Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

The first morning I noticed her, she was in her kitchen making coffee in a white tank top. She was in her late twenties and very pretty, with long dark hair parted in the middle. She seemed lonely. She had that look I see in women her age. Doesn’t matter if they’re rich or poor, single or married, they all get it. Like life has disappointed them.

Hers was the only light on at the end of the peninsula, so naturally my eyes were drawn to her. There was something about the way she moved, graceful like she was still sleeping. I set my fishing rod down on the toe of my boot and stood mesmerized. While she waited for the water to boil, she fed a mourning dove that perched on the bougainvillea outside her window. The bird took it right out of her hand. She left the kitchen, then came back with a hairbrush. She stood there and brushed her hair looking out at the ocean. If she’d looked in my direction, she would’ve seen me, but she didn’t. She looked off toward Catalina as if she were waiting for the mist to clear so she could see her homeland.

From then on, when I came down to the jetty I looked for her. Her routine was always the same: coffee, bird, hair. On warm mornings she’d pull back her hair and pile it on top of her head, arching her long neck, stretching her arms and her shoulders. She smiled and closed her eyes as if she were imagining someone kissing her neck. Not that I thought about kissing her neck. I just enjoyed watching her — like watching the egrets in Grand Canal wading in the mud at low tide.

I got caught once. The guy who owns the place is a famous sculptor from Belgium or someplace. I don’t know what he was doing up so early that morning. Maybe he woke from a dream all inspired and wanted to start work. He uses the sandy lot beside his house as his studio, which is always covered with logs and half-finished pieces of wood bolted on top of one another. On one side of the lot is a tool shed, but sometimes he leaves them out.

As usual, I was standing by the Japanese boxwood hedge watching the girl, the pink dawn reflecting in the kitchen windows. It made her face look like it was floating in the clouds. Like a goddess brushing her hair, smiling down on a poor Mexican fisherman.

Then the sculptor saw me. He was barefoot and wore cutoff gray sweatpants, his naked chest matted with gray and white hair, and his shaggy eyebrows pinched together so I couldn’t see his eyes. He saw that I was watching her. He picked up an axe that was resting by the shed, gripped the handle with both hands, raised it high over his head, and slammed it down into a log. His body quivered. He looked up and glared at me.

I backed up and ran.

Later, I wanted to go back to explain myself, to tell him I wasn’t a Peeping Tom, that I didn’t touch myself while I watched the girl, or even later when I thought about her. I wanted to tell him it wasn’t like that, that she was like the morning to me, sacred and beautiful. He might understand. He was an artist. But then, he might not, and he was a scary bastard.

Then, a few weeks later, I found the arm.

Her boss, Mr. Johnson, called Laura into his office. Was there a problem? Something he could help her with? he asked, his doughy face squeezed into a lecherous smirk. Her personal telephone calls were distracting the other employees. The receptionist was upset, threatening to quit. The poor girl even had to call security once last week when Laura’s friend showed up demanding to see her. As floor supervisor, Mr. Johnson didn’t want to lose Laura, but her work was suffering. Did she want to take some time off? Or perhaps she should talk to someone in human resources who could refer her to an agency? There were laws in California now, stalker laws. She could get legal protection.

Laura thanked her boss for his concern, but she assured him she could handle it. She got the feeling he enjoyed watching her squirm. He obviously got a prurient thrill out of asking personal questions. He gave her the creeps.

As she walked back to her desk, she avoided the curious glances of her fellow workers who now fell silent when she joined them in the lunchroom, as if she were suspected of stealing office supplies, or worse.

How long could it go on? Surely Scott would give up sooner or later. Find another girl. Go away on a vacation and forget about her.

It had started with nonstop phone calls, followed by flowers and presents. When she didn’t return his messages and refused his gifts, he showed up at her house or at work, each time a little more desperate. She didn’t think Scott would hurt her, but there was something wild in his eyes. A craziness. When he grabbed her wrist in the parking lot at Powerhouse Gym, she felt afraid.

“Is it because I didn’t ask you to marry me earlier? That’s it, isn’t it? But I was going to, don’t you see? The very day you dumped me.”

“We’ve been over this, Scott. It’s not that at all.”

“I know I get selfish in bed sometimes. Is that it? I’ll slow down, but you gotta tell me what you like.”