Dead Ice

Drew Frohmann (0:00)

Hey, Beavermounters, Drew, the writer and director here. Just letting you know, you can get these very episodes early and ad-free over at our Patreon, along with exclusive behind-the-scenes stuff, merchandise, Beavermount gossip, and more. Just like our newest supporters, Laura Waters, Michelle Stockton, Brian Sabrin, Warren Gallagher, The Angry Hippopotamus, Trisha Bauer, Canadian Sherry, Lisa Brodeur, and Bex, go to Patreon forward slash sorry about the murder.

Trish Robb (0:29)

Content warning. This episode may contain descriptions of violence, excessive drinking, unsafe driving, and murder.

Listener discretion is advised.

Tom Goudie (0:41)

Every winter in the nice little Canadian town of Beavermount, Ontario, the local Kiwanis Club runs a sweepstakes that every resident takes part in. Sometime in December, once Beavermount Lake is frozen over, an old salvage car is towed out onto the ice just off Clarkhead Beach. Everyone in town buys a ticket to guess the exact date and time in the spring when said car breaks through the ice and sinks into the lake. The winner receives 50% of the proceeds, the other half going to the Kiwanis Club to fund their good works around town. This winter, a 1969 Volkswagen Beetle squatted on the ice, awaiting its inevitable submersion. And just two days ago, during a sunny winter day, there was a buzz of town about the most probable winner. Would it be Dora Quinlan, who chose in the morning, or Billy Hendrickson, who chose in the afternoon? But early next morning, the murdered body of Scotty McDonald was found in the ice resurfacing machine at Roger Harrisford Municipal Arena. And when a cold front brought a good eight feet of snow that night, folks were more concerned with clearing their driveways, walkways, alleyways, footpaths, roofs, decks and backyard ranks. Oh, and also the murder of Laura Brooks. But just last night, as folks packed into Bushley's Tavern, a rainstorm came through and it was a real soaker.

Through the course of the night, two-story snow banks melted down to four feet, or even three. Diefenbaker Avenue teemed with running water, and many feared a flood, which is just what happened. Manitou River on the south end turned into a torrent, which as it roared past the houses on River Street, turned into a frothing stampede of broken decks, lawn chairs and still tarpaulin boats.

The culvert under Highway 14 filled with mud and debris, and the overflowing water flooded Clarkhead Beach, submerging the ice on Beavermount Lake in several feet of water. As the rain continued to beat down, the ice beneath the VW weakened and buckled.

The beetle sank into the depths of Beavermount Lake at 4:26 a.m. Eastern Standard Time. The rain continued for a couple more hours, subsiding a bit as dawn brought its gray light over the ragged silhouette of forested mountains. As the surrounding hills awoke, Lorna Batson, store manager at Campbell's Attire for Men, looked out over the lake from her front window, watching the rain buffet the surface of the water, great slabs of translucent ice bobbing and tilting, as tired of winter as everyone else. Lorna sipped her Irish tea and thought she spied something out there, floating near the pool of oil, marking where the VW bug had sat just moments ago. As the pinkish gray light brightened the overcast sky, Lorna was sure what she saw was more than just her eyes playing tricks. She pulled the tarp off her tinny, attached the outboard motor and made her way out. To see if she was right or if, as her employees joked at the store, she was going blind from old age. Dodging ice chunks as she went, she slowed as she approached the oily patch. Her eyes were vindicated. There, floating gently, a single adult sized hand-knit mitten, gray, with red and white stripes. Despite the gentle lapping of the water, the mitten stayed in place, held by a string that reached down into the depths. Lorna's heart began racing. She instantly recognized it as the mitt of Greg Greggie Sullivan.

She returned to her house and called the Beavermount Police Department, and when she didn't get a pick up, the Beavermount Fire Department.

Quincy Brown, a local diving enthusiast, was corralled to pull a winch and hook out from Clarkhead Beach and out to the sunken Volkswagen. After which a crowd, unaffected by neither the rain nor their hangovers, watched as the winch pulled the rusted hulk out of the lake, dragging it on to the beach. The winch clattered its objection to being awoken this early.

The car was pulled out of the rain speckled lake, and it was immediately apparent there was indeed a body slouching in the driver's seat. Pulling the car out was slow work. Small amounts of water streamed from the seams in the door, and while it may not have been strictly appropriate to measure the gravity of the moment, it was quietly acknowledged that not much water was leaking out, and that maybe all that German engineering the TV went on about was more true than originally considered. The car was fully out of the lake. Volunteer fireman Bob Chalmers strode up to the VW and opened the driver's side door.