Murder Has No Tongue

By Verna Reid

Two items in Jenny Aldred's morning local paper open a whole new world for her; a world in which murder, and a young boy's terror entirely encompass her. Joggers discover five-year-old Mark wandering along the trail beside the Niagara River. He's wearing pyjamas, and clutching a teddy bear. He cannot, or will not, speak. A young woman's body is found at the base of the tower near the river. There is a connection, and it takes all of Jenny's determination, and Staff Sergeant William Janes's sleuthing skills to uncover the answers to several mysteries in this second murder novel by Verna Reid. MURDER HAS NO TONGUE has the sights and sounds of Niagara for its setting. It is a fast-paced story of devotion, love of a different kind, and finally, stark terror.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Books for Pleasure
• Release date: Sep 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781553491118

Book preview

MURDER HAS NO

TONGUE

Written By Verna Reid

Copyright Verna Reid 2001

All rights reserved

ISBN # 978-1-55349-111-8

Published By Books for Pleasure at Smashwords

Murder, though it have no tongue,

Will speak with most miraculous organ

Hamlet – Act II, Sc.2,

Wm. Shakespeare

DISCLAIMER

MURDER HAS NO TONGUE is a work of fiction. Any similarity to places, events, situations, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

The eyes caught me first. They stared out of the photo, and in the grainy blur of the newsprint, a mixture of fear and bewilderment enlarged them the way a microscope creates monsters of bugs.

As I looked at the young face, small beneath a thicket of dark hair, I wondered what could have caused those emotions in one so young. He could not have been much more than five years old. It was not until I read the heading on the cutline Who is he? that I realized with a start I recognized the face, and I read the full article with heightened interest.

He had been found at about six in the morning, wandering in his pyjamas and carrying a teddy bear, along the trail that follows the Niagara River from Fort Erie to Niagara-on-the-Lake. Two joggers had at first passed, then returned to him to see if he were lost. The bleak November day had made him shiver, and his lips were blue. Their questions elicited no response, nor did any of the further interrogation at the police station where the joggers subsequently took him. He listened, ate some toast and milk for breakfast, but neither answered questions nor volunteered information. The press was invited to assist with locating the boy’s parents, or anyone with any knowledge of him.

The story was found on one of the inside pages, obviously of minor importance on a day when the front page was devoted to headlines about a woman found at the base of one of the towers which dotted the Niagara Falls skyline.

Certainly this was an unusual occurrence. Suicides usually jumped into the river, and some remained there, never to be found. The mental picture of a body hurtling through space and ending up smashed at the base of a five-hundred foot structure was enough to make me hastily turn the page. It was then I saw the photo that startled me; first because of the expression, then because I knew I knew him. But from where?

I mentally unrolled my scroll of friends and acquaintances who had small children. It was a short list to be sure, because after arriving in Niagara Falls six years ago, most of my new-found friends were, like myself, single. The radio station where I was creative director yielded no likely suspects, and giving a sigh, I decided to let my subconscious go to work as I set out for a badminton game for which I was already late.

Trying to make up for lost time, I gulped my hot coffee, and opting to take my track suit and court shoes to the club rather than dressing at home, I switched off inside lights, put the dinner dishes into the small portable dishwasher, turned on the outside light, locked the door, and got into my hatchback, throwing racquet, suit, and shoes on the seat beside me.

I could not, however, rid myself of the look in the boy’s eyes, and his identity was a puzzle that gnawed at me as I apologized to my partner, first for my late arrival, and later as I muffed shot after shot on the court.

I’m sorry Madeline, I said finally, after smashing two serves right into the net. My mind is just not on the game tonight. I’ve been trying to remember something for the last hour, and it’s bugging me.

Madeline Jacobs nodded understandingly. She was a sympathetic person, almost motherly in fact. Unmarried, she wore her hair in twin braids wound ‘round her head, German fashion, a style she had adopted as a school girl. The blonde plaits had now faded to grey, but her hair was still long and heavy. Her face, unadorned of makeup, even lipstick, was unlined negating her 40 years. Her figure had slipped a little, and though she was tall and once willowy, she now had a thickened waist and heavy bosom. An active athlete, she enjoyed bicycling, walking, and much more strenuous games of badminton than those she shared occasionally with me. I could never understand why she wasn’t pencil-slim.

Her reaction to my late arrival and lack of concentration was kind. Don’t worry. It’s just a game. Let’s not keep score, let’s just send the bird back and forth. Later, we’ll get serious.

She was right. The gentle back and forth, plop, plop of the birds eventually soothed me, and 15 minutes later we had a thoroughly competitive set of games in which Madeline trounced me three out of five. We had both worked up a sweat, and showered before dressing and heading up to the bar for a long, cool scotch and soda. I was relaxed and content.

What was the problem? Madeline inquired as we sat in comfortable harmony. You seemed a little upset when you came in, and it’s not like you to be late for a game Jenny.

I twirled my glass on the coaster. Have you seen the paper today? The photo of the small boy on page 3?

She shook her head. Haven’t had a spare moment since I left the bank. I nodded understandingly. Madeline was the branch manager of the largest city bank, and was on constant call from customer, staff, and other financial institutions. I never phoned her at work because she was either in, and at a meeting, or out, and at a meeting. We usually tried to get together and chat at the club.

It was a friendly place to meet. Cavernous, dim, the badminton club was built in the early 20s, and had kept the same décor since that time. Green was in then, and green it was still. A restful color, the executive of the day had decided, and the current executive had found no reason to disagree. All the walls, from the entranceway, with its original hardwood floors, the bar, the dining room, and the high-ceiling courts themselves were of the same verdant hue. I had been coming for so long I never saw the patches on the walls, the scuffs on the floors, the battered lockers. Instead I concentrated on the excellent lighting, the generous space in the courts, and the fine meals and top quality drinks served.

I had been a member for the last two years, and Madeline Jacobs was my favorite opponent. We had never shared confidences, but had managed many highly amusing conversations. I felt no hesitation in explaining my feelings about the boy in the photo.

When I finished, Maddy merely nodded and sipped her drink. It will come to you if you let it sift through your subconscious, she said simply. With that the conversation shifted to the game we both enjoyed.

A tournament was planned to take place on the weekend in Hamilton, and Maddy would represent the club. She was partnered with another athletic woman whom I had seen playing, but had never spoken to. Maddy talked enthusiastically about her ability, and said they stood a fine chance of capturing the amateur’s cup for the over 35’s. She grimaced as she said it, and I wondered silently whether her age was beginning to bother her.

I could sympathize with her if it was. Pushing 35 myself, I was often acutely aware that time was slipping by, and I seemed to be stuck in a rut of sorts. I enjoyed my work at the radio station. There were plenty of challenges to be met and overcome there, but my personal life was at a standstill. The euphoria brought on by the brisk games we had been playing, and the double scotch I had just consumed was disappearing, and I decided to call it a night.

Same time next week? I asked as I turned on the stool, and began gathering my things.

Maddy lifted her glass and nodded. I’ll show you the cup if we win it.

Good luck, then, I called as I left the bar, and headed out to the parking lot and my car.

Where had I seen that young boy? It was my last thought as I went to sleep that night.

His identity still eluded me the next day as I quickly prepared a light breakfast of toast and tea after taking Patsy, the little part terrier, part poodle I had recently acquired from the local humane society, for her early morning romp in the park behind my townhouse.

We both enjoyed this daily ritual before the pressures of the day demanded my attention. Patsy had the run of the house while I was at work, but she never took advantage, opting to spend most of the day sleeping on the mat in the kitchen. She was a funny little customer, part black, part grey, and curly all over. Her biggest delight was to track the small field mice that invaded the park in the autumn. I presume it was the terrier in her. The poodle part made her sensitive to my feelings, and I never had to punish her for her few misdeeds. A stern tone was enough to send her under the kitchen table, downcast and subdued. When I forgave her, which was almost immediately, she bounded up to me, all ill feelings forgotten. She was, for the most part, a well-behaved and affectionate puppy, and her antics made me laugh.

On this particular morning however, I cut short our romp, and quickly changed from my sweat suit, showered, and dressed in a simple woollen dress of forest green, with turtle neck and long sleeves. It needed only the addition of a long golden chain around the neck, and gold hoops in my ears to complete the outfit. I always felt good in green, thinking (and hoping) it made my eyes look bluer, and my hair more auburn. A multicoloured blanket coat gave me warmth as I turned the key and pressed the starter in my cold hatchback. I waited for the heat to start, and the engine turn over. November was going to be an early introduction to winter, I thought, as I shifted gears and headed toward the radio station.

When I arrived at the building, an old house which had been converted into a functional and efficient radio station for the local town, I could hear the buzz in the newsroom as the news director and reporters discussed the morning newscast. I presumed it would focus on the body at the base of the tower. It would make a good lead story, I thought, with a cynicism I would not have had a few years ago. The tragedies of life always made the best stories, I had discovered, and was happily tranquil in the area I had chosen to enter – that of commercial advertising. Jingle writing, copy that sold products or people, that was my line, and I was content with it.

In the office I shared with two other writers the world was serene. The large room had cathedral-shaped windows in the corner which I, as senior member, had appropriated for my desk space. Through them, I could view the outside world with aplomb. Our station was set in an area on the outskirts of Niagara Falls, on a plot of land some five acres in area, and the Niagara River was visible from the copywriter’s room. That view often provided respite when the work was particularly rushed, or a sales representative had forgotten to alert the writer of some new changes in a client’s account. To gaze at the land and the ever-flowing river made petty annoyances seem even smaller.

Besides, there were always the other writers to bounce off. Mary Ellen Jensen, a striking, willowy, brown-eyed blonde of 25, had been with the station for about two years, and Albert Wyatt had joined us just six months ago. We worked well together, Mary Ellen and I, putting up with Albert’s puckish sense of humour. At 29, he still found it amusing to play practical jokes, like snitching our lunches, or hiding a favorite pen. His writing was excellent though sporadic, and he was an asset to our team. He could settle down quite well when the occasion demanded, and impending fatherhood (his wife was seven months pregnant) had prompted a more sober outlook on his swarthy face, and in his velvety-brown eyes. He wasn’t handsome by any stretch of the imagination, with his stubby brown hair, large Clark Gable ears, and an elongated chin, but he was lovable.

I settled into work and was soon caught up in the flurry of scripts to be completed. The day sped by, and it was only when I left for the day and got into my car that I once again reverted to the thought of the little lost boy.

When I drove past St. Barnabas Anglican, the church where I occasionally went on a leisurely Sunday morning, I had a sudden vivid memory. I knew where I had seen the child, and though I did not know his name, I knew to whom he belonged.

CHAPTER TWO

Several weeks previous, I had attended early morning service at St. Barnabas Church. It was a small one, built in the late 1800’s, of field stone, along the lines of an old English parish church. It had attracted me when I first moved to the Falls, and I attended sometimes for the communion service. The quiet serenity of the surroundings provided me with a sense