KK03 - The Quokka Question

by Claire McNab

  "Stalkers are different," Oscar declared. "They're dangerous fanatics—stop at nothing."

  "Precisely why we're here," said Pen. "Anyone who has an advice program like mine gets their share of obsessive fans, but this one's something else. For the past two months, he's left written messages everywhere I go, even in my university office. And of course, there's the constant delivery of flowers. I've got to the point that I shudder every time I see a florist's van."

  "You've kept these notes?" Ariana asked.

  Pen's mouth twisted with distaste. "Kept the notes? No way. I barely scan them before they hit the trash."

  "Please keep any you get from now on and try not to handle them too much."

  "All right, I'll do that, but I guarantee there won't be fingerprints," said Pen. "This one's too smart. For example, he uses a different florist every time. I tried a spot of detective work myself, and called a couple of florists to find out who'd ordered the flowers. Got nowhere."

  Ariana's signet ring flashed as she picked up a ballpoint—black, of course. "I'd like the name of any florist you remember delivering flowers to you."

  After Pen had named the three she recalled, Ariana said, "What about telephone calls?"

  "I may have spoken to him. I'm not sure. Callers to my radio show are screened, so the real crazies never get through to me. As an additional safeguard, there's a ten-second delay on the broadcast, so if necessary I can cut the person off before anything objectionable goes to air. Lately, I've had a few odd calls that seem to be from the same man. He isn't initially screened out because he sounds a reasonable human being until he gets me on the line."

  "What does he say?" Ariana asked.

  Pen grimaced. "Like the notes, extreme violence. Sexual sadism. Nothing I haven't heard before, but it's different when it's directed at me, personally."

  "What would you expect?" demanded Oscar, bouncing in his seat. "You openly encourage grubby little people to sprout grubby little stories about their bodily functions."

  "Oscar has a few hangups," said Pen, smiling indulgently at her brother.

  I braced myself for an explosion, but Oscar merely spluttered ineffectually and then subsided.

  "What about calls to your home phone?" said Ariana.

  "Nothing so far. The number's unlisted."

  "That's no protection against someone determined to get to you. Let an answering machine pick up all your calls from now on."

  Pen frowned. "So you think he's going to start pestering me on my home phone?"

  "I'm surprised he hasn't already," Ariana remarked.

  Curious, I asked, "How do you know it's a man? Could the calls to the radio station be made by a woman disguising her voice?"

  Pen shifted her glance to me. "Do women stalk? I would have thought they'd have better things to do with their time."

  "Women stalk," said Ariana. "And they can be just as dangerous. Is there anything to indicate this person could be someone with whom you had a prior relationship?"

  Pen grinned. "No way. I leave my lovers of both sexes fully satisfied." Ariana's serious expression didn't change. "A large proportion of stalkers have had some sort of intimate relationship with their victims." Affronted, Pen declared, "I'm not a victim—and never will be!" "If you're being stalked, you're the victim of a crime," said Ariana. "Have you considered going to the police?"

  "Bloody cops," said Oscar. "Steer clear of them, I say." Pen smiled warmly at Ariana. "First, let's see what you come up with, Ariana."

  Ariana didn't smile back. "I'll give you a printed list of precautionary steps to take. As I'll be in Sacramento tomorrow and Friday, I suggest Bob Verritt takes over your case. He's a very experienced investigator and well-versed in problems like yours."

  "Sacramento?" Pen seemed disappointed, but then her spirits visibly lightened. "But you're free this evening—"

  "I'm afraid not. I have a flight first thing in the morning, so I intend to have an early night."

  Pen beamed. "What a coincidence. I had in mind an early night too." Ariana's blue eyes narrowed. My cue to step in and change the subject. "Do either of you know a bloke called Wally Easton? There's a possibility he was the one who sent Oscar hurtling into the traffic." "You know who the bugger is?" said Oscar. "Show me." I displayed two photos of Wally Easton, which Lonnie had taken from the Web site for Wally's Strength & Health Club. One had him in a minuscule bathing costume, striking a bodybuilding pose. His bulging muscles glistened with oil, and his face wore an expression of arrogant superiority. The second photo, head and shoulders, showed the same egotistical conceit. He had an impressive physique, if you liked that sort of overdeveloped body, but he wasn't handsome. A small head perched on a thick neck. His mouth was too close to his nose, and his eyes were small and beady. He'd shaved his skull, and it too glistened with oil.

  Pen shook her head. "Total stranger. Looks terminally stupid."

  Oscar, who'd examined each photograph carefully, said, "I've seen him somewhere, and not long ago. Can't remember when or where. Who is he?"

  "Professor Yarrow's brother-in-law. At least he was. He's Yarrow's second wife's brother." I went on to give the details Lonnie had found, including how Easton had escaped being charged with bashing his own sister.

  "Hit a woman?" said Oscar. "The bastard should be given a taste of his own medicine."

  "Not by you, Oscar," said Pen, looking grim. "If you see this Wally Easton again, keep away from him."

  Oscar rumbled incoherently.

  Apparently able to translate, Pen snapped, "Have you got a death wish? Look at those muscles. He'd tear you limb from limb."

  Oscar moved his shoulders irritably, and mumbled something in a sulky tone.

  Pen's reddening face indicated there was about to be a nasty scene, but fortunately Ariana smoothly interposed with, "To get back to the matter of your stalker, shall I call Bob Verritt in so you can brief him?"

  "That won't be necessary," said Pen. "Kylie here and I are great mates already, aren't we? She can hold the fort until you get back."

  "But I'm at UCLA all day," I pointed out.

  "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 Private Investigation: The Complete Handbook and turned to the chapter tided "Stalking the Stalker." I discovered that stalkers could be divided into three types: former intimate partners, delusional individuals, and avengers.

  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

  Thursday and Friday I worked flat out at UCLA, having been co-opted by Professor Yarrow to help the committee running the Global Marsupial Symposium. Any worries I had that someone would catch me out about the research paper I was supposedly writing under Rube Wasinsky's supervision receded, as everyone was totally concentrated on the myriad organizational demands created by such a prestigious international conference.

  I checked list after list of attendees to ensure no one would be insulted by receiving a misspelled name tag. This task was more demanding than it sounded, as many countries were represented and so many people had, for English speakers like me, challenging names. Then I was set troubleshooting problems that had occurred with catering for all the different cultures. I was kept so busy that I hardly had time to say hello to Rube or work on becoming friends with Erin Fogarty so that I could pump her some more about the quokka research Oscar had said she'd stolen to give to Jack Yarrow.

  On Thursday I did manage to fit in my appointment with Georgia Tapp, Yarrow's administrative assistant. We chatted for a while about how wonderful the professor was, how his keen, incisive mind and forceful personality had elevated me Global Marsupial Symposium to the must-go event in the scientific world. Then her cheerful, dimpled face grew grim. "Such great success breeds envy. Little people try to drag the professor down."

  "You mean Dr. Braithwaite?"

  "That creature! You heard him yesterday in his unwarranted, intemperate attack upon Professor Yarrow, a man whose boots he's not fit to shine!"

  "Awful," I murmured.

  "Something has to be done," said Georgia Tapp. "Braithwaite has to be stopped before he goes too far."

  I tried a puzzled but attentive expression. It worked.

  "Can you imagine?" Georgia snarled. "He's claiming Professor Yarrow has stolen his quokka research." She took a few agitated breaths. "As if Professor Yarrow would need to pass other's work off as his own!"

  I shook my head. "Hard to believe."

  "The truth is—" Georgia broke off to lean forward conspiratorially. "The truth is, we've learned Braithwaite intends to attack Professor Yarrow's credibility in front of an audience of the greatest marsupial experts in the world."

  "Surely they won't believe him," I said. "I mean, Professor Yarrow is such an eminent authority."


  "Mud can stick," she declared darkly. "That's why something has to be done."

  What this something might be I was not to discover, as Jack Yarrow himself appeared at her office door. "Kylie?" he said with rather chilly surprise. "I thought you were helping with the symposium arrangements."

  "Sorry, Prof. Stopped to chat. Won't do it again."

  "Professor," said Yarrow and Georgia in unison.

  "Sorry again." I smiled sweetly at Yarrow, who was blocking my exit by standing in the doorway. "It's like you said before, I've got that annoying Aussie tendency to use diminutives."

  He didn't look amused, but he did manage to press himself against me as I squeezed past him. Yerks!

  By late Friday afternoon I was more than glad to say goodbye to the biology department and head for home. I reached Kendall & Creeling, parked my car, and stopped, as I often did, to admire the courtyard at the front of the building. Its little terra-cotta fountain burbled happily to itself. I'd recently bought a selection of tree ferns to create shade in one corner, and I had my eye on a stone bench I'd seen in one of the zillion catalogs that constantly arrived in the mail. Melodie, who was the catalog queen, was always poring over one or the other and announcing she'd found something she just must have.

  Melodie herself appeared, traipsing listlessly across the red terracotta tiles of the courtyard in the direction of the parking area.

  "Oh, hello," she said, shoulders drooping. "I left your messages on your desk."

  "Whatever's the matter?"

  Melodie dumped her voluminous makeup bag on the ground. "Ashlee." Her voice was bitter. "The hush-up didn't work. Ashlee found out Quip is auditioning for LUL all this week." She sighed. "Ashlee says she'll be at tonight's auditions."

  "There was a leak in the receptionist network?"

  Melodie put heart and soul into a dark scowl. "If I find out who..."

  "It'll be curtains? She'll be cast into receptionist outer darkness? Much gnashing of teeth?"

  Melodie zapped me with a look. "You can joke, Kylie, but this is serious. Ashlee's heart is set on playing Lucy/Lucas, would you believe? That's my role. I told Quip I was prepared to dye my hair red so I could fully realize the very essence of a redheaded character."