Murder Shrieks Out

By Verna Reid

A body has been washed up by the Whirlpool in the Niagara River. At first, it is thought to be a suicide. However, further investigation proves otherwise. Anne Morrow was not particularly well-liked by those who knew her, and these include her ex-husband, Ronald Dyson, currently dating Jenny; Lewis Bryant, the radio station's program director and Anne's supervisor; and Elspeth Newcombe, a junior writer at the station. Anne had a young lover, Francis Turner, and he and the murdered woman's cleaning lady, Mary Cook, are the only ones apparently upset by Anne's death. Murder Shrieks Out is a brisk and suspenseful tale of wrongs being righted, the guilty punished - not necessarily by the law -- and love in unexpected places.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Books for Pleasure
• Release date: Sep 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781553491101

Book preview

MURDER SHRIEKS OUT

Written by Verna Reid

Copyright Verna Reid 2000

All rights reserved

ISBN # 978-1-55349-110-1

Published by Books for Pleasure at Smashwords

Other sins only speak:

Murder Shrieks Out

Duchess of Malfi

John Webster

Murder Shrieks Out is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to events, situations, locations, or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

PROLOGUE

From beginning to end, the Niagara is a troubled river. It grumbles as its waters at Fort Erie are squashed from the shallow shores of Lake Erie into the narrow divide between New York State and the province of Ontario. It chatters quarrelsomely as it ambles along the route, picking up speed and temper until it reaches the upper river rapids, noisily making itself heard in homes and buildings on either side.

It explodes at last in seething fury at the great falls of Niagara, 158 feet of foaming cascade, hissing and spraying anyone and anything adjacent to the brink. Then it roils busily at the base of the falls, churning creamily against submerged landforms before once more pursuing itself, boiling over crags, dashing against ancient rocks, ignoring the archaeological wonders to be found in the strata as it rushes past.

In the whirlpool downstream, it bubbles around. Beside itself with fury, it casts aside in disgust the flotsam and jetsam of humans and animals who foul it--an inner tube here, an empty can there, large chunks of wood and even, tragically, a body or body part. Finally its fury spent, the Niagara River majestically leaves behind what it cannot bring along and, in a more placid fashion, wends its way to the end. Like a virile tempestuous young man regretfully accepting the vulnerability of old age, it is mellow and mature water that eventually empties itself into Lake Ontario, after its 34 miles are satisfactorily run.

The Niagara River is a magnet. Honeymooners and lovers come to walk, thigh glued to thigh, beside it. Parents bring children for an education in history and geography. Lonely people stare, fascinated by the massive flow of water, their impoverished state made insignificant by its grandeur. Unhappy souls look on the river as a source of rest, and some make their final decision in this life in a desperate leap for a haven in its watery bosom.

Every year, anywhere from four to six bodies are reclaimed from the river by means of helicopters and stretchers, but countless others are gone forever, carried to the Atlantic via Lake Ontario and the St. Lawrence River. Some are vagrants, whose lives were solitary, and whose disappearance goes unnoticed. Others leave grieving loved ones who seek, but never find the missing person.

The Niagara holds many secrets, most of which will never see the light of day. The secrets unmasked by the recovery of one body led to a frightening chain of events.

CHAPTER ONE

The body washed up on the edge of the whirlpool. The river spat it out, releasing the remains of someone’s sad journey down the length of the Niagara, swept from the base of the falls by the inexorable current, long after the soul had gone to some heavenly or hellish region, according to belief, depending on lifestyle. And found on one fair Sunday in spring by two young boys bent on checking out the start of the fishing season.

Their hue and cry brought forth Niagara’s police - the provincial, the regional, and because the body was found on the Canadian side, the Niagara Parks police.

I heard the report on the local station and shrugged. Another poor soul couldn’t take the daily newscasts, or had found out that a lover was unfaithful, or that AIDS would shorten a life, or that loneliness was unbearable in the midst of the busy, happy tourists who flocked to see the falls. The mighty Niagara had, as the local newspaper always said, claimed another victim. What was another body over the falls to me? I had enough on my plate at the moment.

A new campaign was waiting to be worked on, readied for presentation on Monday at the radio station, and Ron was coming to take me to dinner at seven. Those were two things bound to fill my day, which was only beginning.

I worked at the desk in my spare bedroom-cum-den on the second floor of my south end townhouse. I had rented it on my arrival from Toronto. It backed onto a park and was one of a small complex, inhabited mostly by singles and retirees. The houses were stupefyingly alike; two bedrooms and bath upstairs, small kitchen, dining room, and sunken living room on the main floor. Built in the early 70s, they were as individual only as each occupant chose to make them. For my part, I painted all the main floor rooms in beige with peach undertones, and blues and greens prevailing in the living room sofa, large chair and two smaller ones. Drapes that covered glass doors leading to the small patio were the exact blue tone of the small chairs. Earth tones took over in the kitchen with a small oak table and chairs tucked into the corner, and a larger table, six chairs and an oaken wall unit in the dining room.

An outrageous streak (thanks to my father) burst forth in the bedroom which sported apple green and navy wallpaper and a scarlet wing chair, complemented by a multicolored covering for my four poster bed. Totally satisfying!

But my den was where I spent many hours. Furnished with leftovers, it held a black bookshelf, scruffy desk, and a chair picked up from a second-hand store. Nothing matching, but everything with a purpose. Utilitarian and I love it. It overlooks the park, and it was my habit to sit on my scruffy chair, at my scruffy desk and think huge thoughts as I watched birds flutter in the oak and maple trees that rimmed the green sward.

Just now, I simply sat and stared out of the window, wondering if the copy I had spent most of the day on would pass muster tomorrow. I was happy to be interrupted by the phone call. It was Ron, checking on our date tonight.

As I hung up the phone, I thought of Ronald Dyson and the devastating effect his former wife had on the man. He was basically a reasonably handsome and well-adjusted man, with an unremarkable face, deep brown eyes beneath rather scanty brows, a full-lipped mouth and dark hair. He has a weight problem, which was exacerbated by his love of fine food, and his six-foot frame alternated between 180 and 210 pounds, depending on his outlook. He ate when he was unhappy, he once confided to me, and life with Anne Morrow must have been miserable because I remembered how he had billowed up over 220 just before their divorce. Even now, the mention of her brought a haggard look to his current slimmed-down face.

I wondered why he had latched on to me when his divorce was final. Surely, I thought at the time, he's still in love with Anne and wants to hear all about her. But no. Quite the contrary. I was the complete antithesis of his former wife, he told me.

She would kill someone with her tongue, Ron had said. You have a happy knack of making people feel good. Which was very nice, but not romantic, and this was fine with me. I didn’t want any serious entanglements right now. I had been before, and at 36 decided it was time to concentrate on a career which had been simmering on the back burner for far too long.

When I joined CVJF three years ago, I wanted to reach a few heights. Program director was still my goal, but seemed as remote as ever. Lewis Bryant was secure there, and in any event, Anne Morrow was next in line for that job. I had to content myself for the moment with the lesser role of assistant to the woman whose one-time husband I had just spoken to.

I fixed a coffee and carried it to the patio. Settling on the chair beside the small round table, I took a deep breath and smelled the spring. The sky was cloudless and although it was only April, I could see early daffodils in the garden next door, sunning themselves.

It has been a wise move to leave Toronto when I did. An unhealthy affair with a married man had left me despondent and insecure. When the position of assistant copywriter was advertised in the Toronto paper, I answered it and without a second thought moved to Niagara Falls. After an interview with Lewis, I was offered the job.

I never regretted my decision. I found the city attractive and challenging, mainly because of its diversity. Tourists from all over the world descend on Niagara Falls year-round in summer and for the Winter Festival of Lights. Indeed, the falls are at their most beautiful in winter. The river’s spray clings and freezes to the trees, shrubs and buildings, creating a fairyland that twinkles in a winter’s sun. At night, when the myriad lights are turned on, the scene at the river’s edge is breathtaking.

I had been ambivalent about the place on my arrival, finding it unfriendly, and its community outside of the tourist area closed and in turning. It is home to me now. When I first arrived, raw with pain of the broken affair, I wondered if I would ever feel warm and welcome anywhere again. A mellowing had taken place and I found peace. Peace in the surrounding country, which is gorgeous. The drive along the parkway where I love to jog is breathtaking, in spring filled with fragrant blossoms of lilac, apple peach, pear, and plum; in summer, ripe with mature fruit, satisfying like a woman with child. Through autumn, colors vie with each other, every tree and bush trying to outdo the other in its magnificence. And in the winter, the Niagara area is perhaps the most beautiful of all, blanketed as it is with soft white snowfalls, sparkling with frozen spray which coats the trees adjacent to the falls with diamonds. Beautiful!

Only the last three months had been relatively quiet in this city that normally houses under 90,000 souls. I usually choose to ignore the whole tourist bit, though it is difficult with traffic made hazardous by drivers gazing everywhere but at the roads. The radio station takes up most of my time, and that is good. A couple of nights at the badminton club looks after my exercise, and with Ron as a companion of sorts, I was reasonably content.

In the next week, I was to look back on that Sunday as the last day of tranquility for me.

I tidied up my copy from the day’s work, and had a leisurely bath before dressing for dinner. We had agreed it was a casual date, so I chose an off-white jumpsuit and black jacket that was comfortable and not too dressy. White earrings, a flip of the brush through my hair, a light hand with the lipstick finished my preparations. A quick look in the mirror informed me everything was where it should be, and I was ready when Ron rang my doorbell.

You look good, he said, putting his arms around me for a little hug, but then you always do, Jenny.

In your eyes, Ron, I said moving away with a shrug. I’m ready. Let’s go.

The restaurant he chose was a Mexican one, overlooking the falls. We had a table with an unrestricted view and after ordering, I sat quietly gazing out, imagining how cold the waters must be. The morning’s newscast came to mind.

Another body found, I said, with a little shiver.

I heard. Was it a man or woman?

Don’t know. We’ll read about it tomorrow, or Gerry in the newsroom might have something on it now.

I thought about the coming morning with its problems and frustrations, then told myself to forget about Anne, forget about the campaign.

This is great arroz con pollo, I said. How’s yours?

He nodded his head. It’s fine. How’s the new campaign coming?

I looked at him and grimaced. Your timing isn’t too good. I’ve just told myself to forget about the station and Anne.

Is she finally getting to you? I wondered how long…

I felt a surge of anger. Don’t give me that, I interrupted. How long were you married to the woman? Five years? I’ve only had her for three, and remember, I’m a survivor. I put down my knife and fork and took a quick sip of wine, trying to steady myself. I like my job. Just because the woman I’m working with is so unsure of herself she makes life miserable for everyone around her doesn’t mean I’m about to throw it all up. Anne has one of the most creative minds in the peninsula, and I’m learning from her.

And taking a beating while you’re doing it, said Ron quietly. Just don’t take on her personality, that’s all. You’re too sweet a person Jenny Aldred to turn into another Anne Morrow. God knows we don’t need any more of her kind.

Relenting, I smiled and reached across the table to pat his hand. Don’t worry about me. Beneath this soft and gentle exterior is a streak of steel a mile wide. I can separate the wheat from the chaff, and make out on my own, my way.

I’d like it to be our way Jenny, said Ron, his fingers tightening around mine.

Not yet, I replied, reclaiming my hand. And now I’ve really got to get back. I want to be sharp when I present this copy tomorrow.

Shaking his head but still smiling, he led the way back to his car. I knew him. It was not his nature to press or make his wants paramount. Perhaps that was what was wrong with him. He had never taken a real stand on anything, least of all against the strong-willed woman he had married. Yes, Anne was noisy and aggressive. In that small frame (she was barely five foot three) there was a dynamo that reduced a 200-pound man to a blob.

But there was also a side to her which constantly sought approval, making her promise things she never intended to fulfill. Anne would say whatever was convenient when it suited her. Still, on the rare occasions she had been challenged, I noticed a look in her eyes of uncertainty. Anne was a lot of bluff, I decided. I had long ago chosen to keep her at a distance, and as often as I could, off balance. It seemed to work. She treated me with respect, and it was seldom I allowed her to get under my skin. For someone like Ron, though, that was impossible. I could see he didn’t have the guts to call a halt to the games his former wife played with, and on, him.

That knowledge meant I did not have a lot of respect for him, unfortunately.

Mornings at the station were always hectic. The newsroom burst with clatter, and the morning talk show host strode around, working up a head of steam to become abrasive and controversial on air later. Down the hall in the copy department, things were quieter. Deep carpets of lush green pile deadened sounds; thick tan drapes the color of the walls, muffled outside noise. Three large desks were occupied almost totally by the computer, and the green files overflowed with radio scripts. It was a pleasant sunny office.

Anne’s desk was empty, but the other writer was there, working on a script for one of her accounts.

Elspeth Newcombe at 23 was well on her way to becoming a top media writer. I knew her aims were not centered on a small radio station in a small town. Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver, or even New York would one day be her milieu, and a top advertising agency her bailiwick. She had the talent, and the drive for success. In her cultured English voice, she could rap out some line of dialogue that would bring to life a product to be flogged, using impressive language without sounding phony. If she liked something, Elspeth would say it was absolutely enchanting, and with her fluting lilt, you knew it was exactly that. I’d say the same thing and sound like an idiot.

She was a delight to work with, but I must confess her talent at first aroused some envy in me. Though I never underestimate my own triumphs, they are more often than not achieved by dint of slaving away, frequently after working hours. Elspeth seem to create ideas effortlessly…it was a gift. And just to put the icing on the cake, she was attractive. Short, inclined to be chubby, but with a pair of sparkling fun-filled eyes, she had an impish smile that brightened the office. She was agreeable to have around. The widowed aunt with whom she stayed must have blessed the urge that prompted Elspeth to leave England and land in Niagara Falls. Once here, she honed her writing and advertising skills before heading to a more competitive field.

As for the other resident