certain long lecture here. I asked the officer what was going on and she said she could not give me any information, but there was a possible contamination. I asked if she thought my apartment would be available by the evening and she said she didn't know, but your management isn't going to pay for you to stay in a hotel. Great. My apartment was cleared that night, and over the next few weeks more details came

out. Apparently, my upstairs neighbor had been collecting uranium by scraping trace amounts of old plates, glasses, etc. He then stored it in open bowls scattered throughout the apartment. It's police somehow got a tip and the EPA was sent in to clean it up. It took months and $250,000. My favorite part was finding out that radioactive material had been found along the stairway I used every day and was covered in duct tape for weeks before being drilled out of the concrete. Duck tape does fix all, I guess.

Oh, and the person that lived in that apartment, he was evicted. But there was not enough radioactive material to press charges so his name was never released. I don't know what he was planning to do with the uranium, but probably nothing legal, right? Stay sexy and don't cross police tape, even for a bigel, Amanda. How does one know how to and then actively get uranium? That's beyond me.

Also, it's very scary. It's like he was scraping it off of plates. And it's like, sorry, which plates are these? So they need to get those? Use those plates. It's not like one of those commemorative Ronald Reagan plate covered in uranium. What's happening? Kind of plate, are we talking about?

Okay, here's another money machine story. Oh, yes. Thank God. Hello, I'm going to jump right in as this is a long enough tale, but I promise to sing your praises and the crew that you created at the end. Please do, we demand thank you. In many so 332, when I heard got to go in a money machine story from Bridget that also included a mention of a limo, I knew it was my time. Crossovers. I've ridden you before, but if a body in the trash can in my front yard or Nicholas cage, paying my rent emails did not make the cut. Maybe this will.

Love to hear those too. Set the scene. 1997, 1998-ish. I am 12 years old living in Boca Raton, Florida. Land of the wealthy, and I was not one of them. Mom worked two jobs, and dad worked crazy hours at one to afford rent in the city for good public schools for myself and my three siblings.

One of my best friends was having her 13 year old bought Mitzvah, and I was invited to join her while she got her hair and makeup ready earlier in the day. So much fun. Her dad arranged for a stretch limo to pick us up and take us around all day. I had never been in a limo. I was so excited.

At their neighborhood guard gate and several red lights throughout the day, I just had to roll down my window and ask a stranger, excuse me, do you have any grave whopon? Classic. Yagata. Usually with a terrible attempt at an accent.

In my young brain, it was the funniest thing ever. Can I just say the line is pardon me. Do you have any heart for fun? Pardon me. That's right. I mean, if you're going to do it, do it right. Flash forward to later that night while attending her botnets, but she had a fucking money machine for all the kids attending her party.

Oh, Mike, I forgot about the money machine part as this description went on. I'm so excited for these children. Only in Boca Raton does a 13 year old get a money machine at her party. So awesome. It had several hundred dollar bills inside too. They wanted us all to know. Bridget, who wrote before,

I'm sorry you were stuck in the cheat money machine allowing only a single dollar to be submitted through the slot. Remember that one? You had to pick a dollar through it and then put it through the slot. Oh, right. My money machine experience. You got to keep whatever the hell you could hold on to. I found that just slapping my own body while the money world around me worked best. Slap it to me then slide it in my pocket. Genius. All caps. I got one of the hundred dollar bills.

Yes. Walked away with around $130. In today's money, it's written that way. Yes. That may as well have been $100,000 because that's the most money I had ever held in my hand. That was all mine. Yes.

I am 36 now and that day is still one of my fondest memories from growing up. Thank you for all you do and the community you two have created through MFM, keep being you. Stay sexy and don't ask strangers for condiments, Stephanie. I just realized that the point of money machines is that children should be in them. I mean, I feel like all the kind of 70s TV

that I think of when I think of those things is somehow game showy or like, it's always adults. Children are the ones that would go nice so in one of those. One dollar bills, it's not like a hundred dollar bills all the time, like people aren't gonna get rich off of them, but kids who are gonna get $30, $40 or whatever are gonna lose their fucking mind.

That's kid rich. Yeah, that's kid rich. Yeah, I just would love to know that either mom or that party planner whoever's idea that was in it's like, and it's not just singles, there's some $100 bill. I mean, just a frenzy, a money frenzy. I never went to a bar about my spare that was like that good. I was like caricatures and like personalized, like socks and stuff.

Oh my god, there is antique talk, there is god, there is characters. And I think it's in Honolulu. Oh, I've seen them. They're the most amazing. So awful. Every person looks so terrible and it is the funniest. It's so perfect. Like, it's them.

We have to find out who it was. We'll talk about it. Oh yeah, that's good idea. It's the fucking best thing I've ever seen. I laughed so goddamn hard. The first one was a sister and two brothers. You just see the drawing and you're like, oh, that's crazy. And then you see them and you're like, like, it's so hurtful.

It's like, do you hate these people? Yeah. You see the one where like the boyfriend is one of her big T. Yeah. And there's one where like it's newlyweds and they make his face tiny like his head is big but his face is really, it's just hilarious. It's amazing. Oh, okay.

That TikTok Alejandro just sent it to us. It's called Caraculture Party. Look it up. You won't put it. Now I'm just staring at it because the pictures are so hilarious and insane. It's almost like if the meanest person in class drew a picture of you because they didn't like you, but it's for anybody. But they were incredible artists, so you couldn't really argue with them. Yeah, you can't argue, but at the same time, as you're looking at them, you're laughing, but you wanna say to the people that you don't look like that. Like, don't worry about it.

It's hurtful. If you didn't have older siblings, I wouldn't suggest you do this. Yeah, it's like, if you're fragile in any way. I'm afraid. I'm afraid. Oh my God. All right, I'm not gonna read you the subject line of this.

It's this high-lovely ladies andnall-affiliated life forms. And then in all caps it just says, I finally have a hometown with four exclamation points at the end. Rollercoaster Horror Storytime. It's the early 90s in Australia, and I'm the youngest of three kids out on a rare family trip at the now non-existent Australia's Wonderland. My older brother and sister decided they wanted to go

on the roller coaster appropriately named the Demon. Being all of seven years old and tiny for my age, I didn't wanna be left out and wait with my dad who was minding the bags, said bags, were of course full of prepacked sandwiches and snacks, which meant we knew better than to ask for any theme park snacks. Yep. That's like my dad used to make us big grocery bags filled with popcorn to bring to the movie theater. Smart. Yeah. Which doesn't taste the same. It just doesn't taste the same.

You can't put enough salt on home popcorn to match movie theater popcorn. Anyway. And it's embarrassing as hell. Yeah. Because there's like butter marks insane. Anyway, back to the coaster. It literally says that in the email, but also needed to say that. In true early 90s style, the ride attendant assumed, since I was standing with my mom, that he had no obligation to check my height before we climbed into the coaster, all excited for the ride. My siblings sat in front of our car and my mom and I behind them. Safety harnesses clicked down, nothing wrong there. This was a proper harness, down over the shoulders, big padding, and a satisfying click as it locked into place.

The ride began, and immediately on the first loop, I came out of my seat and my shoulders popped right through the middle of the harness, like had I not been gripping the handholds on the front of the harness, I would have gone flying. Oh my God. I let out what I'm sure was a supersonic scream. My mong looked over and threw her arm across my chest trying to push me back into the seat. Now there's a reason this coaster is called the demon. It was a labyrinth of twists and loops rather than peaks and troughs. And this meant I

was gripping the handholds. My God. All of my strength as every single time we went through another loop, my shoulders slipped through the harness and my bum and legs were in the air. To the as someone who was youngest of three older brothers and sister who always wanted to do fun things like that and I couldn't be part of it because I was this tiny little thing. I fucking am feeling this in my bones. Yeah. Like, oh my god. Okay. Yeah. Because that's the kind of thing that you fight to do it. And then once you're doing it, you're like, the rules don't apply to me. Okay. To top it all off, this coaster stops at the dead end track in the middle of the air and then goes through the entire ride again backwards. Oh, no, my God. So then

you can't see what's coming. Needless to say, by the time we got off the ride, I was sobbing uncontrollably. My mom had a sore arm, but was trying to convince me that it had been fun as we walked back to my dad, which I was having none of, but on reflection may explain why scary movies and true crime are my favorite somehow. Final note, we went to collect the photo, which was taken while we were on the ride. My mom still has it. My sister and brother are sporting scare-cited and then apprentices, it says, scared plus excited, grins in the front. My mom looks like she's concentrating on what is coming, and all you can see of me is the top of my head and my wide, wide, wide, terrified eyes

over the back of their seats. Oh my goodness, that's adorable. I wanna see that picture so bad. I might also write in some day about the fun tread water game that my siblings played with me in the beach while my mom's son baked in red books. And then it says hashtag born in the 80s. Stay sexy and check if your kids are big enough for the ride, even if the attendant doesn't

seem bothered Amanda she, her. Oh my god Amanda, I feel you. Like wanting to keep up with the older siblings, but just not being, you know, substantial enough. I get that. Not having wide enough shoulders. Yeah, yeah. Because that's all it is. It's like everybody else has snapped in and it's like great.

And then you just like, it stepped up. You're just not wide enough. When I was little, remember when Laser Tag was really big? Yeah. I think it was the 80s. And we went to this laser tag place, and you had to be a certain height, and I wasn't tall enough, but my brother and sister were,

and so I went in the bathroom and stuffed my shoes with the paper towels that were in there to try to get a little taller and it didn't work. No one fell for it. What'd you do while they were doing it? You could like go up on the walkway with your dad and shoot down at them, but you didn't get a go in the like actual maze part of it.

Like, you know, it's just me and Marty, if I can shoot in people from the back. Sniping, sniping from the back. Like, sometimes you're not fair little kid stories that are like bullshit that you did anyways and regretted it afterwards. Yeah, like, what about a not fair little kid story that then led you to do something that in retrospect,

like you got in trouble for, you knew you shouldn't have done. Right, you understood the rule after that. Yeah, whatever. Send it to us. My favorite murderer, a Gmail. And also say sexy. And don't get murdered. Good night.

Elvis, do you want a cookie? Ah. Elvis, do you want a cookie? This has been an exactly right production. Our senior producer is Alejandra Keck. Our editor is Aristotle Acevedo. This episode was mixed by Leonis Kulachi, email your hometowns to my favorite murder at gmail.com and follow us on Instagram and Facebook at my favorite murder and on Twitter at my fave murder. Goodbye.

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