Stone Barrington 06-11

driver’s door, with success. He found the trunk release and popped the lid. There was a spare, flat, and the jack, and an old pair of sneakers—nothing else.
    He went back to the driver’s door and tried to sit in the seat, but found himself jammed, until he could locate the release and move the seat backward. The courtesy lights illuminated the interior, and he looked around.
    Women made a terrible mess of cars, he thought. The most fastidious woman seemed unable to avoid the buildup of used Kleenex, fast-food wrappers, and old paper cups in her automobile. He checked the tiny glove compartment, which held only a couple of parking tickets and a lipstick tube. There were some road maps in a door pocket, and nothing behind the sun visors. He got out of the car, and as he did, moved the driver’s seat forward and checked behind it. Nothing there. He reached across and felt behind the passenger seat, and he came in contact with something made of canvas.
    He reached over, unlocked the passenger door from the inside, then walked around the car and opened the door. He moved the seat forward and extracted a beat-up canvas carryall bearing the logo of a bookstore chain. He set it on top of the car and checked its contents. Inside was a thick book on interior design, a wrinkled bikini, a bottle of suntan lotion, and a leather-covered book with a binding flap that ended in a brass tip secured by a tiny lock. Stamped on the front of the book, in gilded letters, was “My Diary.” If the cops had thought to search the car, they had done a lousy job, Stone thought. He tried opening it, but the lock held.
    He put the carryall back where he had found it, closed the car doors, returned the garage door to its original position, and walked back to his car. He was tempted to try to open the diary here, but he decided it might be best to do it elsewhere. He drove back to Marc Blumberg’s building.

    He walked into Marc’s office, smiling, holding up the leather diary.
    Marc took it and turned it over in his hands. “It’s not burned at all,” he said.
    “It wasn’t in the house,” Stone replied. “I found it in her car, in the garage.”
    “Can you pick a lock, or shall I pry it open?” Marc asked.
    “Hang on a minute; what’s our legal position? I took this from her car with nobody’s permission. Given that, do we want to break into it?”
    “We can open it with the permission of her executor,” Marc said.
    “Do you know who he is?”
    Marc grinned. “You’re looking at him. Here’s a paper clip.”
    Stone straightened the wire and began probing the lock. It was simple; one turn and it was open. He set the diary on Marc’s desk and began flipping pages, while the two of them bent over it.
    “Funny, I don’t recognize any names,” Marc said. “We knew a lot of the same people.”
    “Maybe she’s giving people code names; if somebody got into the diary, it might save embarrassment.”
    “Let’s start at the end and work backward,” Marc said. They began reading; Vanessa had written in a small, but very legible, hand.
    “Look, in the last entry she says she’s going to Palm Springs to ‘Herbert’s’ house. I wonder why she called me Herbert?”
    “I guess you just look like a Herbert, Marc.”
    “Yeah.” He flipped back farther in the book. “There’s mention here of a Hilda, quite often. Think that could be Beverly?”
    “We need a context to figure this out,” Stone said, turning pages. “Here, the pages are dated; this is the day Vance was shot. There’s mention of Hilda, Magda, and Jake.”
    “Jake was Vance’s character in one of his recent movies,” Marc said. “ Fear Everything , I think.”
    “She mentions lunch around the pool at Magda’s. That must be Charlene Joiner. Here we go!” He began reading aloud. “‘When we left Magda’s, Hilda insisted on going to Jake’s house, which I thought was nuts. She knew about this service entrance at the rear of the property. I wouldn’t get out of the car, but Hilda, bold as brass, walked to the house. Hilda has admitted screwing Jake, but, Jesus, I never thought she’d have the guts to go to his house. She must have been gone ten minutes, then there was a noise, and a minute later, she came running back, breathless, and told me to get the hell out of there. She wouldn’t say what happened but I’d be willing to bet that she ran into Mrs. Jake. God, that must have been embarrassing! She was still breathing hard when I dropped