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.
MURDERS UNDER THE SUN
SEASON ONE; EPISODE ONE.
MOLLY: Welcome to Season One of Murders Under the Sun. I’m Molly Shure, your host.
I’ve titled this season The Cliff House, because we’ll be talking about the infamous Real Estate Killer. You may remember in 2017, a real estate agent named Sondra Olsen was killed in a vacant beach front property in Laguna Beach, California.
What transpired after her body was discovered threw the Orange County housing industry into a panic, and for good reason. It soon became apparent someone was targeting agents and brokers.
Gwen Bishop, an agent with Humboldt Realty, was at the center of these crimes. She graciously agreed to discuss her experience with me, but declined to be interviewed on air. Instead, I’ll be relating what she told me in as personal a way as possible.
I’ve also located a never-before-released memoir from the actual Real Estate Killer. The literary agent who’s working on selling his story to a publisher contacted me. I’m sure she wants the publicity and happily for us, REK is a total narcissist. He’s delighted to have his story read to an audience.
Honestly, part of me hates giving him the airtime. But in light of the mission of this podcast series, I decided to hold my nose and read it to you. It adds a missing element, and may help us understand why he did what he did.
I won’t be reading his entire manuscript, however. Only the sections I feel are needed to round out the victim’s stories. REK’s entries will be interspersed as they fit into the chronology of events. I think you’ll find them as chilling as I do.
Let’s begin this episode with one of the most terrifying of those entries.
* * *
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.”