Hello, campers, grab your marshmallows and gather around the true crime campfire.

We're your camp counselors. I'm Katie. And I'm Whitney.

And we're here to tell you a true story that is way stranger than fiction.

We're roasting murderers and marshmallows around the true crime campfire.

On the surface, Blanche Taylor Moore looked like a model of small-town virtue, a devoted caregiver, a church-going woman, a trusted neighbor.

But behind that carefully maintained image lay a wild heart with few limits on what it was capable of.

Murder certainly wasn't beyond her, and those closest to her were in the most danger,

consuming their own deaths with every bite of Blanche's carefully prepared dinners.

She turned domestic intimacy into a lethal weapon.

This is the poisoned chalice, the crimes of Blanche Taylor Moore.

So, campers, we're starting this week's story in hell.

At least, that's what it felt like to James Taylor late at night on October 1st,

1973. He'd been really sick for a couple of weeks with flu-like symptoms and terrible diarrhea.

He'd gone to the doctor a few times, but was just told to take things easy and have some

Tylenol. He'd started to feel better, but still didn't feel like having a full

meal with his family. His wife Blanche gave him some ice cream to help with his sore throat.

Blanche was often spiky and sharp-tonged, but she was always sweet when James got sick.

By bedtime, James' symptoms had started coming back. He was sweaty and nervous, fidgeting

with his keys or the change in his pockets, distracted and confused. Blanche decided she was

going to sleep out on the couch, but she put James to bed first, wiped his forehead with a damp

cloth, hummed hymns to him, and then she went out and fell asleep. An hour later, James sat straight up and

vomited with such force that it splattered against the far wall. Oh, God, bless his heart. Diarrhea just

...