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."