Yesterday's News - Jeremiah Healy

by Jeremiah Healy

  "Schonsy killed the kid in a struggle?"

  Peete shook his head. "The way the story goes, the kid attacked Schonsy, and Hagan hit the kid to get him off his partner, but the impact was at just the wrong angle, causing the fatal spinal injury. "

  Maybe Jane wasn't entirely off the track after all. "You see it that way?"

  "I've covered the police in ten different cities over a checkered thirty years. I've yet to see a cop not back up his partner."

  "You also think Hagan buried Coyne's death as a payback?"

  "Please, good sir. Be serious. After all this time, Hagan is going to risk hurling his promotion to chief into the toilet to do another favor for an old partner whose life he already saved once?"

  "If that's the way it happened, no."

  Peete started waving toward the bartender, and I got up to leave before he had another. Bottle, not drink, that is.

  5

  Walking past the receptionist, I said, "Arbuckle is expecting me.

  Down the corridor and back inside the city room, I was struck again by the din. If Jane Rust did have a confidential source, Coyne or anybody else, I couldn't see her trying to talk by telephone over the noise in the air.

  Holding a sheaf of papers and a red Flair pen, Arbuckle came out a door, mumbling to himself. Through the opening and to his rear, I could see a conference table and six or eight people rising around it. I was moving toward Arbuckle when she appeared behind him and looked at me full flush.

  "Beth!" The word was out of my mouth before I could think better of it.

  The woman smiled. The hair and the eyes were identical, but the neck was too long, the teeth too big ....

  She said, "Close but no cigar, friend. It's Liz, Liz Rendall. Do I know you?"

  "No. You just remind me of someone. Sorry. "

  Arbuckle said, "Liz, moonstruck here is the private eye from Boston. He gets today, no more, then he's gone. Got it?"

  Instead of acknowledging him, Rendall said to me, "Had lunch yet?"

  "No."

  "Come on." She put the papers she was carrying on a desk near Peete's and threw a sweater around her shoulders, shawl style.

  * * *

  "Don't ask me why they call it the Village Inn, since there's no place for sleeping over and Nasharbor hasn't been a village since before the Civil War, but the menu will remind you of Mom's own cooking."

  The place had plate-glass windows, Formica tables, and vinyl booths. There was a soda fountain on one side and Andy Williams coming over the tinny stereo system. I ordered Today's Special: a cup of soup, grilled tomato and cheese sandwich, and an iced tea. I decided not to commit to the Indian pudding just yet. Aside from Liz Rendall and me, the only person in the place under sixty was our waitress.

  "Why so many senior citizens?"

  Rendall sipped her water. "Because the owner here offers them a special two o'clock to five o'clock discount. And because fifty cents off means they can ride the transit bus down and back and have a meal out for the price of the meal alone." She looked around the restaurant. "A lot of these people are close to the line. I like to frequent a place that gives them a break." She took another sip and asked her question through the glass. "So who do I remind you of?"

  I thought about passing it off, but instead said, "My wife."

  She glanced down at my hands. "A guy like you should wear a ring."

  "My wife died."

  She set down the glass. "Oh. Oh, I'm sorry. "

  "I am, too. For leading you into it like that. It wasn't intentional."

  Rendall looked at me a little more closely. "No. No, I don't think it was. Intentional, I mean. I can see why Jane must have trusted you."

  "Did she trust you?"

  "About her source, you mean?"

  "Yes."

  "Not exactly. She told me about having one, sort of seeking my advice about what to do. But she didn't tell me his name until after. . . after he was dead."

  "Jane implied to me that she'd revealed Coyne to more than one person. If you weren't one of them, who might have been?"

  She grew thoughtful. "Hard to say. You just met Jane that once?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't know how she struck you, but I interviewed her when she applied here. On first impression she seemed serious, diligent, willing to dredge up the mundane stuff that keeps a paper from printing mistakes."

  "What about on second impression?"

  "Well, after you got to know her, or better, tried to get to know her, you realized that she created her own little world in which she was the center. Kind of a messiah complex."

  "That she'd be the one to save the situation?"

  "Right. And anybody who tried to rein her became part of the conspiracy."

  "Do you think there was some conspiracy regarding Coyne's death?"

  Rendall laughed. "Have you met Neil Hagan yet?"

  "No. Given Arbuckle's time limit on me, I thought I'd start at the paper. "

  "Well, when the present chief retires, one of two captains will replace him. Hagan is new school, smart, professional, the kind of man who as chief will move this city into the twenty-first century."

  "And Hogueira?"

  She nodded. "Done some homework, I see."

  "Some."

  "Extending the metaphor, Hogueira leads us from 1890 to 1892."

  "Hagan's conscientious?"

  "And then some. I don't know how Jane could have thought he'd be involved in sweeping Coyne's death under the rug."

  "Maybe because of Schonsy, Junior being both Coyne's target and the son of Hagan's old partner?"

  "Your homework consists of talking with Mal Peete, right?"

  "Mainly."

  "Peete's a drunk, Mr. Cuddy. And about as screwed up in his perceptions of reality as Jane was."

  "How're you at perceiving reality?"

  "I may not be the best there is, but I'm probably the best you've got. Shoot. "

  "A couple of people have mentioned some real estate developer named Dykestra."

  "Little Richard."

  "Who?"

  "That's what I call him. Richie Dykestra comes in at maybe five-five. Petty, I know, but he inspires that kind of thinking about him. "

  "If Coyne's death happened as reported, but Jane's death wasn't an accident or suicide, could Dykestra have been involved?"

  "Boy." She paused, chewing. "He's into sonic shady stuff. And I'm not sure which way Bruce Fetch goes on that one."

  "Who's Fetch?"

  "Jane didn't. . . no, of course she wouldn't. Bruce and Jane were dating. "

  "Serious?"

  "He was. And three months ago, I would have said she was, too. But lately, I think the fire was mainly at his end."

  "Fetch works for Dykestra?"

  "You could say that."

  "Seems a little out of character, Jane dating a guy who works for the target she's investigating."

  "You haven't quite got it. The local redevelopment authority floated Dykestra through this condo project he's doing."

  "Dykestra has a debt problem?"

  "Are you kidding? His file at the bank is probably thicker than Argentina's."

  "And the Nasharbor Redevelopment Authority bailed him out?"

  "That's right. And guess who's executive director of the honorable NRA?"

  "Fetch."

  "Gold star."

  "You pick that up from Arbuckle?"

  "What?"

  "That expression, gold star."

  Rendall smiled. "He picked it up from me. Know why he suggested you talk to me?"

  "Because he wanted me off his back."

  "Partly. But he's also afraid of me, and therefore he'd love to see me step in the shit some time soon."

  "Why is he afraid of you?"

  "Because he thinks I'm after his job."

  "Are you?"

  "You bet. With the right managing editor, that little printing press could be a real force in this town, not a dull, safe tabloid that keeps everybody l
ooking rosy to the readers"

  "Now you sound like Jane Rust."

  "With one major difference. I know what I want and how to get it. Speaking of which, how about dinner at my place?"

  She threw me off a little. "I. . . I'm seeing somebody in Boston now."

  "Exclusively?"

  "Uh-huh."

  If Rendall was disappointed, she didn't show it. "Does that mean you're driving back tonight?"

  "No, I plan to stay down here for a whiIe."

  "Why?"

  "Jane paid me for three days' worth. Still two to go."

  "And if two more's not enough?"

  "This is my slow season, anyway."

  Rendall put her fork on the table. "In that case, at least let me help you."

  "How?"

  "You're the investigator. You tell me."

  "What do you think the chances are of Arbuckle letting me see the paper's morgue?"

  "Slim and none. Why?"

  "I'd like to read some of Jane's stories, especially on Coyne and the development angle. I also want to read about some trouble Hagan had fifteen years ago."

  She squinted. "What trouble?"

  I told her what Peete told me.

  Rendall thought about it. "I can look all that up in the morgue, which by the way the Beacon calls its 'Library.' The recent stuff on Coyne and Dykestra I can Xerox, but the old stuff would be on the micro. It can't literally be copied, but I'll take some notes for you."

  "I'd appreciate it. Witnesses, other information, follow-ups."

  "Anything else?"

  "Maybe. Jane said she wrote a story on the police corruption angle, but it never got published."

  "I remember that from story conference. Arbuckle got all bent ; out of shape and basically impounded Jane's draft of it. "

  "Would Jane have any preliminary notes?"

  "Don't know. I'll check her desk at the Beacon."

  I finished my iced tea. "Do you know who's taking care of the funeral arrangements?"

  "For Jane?"

  "Right."

  She inhaled deeply. "I guess I am. I'm executor—or executrix, I think they call it—under her will."

  "You are?"

  "Just after Jane got here, somebody in her college class died in an unto accident. Jane insisted on having a will, and she felt she knew me better than anyone else in town."

  "Any relatives?"

  "An aunt in Kansas. I called her this morning. She'll come in when I can give her the details."

  "I don't envy you."

  Rendall nodded. "Where are you going to stay?"

  "I don't know. Any suggestions?"

  "There's only one non-fleabag. The Crestview, just southeast of downtown on Crestview Road. Get the picture?"

  "Restaurants?"

  "After one night here, you'll find they're terrible. That's where I'll come in."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "My place for dinner, remember?" She motioned to our waitress for the check.

  6

  After leaving Liz Rendall, I thought I should get to the Crestview before it filled up. I needn't have rushed.

  Granted, it was at the crest of the road, and it did have a view of the harbor, if you could sort of block out the auto salvage yard and Sal's Sub Shoppe across the street and downslope toward the water. The motel itself was one long string of gray units with green doors and window trimmings, lying on a diverging parallel from the road itself, as though the architect's square was a bit off. The signs in front of the elliptical drive read, respectively: CRESTVIEW MOTEL, COLOR TV, WATER BEDS, NO CREDIT CARDS ACCEPTED, and VACANCY, apparently without any space allocated for a NO to accompany the last message. The signs looked as though they were commissioned about ten years apart from painters who didn't agree on the proper formation of most letters of the alphabet.

  Each parking space was marked in faded yellow to correspond with its unit number. Counting cars, it appeared three of the roughly twenty rooms were occupied. I pulled into the unmarked area next to an awning that said OFFICE.

  As I pushed in the door, a man looked up from the book he was reading behind the counter. He was in his fifties, wearing his hair in the still short but slightly unkempt look service lifers often assume once they muster out. His ears were large, his eyes sharp and not particularly friendly. He also had the most outlandish Fu Manchu mustache I'd seen this side of 1972.

  "Help you?"

  "Yes, I'd like a room for a couple of days."

  "Be twenty-six dollars per night, plus tax."

  "You're kidding."

  "About what?"

  "The rate."

  Fu scowled. "You're government employee, it's 10 percent off, except for current, active-duty military, then it's 20 percent off. But you don't look active to me, and Reserve or National Guard don't cut it here."

  "I didn't mean it seemed too high. I meant it seemed awfully reasonable. "

  "Wait'll you see the room."

  He slapped a registration card in front of me, followed by a Bic pen. Writing, I said, "I didn't see a sign out front for telephones."

  "Why do you suppose that might be?"

  "I'm going to be some inconvenienced by not being able to make and receive calls."

  "You'll be more inconvenienced by having to drive twelve miles inland to get a phone in your room."

  I picked up a dusty business card from the front of a plastic holder on the counter. The ones behind it were a little whiter.

  "This still the number here?"

  "Yeah, but I don't take no messages. I'm not a goddam switchboard operator, you know."

  "I'll bet you've never been in Public Relations, either."

  "I was a master sergeant. Know what that is?"

  "It's been a while, but I remember." I extended my hand. "John Cuddy."

  He ignored my offer. "I'm Jones. You won't be here long enough to need my first name." He scanned the registration card. "That'll be cash in advance."

  I gave him three twenties. "If I'm going to be staying a third night, I'll notify the concierge."

  Jones fished a key off a rack somewhere under his side of the counter, making a jingling noise. "Unit 18. The Honeymoon Suite."

  "Honeymoon Suite?"

  "Yeah. You look like the kinda prevert would get off being in a waterbed by himself. "

  * * *

  I closed the door of Unit 18 behind me. In addition to containing the promised liquid mattress and color TL it wore a cake icing shade of pink on every surface that would take paint. I hung up the sports jacket and khaki slacks on the open-air closet pole next to the bathroom and put my clean shirts, underwear, and jogging gear into the bureau. Brushing my teeth under a flickering light, I tried to decide whether the damage to the tiles in the tub behind me came from destructive children or industrious insects.

  I had Jane Rust's address from the check she had given me. Stubborn pride kept me from running it down with Jones, but the gas jockey on the next corner sent me roughly in the right direction.

  The street number matched a modest, free-standing two-family on a postage stamp lot. The solitary tree and low bushes looked scraggly and parched.

  Leaving the Prelude at the curb, I walked up the cracked cement path to the steps of the front porch. Up close, the wood was warping, the walls peeling. I climbed the steps to the house door. There were two buttons, one with "Rust" and the other "O'Day." Pressing Jane's, I heard an irregular buzzing sound, like a giant bee with laryngitis. Getting no response, I leaned into "O'Day."

  From an upstairs window, an elderly woman's voice yelled, "Who is it? Come out so I can see you."

  I moved from under the overhang of the porch roof and looked upward. A woman was framed by a light behind her.

  "Who are you?"

  "My name's John Cuddy. I'd like to speak with you about Jane Rust."

  "Jane's dead."

  "I know. I'm investigating her death."

  "Wondered when you folks would get back around to me. Hold on. These days
, takes me a while to get downstairs."

  * * *

  The second-story sitting room was fussy. Too many tables with little evident purpose, and crocheted doilies on every possible plane, flat or curved. Mrs. O'Day sat in a rocker, wattles under her chin and both hands around her cane, tapping its rubber tip on the old carpeting.

  "Private investigator, huh?"

  "That's right."

  "Wasn't aware she had any family to hire someone like you."

  "Jane herself hired me."

  "Now that she's dead, how come you're still working for her?"

  "She paid me for three days' worth. It seems to me she has that coming."

  Mrs. O'Day watched me for a moment through Coke-bottle glasses. "Are you an honest man or just a very clever one?"

  "I don't follow you."

  "Are you honestly interested in Jane and honoring your contract with her, or are you just using that old-fashioned notion to get on the good side of an old lady you need to pump?"

  I laughed.

  She said, "Well, leastways you laugh honest. "

  "Mrs. O'Day, Jane asked me to look into something. Then she turns up dead that night, supposedly a suicide. That just doesn't ring true to me."

  "Don't know much about suicide. Against the Church's preaching, which makes it kind of hard to understand it. But I can tell you this, she was a mighty troubled young woman."

  "Can you tell me what happened last night?"

  "Best I can. I was home here, up pretty late planning."

  "Planning?"

  "Budget planning. I get $473.50 a month social security as sole survivor of the husband, God rest his soul. I never did work outside, so I don't have any account of my own. Rent from downstairs covers the house costs and all, but still got to computate in advance where all of it should go. Today was Store Day."

  "Store Day?"

  "Yes. The Church, Lord bless it, has a volunteer van, comes to pick up those like me what can't get out on our own. Takes us around to the grocery, the drugstore, laundry, that kind of thing. Regular schedule. Feel mighty sorry for the others."

  "What others?"

  "Those outside the Church. They're the ones people like you never see, because they ride the buses from ten to two when you're in working. Thats the only time the buses aren't so crowded you can get a seat. When's the last time you ever saw a man or child stand so an older person could sit down? Then there's the hoodlums, too. Leastways most of them are still in school of some kind, probably reform school, till two o'clock, so your purses and wallets are safe from them if you're back in and locked up by two. Your generation thinks it's all set, you wait till you get older, sonny. Back in thirty-three, when my daddy started paying into social security, there were sixteen workers for every retired person. Read that in Readers Digest, I did. Sixteen to one. Now there's only about three and a half to one, and by the time you're into your sixties, never mind seventies or eighties, there's only going to be maybe one and a half workers for every retired person. I thank the Lord every night he won't be keeping me down here so long to see that day come, I'll tell you."