'Not a problem. So far, my stalker's only writing notes and sending flowers and maybe calling me on my radio show…' She jabbed a finger in my direction. 'That's it! I'm on air Saturday night. You can sit in, see the setup, and if he calls in, hear him in action.'
I glanced at Ariana. 'What do you think?'
'It could be useful, but it's up to you.'
I had the weekend free, as Chantelle was going to be away on a company retreat. 'Good-oh,' I said to Pen. 'You're on.'
With a faintly lascivious smile, Pen offered me dinner before her show and seemed only marginally disappointed when I declined. We made arrangements to meet at the radio station, then Pen and the sullen Oscar departed.
I saw them out to the parking lot, and was amused to see I'd been right-Pen's clothes were the exact turquoise shade as her little Mazda. Oscar grunted when I said goodbye. Pen smiled cheerily. 'Until Saturday!'
I went back to Ariana's stark office to find her putting papers into her briefcase. Usually, we had a staff meeting first thing on Monday morning to discuss our workloads for the week, but last Monday the initial interview with Oscar Braithwaite had intervened, so I hadn't known Ariana was going to be out of town.
'What are you doing in Sacramento?' I asked, already feeling the loss of her presence, which was ridiculous, because I'd be at UCLA most of Thursday and Friday anyway and I rarely saw her on Saturdays or Sundays.
'Deposition in a blackmail case, and while I'm there I'll follow up on a witness in a case of political corruption Bob's investigating.'
Ariana's phone rang. It was Melodie to say Chantelle was calling me. 'United Flair's taking everyone to Big Sur for the weekend,' said Melodie, 'that's a real nice place. Chantelle has all the luck.'
I told Melodie I'd take the call in my office. Before I left Ariana, I said, 'Where's Big Sur?'
'Big Sur? It's on the coastal highway about two hundred miles north of here. It has the most beautiful scenery.'
There was something in her voice that made me ask, 'Have you stayed there?'
Her face closed. Turning back to her briefcase she said, 'Yes, many times.'
Crikey, I'd touched a nerve. I trotted down to my office to pump Chantelle about Big Sur.
'Oh, it's gorgeous,' she said. 'A wild rocky coast and loads of great big trees. The lodge where we're having our company retreat is right next to a national park. We've got scuba diving and hikes and stuff like that lined up for when we're not getting in touch with our inner animals.'
Chantelle had mentioned this before. Over the weekend everyone at United Flair, from the talent agents right through to people in the mail room, would join in mind games designed to help each person could get in touch with his or her inner animal. This was supposed to markedly improve relationships in the workplace, although I couldn't quite see how.
'What if you turn out to be a rattlesnake, and your boss a timid lit-de mouse?' I asked. 'Or maybe you're a hummingbird, and your boss is a crocodile. One snap and you're gone.'
'I've already decided what I'm going to be,' Chantelle announced. 'A big cat. A black panther, to be precise.'
'You're choosing what you want to be beforehand? Aren't you supposed to go through all these tests and exercises to find out what you are?'
Chantelle gave one of her warm, dusky chuckles. 'Honey,' she said, 'no way am I going to be some creepy, second-rate animal. I'll play along with everything and voila!-discover I'm a big cat at just the right moment.'
'Black panther does suit you,' I conceded, thinking of her sleek, dark skin.
'Keep that thought,' she purred.
I hung up the phone, smiling. Then I thought about Big Sur and Ariana's reaction, and my smile went south. The place must mean something special to her. Perhaps it had to do with Natalie Ives.
To keep my mind on business, I took out my trusty copy of
I saw why Ariana had asked Pen if her stalker could be someone she'd had an intimate relationship with, as well over half of stalkers fell into this category. Intimate stalkers, I read, refuse to believe a relationship is over, no matter what the object of their obsession says or does. There is no reasoning with them. They hear what they want to hear, twisting outright rejection into a declaration of love.
The second type, delusional stalkers, my handbook pointed out, were quite different. Generally they had had no personal contact with their victims. Unable to form real, rewarding relationships themselves, they opted for imaginary ones, almost always with celebrities or other people of much higher status than they were. Many stalkers in this category were mentally ill, often suffering from erotomania, where they were totally convinced the victim fervently adored and desired them. Most were convinced their loved one was beaming them hidden messages, encoded in public statements.
The third type of stalker was the avenger. This was a person who had become furiously angry with someone because of a real or imagined slight. Politicians, judges, bosses, and colleagues at work were often victims of these stalkers, who saw themselves as justified in getting even, and having revenge upon those who had enraged them.
I'd just turned the page to the section on advice to give stalking victims, when there was a knock at the door, and Fran waltzed in, her expression determined.
'Had time to look at the garden sheds?' she asked, staring pointedly at the untouched pile of brochures she'd left for me to read.
'Not yet. Sorry.' I thought of my conversation with Fran at the reception desk a little earlier, and felt a dash of determination myself. 'Please close the door and sit down,' I said, as cool as Ariana. 'There's something we need to discuss.'
Fran seemed puzzled. 'Apart from the sheds-and you haven't even looked at anything yet-what is there to discuss?'
I'd had enough of this sheila. 'Do I have to fight you every centimeter? Please shut the door and sit down.'
Fran complied with bad grace. 'OK,' she said, glaring at me. 'Door closed and I'm sitting.'
I took a deep breath, not quite sure how to begin. I'd just play it by ear and see what happened. 'If you were picked up and plunked in the middle of Wollegudgerie, my hometown, you'd be a fish out of water.'
Fran squinted belligerently at me. 'So?'
'So you wouldn't like it if Aussies mocked and scorned you because you didn't understand everything about the place.'
Fran's china-doll features were showing a glimmer of understanding. 'So?' she said, less emphatically.
'So I've had it with you,' I said, quite calmly. 'I'm still a stranger here, and I'm trying to learn the ropes as fast as I can. Sure, I don't understand every cultural reference, but you wouldn't either if you were in Oz.'
I expected an argument, but Fran was looking at me with something close to respect-an unaccustomed experience for me.
'OK, Kylie, I'll cut you some slack.'
'Meaning you'll give me a fair go?'
'I guess that's what I mean.' She gave me a faint smile.
Now I was at a loss for what to say. I'd been ready for a donnybrook, and Fran agreeing with me took the wind right out of my sails.
'Right-oh,' I said. 'Good.'
'That's it?'
'That's it.'
Fran paused at the door. 'We must have these little chats more often.' Her tone was sardonic.
She was gone before I could have the last word. Wouldn't it rot your socks?
FOURTEEN
