I’m James Talbot and I write murder mysteries. I should add, ‘for a living’, but lately that’s not really the case. You see, I’m stuck—not in the sense of writer’s block, but in the sense that lately, whenever I open my laptop, I keep picturing this strange girl’s face.
Emily, my literary agent, is getting worried—my production is way down—actually non-existent and my mystery novel is stalled.
It all started when Emily asked for some pics of me from when I was growing up—she wanted to use them in a bio. It all seemed innocent enough.
We got out old family albums and then, Max dropped by with a bottle of Rosemount Shiraz 2005. The three of us sipped wine and flipped through old photos.
Did I mention my attention span is extremely short? Well, it is. So, here I am sitting on my floor, looking at photos and getting antsy.
I think I suffer from ADHD, but Emily figures I’m just undisciplined—usually, she’s right. At any rate, I’m totally zoning out when suddenly Max stops turning album pages and whistles softly.
“Hey pal, who’s this cool-looking chick that keeps showing up in your pics?”
He tosses a pic to me and I stare at him blankly. The photo shows me at Ontario Place sitting on an outdoor patio while behind me a beautiful girl is staring into the camera.
“I have no idea who she is—I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
“Ya sure, pal. Then I guess you can explain why she’s in this other photo at your book signing in New York.”
He hands me another photo showing the same girl standing in a crowd of people behind me.
Emily peers over my shoulder. “That’s really weird—I’ve heard of coincidences, but this is beyond belief. How could the same girl end up in the background of two photos, five years and 400 miles apart?”
I’m wondering the same thing.
I look again at then shake my head, “Beats me! —Seriously, I have no idea who she is, but I wish I did.”
“I’ll bet,” snickers Max.
They’re both smiling, exchanging knowing looks.
“You guys don’t believe me, do you? I’m telling you, I’ve never seen this girl before in my life.”
Emily rolls her eyes and Max compresses his lips into a hard, straight line.
They’re not buying what I’m selling—except it happens to be true.
“Uh huh,” says Max and gets up slowly, stiff from sitting too long on the braided rug of my living room floor. “Well, I’ve got to leave.”
He pauses at the door and looks at me narrowly. “You know, James, you may be right about this girl, but if what you’re saying is true, then there’s a better mystery here than the one you’re trying to write. I mean, this so-called coincidence is really bent.”
Emily furrows her brow. “You know, James, Max is right. What if this girl is stalking you?”
I crack up. “Really, Mel? You think I’d toss her out of bed? C’mon, we’re talking about me here. If this cool chick is really stalking me, I say, bring her on!”
Max frowns disapproval. “Watch what you wish for, pal. I saw a replay of Play Misty for Me on the late movies the other night. That girl was cool too and handy with a knife and you ain’t Clint Eastwood.”
“Thanks for reminding me, bud. Maybe I’m not that sexy—just nice looking maybe, but —definitely not the type beautiful women stalk.”
He claps me on the back and laughs heartily. “For once, you’re right, pal. I have to agree with you on this one—it doesn’t make any sense. Still, I’d be looking over my shoulder, if I were you.”
“Ya, well, this is probably just a blooper—a one off—a really weird coincidence. Unfortunately for me, I’ll probably never see the girl again.”
“Then, consider yourself lucky, pal. Just keep on writing mysteries and try to stay the hell out of them yourself.”
“I hear you, guy.”
He bends over and pecks Mel on the cheek. “Keep an eye on this guy, Mel—he’s paying you enough.”
As a second thought, he smiles at her, “Hey, maybe you should think of packing some heat yourself.”
“Who do you think I am—Lara Croft?”
He looks her up and down. “Um, not quite, but you might do okay in leathers.”
She gets up, grabs him by the shoulders and turns him back toward the door. “Good night, Max.”
“Night, guys,” he smirks and exits.
She shakes her head in disbelief and leans back against the door, eyeing me.
“He’s seriously cracked, but I have to agree with him—there’s something strange going on here.”
“Now, Mel—no more of your vibes. I admit this thing is weird but I’m not living in a bubble. I’m a celebrity and if someone wants to get to me, there’s not much I can do.”
“And I guess it kind of helps if that somebody is beautiful and sexy, eh?”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” I hold out her coat to her. “Eleven a.m. comes early.”
“The arduous life of a writer.”
“Don’t joke—you benefit too.”
She gives me her best frosty glare and breezes out the door. “G’night, James.”
“See you in the morning,” I call after her.
I watch her walk down the drive to her Ford Explorer. Besides being my agent, Mel and I are friends—we watch out for each other.
Two days later, I’m still thinking of this girl and Mel decides a change of scenery is in order. She drags me off to The Antique Barn in town. The place is massive—two floors packed with antiques and assorted regional memorabilia.
She’s looking for a big picture for the wall above her couch and I’m just browsing and killing time.
Then I see her. The same girl from my photos is staring at me from a painted portrait hanging on the wall.
I can’t believe it, but it’s her. Her hair is parted in the middle and pulled back in a bun—and she’s dressed in the style of the 1890’s with a cream coloured dress and a beatific look that melts me.
“Do you like it?” the owner asks.
“How much?”
“Two hundred dollars—it’s an original oil from the 1880’s.”
“Can you tell me about the provenance?”
“Sure—that’s easy. She’s Victoria Warren, the only daughter of Winslow’s first mayor. The family moved here from Toronto in 1878 and Victoria never adjusted to small town life—she was very private.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died of Diphtheria in 1892 and is buried in the town cemetery. She was a great beauty, but somewhat of a recluse—she wrote poetry.”
“Really?”
“Yep—a page from one of her books of poems is pasted to the back of the portrait. She was a very sad young woman they say.”
“Can I see the poem?”
He removes the portrait from the wall and turns it face down on a nearby oak hutch.
The poem is written to her dream lover—in florid, nineteenth century style of course—except for two lines that riveted my attention:
My dreams you have stilled with paper and lens / Still darkness retains my anguished face.
The expression on her face was the same as in the photos—lovely and haunting.
“You found her?”
Mel comes up behind me and peers over my shoulder.
I nod.
She looks at me wide eyed and questioning.
“I don’t understand this,” I say and I have to sit down on a nearby bench. My legs feel weak and I'm trembling.
She just keeps staring at the portrait, slowly shaking her head.
I buy the portrait and hang it on my wall. I stare at it a lot. I frame the other two photos of Victoria, in modern dress and now all three pictures make a curious vignette.
I have no explanation for the mystery—although, in ways, it’s begun to change me.
I’m softer now, less cynical. I’m now writing romances and even poetry. Emily likes both—says they bring out a sensitive side of me.
I also bought the old Warren house in town—it just seemed the natural thing to do.
Emily loves it too. We sit together for hours in the front room, listening to snow ticking against the windowpane and basking in the warmth of the fireplace.
Thoreau says you can always see a face in the fire—I always do.
Sometimes it’s Victoria’s—but, sometimes it’s Emily’s.
We’re a threesome—a peculiar lover’s triangle—with one member unfortunately deceased.
