The room was too Agatha Christie for my taste. Who-done-its aren’t really about murder. They are about the cleverness of detectives, not something I was interested in thinking about at the moment.
It makes me regret I never left this bourgeois republic for the eminently more civilized country of France. Oh, well. Que sera sera, as Doris Day sang.--Real Estate Killer
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MURDERS UNDER THE SUN SEASON ONE;
INTRO MOLLY: Welcome to Murders Under the Sun, a podcast that explores a series of unusual crimes that have occurred in sunny Southern California. I’m Molly Shure, your host.
For the past five years I’ve worked as a journalist at a local news outlet. Stories of murder and mayhem come across my desk weekly, if not daily. However, one day last March, I noticed something startling. There seemed to be a connection between several crimes that transpired over a five year period—seven crimes to be precise. What connected them? Location for one. They all took place within a twenty-mile radius of each other, but that alone wasn’t significant. The thing that pinged in my brain was that many of the people at the center of these crimes knew each other. Not the criminals, which would be an obvious thread, but the victims.
I know, I know, six degrees of separation. Didn’t I already say the crimes took place in a twenty-mile radius? But we’re not talking six degrees here. It’s more like one degree. You’ll see if you stick with me for all seven seasons of the show, the crimes circle back around. The people you meet in the first season play a role in Season Seven’s story. Am I imagining things? Is the connection real? Is there one mastermind behind the crimes? Or are they linked by some kind of social, psychological or even spiritual force? I’m afraid that’s something you’ll have to decide for yourself.
Each season, I’ll do a deep dive into just one of these stories. You’ll hear from the people who were victimized, and listen to transcripts of journal entries, memoirs, and letters from others who were involved—sometimes the criminals themselves—and behind-the-scenes information you can’t get anywhere else.
So, get out your sunglasses. We’re pulling back the curtains and letting the light shine on some of Orange County’s darkest mysteries.
Sometimes it’s best to leave a door closed. When I crossed the threshold of my father’s house on Cliff Drive, it changed me. Some would say not for the better. I could argue my behavior was justified. We all have the right to protect our property from thieves and swindlers. But, really, it came down to simple lust. I was captivated by possibilities, and I wanted everything. I should have known by the screech of rusty hinges that door was better left shut. I’d made an appointment to see the house as soon as it came on the market, about six months after my father’s death. Sondra Olsen, local real estate agent, met me on the curb out front. She opened the gate I’d only passed through once before in my life. The old fig tree I remembered from that time was bigger now and mantled the courtyard like a vulture, obliterating the light and warmth from the late afternoon sun. We traversed the walkway and came to the front door that had always been locked tight against me. She threw it open and ushered me in. The curved staircase that led to the part of the house reserved for the family—in other words, not me—rose before me without a barrier.
My initial feeling about Sondra was one of warmth. She and I were sharing in a momentous occasion. She dropped the drawbridge across the moat and invited me into the castle, so to speak. But as we toured the house, my opinion changed. Yes, she was pleasant, subservient even, but I began to see beneath the surface. “It’s a fixer, but it has so much charm, don’t you think?” she asked with a dimpled smile. “Yes, to both.” “Come look at the ocean view.” I paused before I stepped into the living room I’d only seen in bits and pieces through doors and windows. I don’t know what I thought I’d find inside—the meaning of life, some kind of Holy Grail maybe. “What do you think?” Sondra asked. I couldn’t speak. It was a disappointment. A huge disappointment. It was much smaller than I’d imagined. The lack of furniture revealed nicked and scarred wood flooring. Blank, dirty white walls framed the space. I didn’t notice the cool breeze kissing my cheek until Sondra said, “Look at this view.” I walked through French doors onto a concrete patio and looked down on the beach where I’d so often stood. How many nights had I made my way across the sand or the water, depending on the tides, to bathe in the light emanating from these very doors? How many times had I sat on the rocks that looked so small from this vantage point, straining to catch a glimpse of the family within? His family. My family. “Leaves you speechless, doesn’t it?” Sondra said. I turned to answer her and inhaled sharply. She was caught in a beam from the setting sun, just like another girl on another day. Her hair glowed like gold around her head and on the shoulders of her sky-blue dress. The vision only lasted for a moment. She turned and entered the house, and it was gone. But I recognized it as a premonition of sorts. “The master bedroom has a terrific view, as well. Is there a partner? They’ll love it if there is. Very romantic.” She led me toward the foyer. Before heading up, I noticed a short, dark hallway to the left of the staircase.
“What’s down there?” I pointed. “Believe it or not, that’s the basement. Most California homes don’t have them, but this house stands on top of a series of small caves that tunnel into the cliff. The man who built this place in the forties was a shipping magnate and a collector of art, furniture, all kinds of things. When he found out about the caves, he commissioned an architect to create a warren of storage rooms.” “Is there anything in the rooms?” I asked. “Probably, but don’t worry. They’ll be cleaned out before new owners move in.” “Can I see them?”
“The door is locked. I don’t have a key.” A cloud passed over Sondra’s face as she said those words. She lied. It was my second clue. There must be a treasure within these disappointing walls after all. “Let’s go up, shall we?” She tilted her head and glanced at me from the corners of her eyes coquettishly, but it had no effect. She might as well have spit in my face. Unlike most men, I’m immune to the wiles of women. I fingered the box cutter in my jacket pocket, then moved so quickly I surprised myself. I pulled her close and showed her the blade. “Down,” I said. “In the kitchen. The...the...cellar keys are in the kitchen,” she said. We shuffled into that room like geriatric ballroom dancers. “The pantry.” She gestured with her chin toward a door. A round key chain with several keys hung on a hook inside. We stumbled back to the foyer. It took me three tries to find the correct key. Sondra was struggling the entire time. I had to get a little rough, but finally we descended the steep cellar steps together. Dim yellow lights revealed a long hallway with doors opening off it every ten feet or so. I twisted the knob of the first door on my right and nudged it open with my foot. A moldy funk wafted out. A single bulb hanging in the center of the room exposed stone walls, slick with moisture and the shadowy outlines of furniture. Old tables, chairs, desks, and bureaus were stacked and jammed into every corner. Nothing looked particularly valuable. Just old oak. We moved to the next door. I opened it and saw a mountain of cardboard boxes moldering on a damp floor. I stood Sondra in front of me, close enough to reach her if she moved, and opened one with my box cutter. I pushed aside the dusty cardboard and saw something that looked like peeling skin. I hesitated, then reached in and lifted the object. It was a woman’s purse; or rather it had once been a purse. I dropped it in disgust. “I told you. There is nothing here but trash,” Sondra said. I jerked her forward. The possibility she told the truth angered me more than her attempts to get me to leave off my search. I threw open door after door. The farther we went through the basement, the more enraged I became. My dream, the thing I’d longed for all these years, was nothing but a graveyard of old, decaying junk. Sondra struggled against me. “Let me go. I won’t tell anyone about this. I promise. Let’s just go—”
“Shut up.” I tightened my grip across her chest and nicked the smooth skin of her throat with the box cutter. She tensed, but stilled. We came to the dead end of the hallway. I could hear the faint sound of waves throwing themselves against the cliff walls like they were seeking entrance. I kicked open the last door. The heavy wood bounced off the wall behind it. I dragged Sondra into the room, thinking I’d kill her here. Here at the dead end of my hopes. It would be my first time to kill a stranger, but I couldn’t very well leave her alive after holding a box cutter to her throat. I pushed the blade of my knife higher in its case. She began to fight in earnest now, scratching and biting. I threw her to the floor and fell on top of her. Her head slammed against the stone. She went limp. As I sat panting, straddling her body, I saw it. Something glinted in the spill of light from the hallway. I stood to investigate. Joy dawned with realization. What was hidden here was better than I had ever imagined. It was an inheritance meant only for me. Maybe my father did think of me after all.
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This book presented me with quite a quandary. While I've always agreed that a writer could write what they wanted... I also had learned a number of basic rules when I first started working at a small publishing house... I'm the type that normally spends my off-work time in some way to learn more about my job. For publishing, I subscribed to and read "Writer's Digest" in addition to what I was learning from the publisher... My mind thinks in rules and remembers them even as I'm reading a book... And there were two rules I learned that have stuck with me for about 20 years as what you might call, "ground rules!"
- Every word should move the story forward...
- Writers must never insert themselves into the story...
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