Yesterday's News

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 looking 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 while.”
    “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 auto 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.

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