Page 76 of The Girl Who Knew Too Much

“Probably not to most people.”

She gave him a wary look. “But you notice details.”

“Call it a personality quirk. I know you keep your reporter’s notebook and that little gun you pulled out last night in your handbag. But there’s something else inside, isn’t there?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about the nightmare.”

Chapter 33

She told him everything.

Once she got started she could not stop. The relief of confiding the terrible secret that she had been keeping for four months was so overwhelming that she started to cry. She had not cried in so long she was surprised to discover that she remembered how.

L.A. was a few miles behind them by the time she finished. Oliver pulled off on a scenic turnout overlooking the ocean, and shut down the powerful engine.

She opened her handbag, took out a hankie, and dabbed at her eyes.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I’ve been a little tense lately.”

“No surprise, given what you’ve just told me.”

She pulled herself together and dropped the damp hankie into the handbag. “That’s it, the whole story. My previous employer was murdered. She left a message in her own blood telling me to run. She wrote a letter letting me know that the notebook was dangerous, that I must not trust anyone, not even the FBI. She said that if the worst happened, I might be able to use it as a bargaining chip. I’ve been looking over my shoulder ever since that horrible night.”

Oliver turned in the seat and rested his left arm on the steering wheel. The tinted lenses of his round sunglasses made it impossible to read his eyes. Not that you could read them anyway, she thought, not if he didn’t want you to read them.

“You came to California because you’re running from a killer,” he said. “But you have no idea who is after you.”

“No,” she said. “None. I’ve been afraid to trust anyone.”

“Which brings us back to the problem of the second break-in at your apartment.”

“It must be a coincidence. What are the odds that whoever is after Atherton’s notebook would show up after four months and break into my place within twenty-four hours of when the studio goon broke in?”

“The odds might be very good if Spencer’s killer managed to track you as far as Los Angeles.”

“But the timing—” She broke off, shattered. “Damn. The photo of you and me outside the Cove Inn.”

“Yesterday morning your picture was on the front page of one of the biggest gossip rags in L.A.”

“But I changed my name, my job.” She stopped because it sounded weak even to her own ears. “How would he know what I looked like?”

“All he needed was a reasonably current photograph of you and a good eye for detail.”

“Miss Spencer loved photography. It was her hobby. She took some pictures of me while I lived with her, including one that showed me standing next to the beautiful car she gave me. I kept it on the dresser in my bedroom. If someone found it, he would not only know what I looked like but he’d have a description of the Packard.”

“What happened to the car?”

“I decided it was too memorable. I abandoned it on the side of a farm road and hitchhiked for a day. Then I used some of the money that Helen Spencer left in the shoebox to buy an inexpensive used car. When I got to L.A., I sold that one and bought the Ford I’m driving now.”

“Smart,” Oliver said. “Switching cars and hitchhiking for a time may have been what saved your life. Tell me more about this notebook that’s supposed to be so dangerous.”

“Evidently it belonged to someone named Dr. Thomas Atherton, who worked at that laboratory I told you about.”

“Saltwood. You said someone there told you that Atherton is dead?”

“Yes.”