The Secret Sleuth
Winnow Folly stood in the midst of a tall commotion; a short middle aged adventurist, hair drawn in a taunt bun and pleated cotton skirt flowing in waves around her chubby ankles, she was a maiden at the wheel of a great mystery. The body was a broken bleeding pile of visceral riot. She surprised the tall rank, the police and the evil minded heir to the Pap fortune by leaning down to the mangled remains of Leo Pap and dipping her finger into the rapidly congealing blood.
“ Whater ya doing mam?” the blue vestured policeman asked.
“ The substance around Mr. Pap is, in appearance, blood Sergeant……” she read his embossed name tag, “Sergeant Reel, nevertheless it comes away clear, sticky and smelling of pine sap.”
Sergeant Reel looked at Winnows upraised finger. “Yer right Mrs. Folly,” he exclaimed in surprise.
Winnow smiled and pointed to the open book on the bedside table. “He had a penchant for the mysterious Sergeant, a dark and unabiding penchant," she explained calmly. She hefted the leather bound volume and said, “The spell on the open page, Sergeant."
In brute insistence the wolfish grimace of Idle Pap crowded Winnows world for a moment. Idle was Leo’s nephew and the sole heir to the Pap fortune. “What of my Uncles penchant, what of it?” he questioned.
She considered Idle for a moment before speaking. “Pine sap sir, it’s an ancient formula used in conjuring demons and ghosts, your uncle was covered in it.”
The shine of reflections and wild quests for freedom , the desire for power, even the power of a demon was the likely culprit, the decree of death as it were. Winnow glanced at the Sergeant and with a quiet whisper she ended his speculation. The Sergeant looked at Idles suit coat and gasped.
Aware of their sudden interest in his attire he became agitated. “What is it!…What is it? “ Idle growled.
The Sergeant gently guided Idles hands into the stainless steel cuffs and lead him away. The back of his suit jacket was covered in sap and scarlet gore. A design, a pattern in crimson. Clear simple and proposed by the vesture of hell she thought. The lettering on the back of Idles suit jacket was drawn in blood. It read,“ABBADON WAS HERE!”
The Mystery of the Gilded Mirror
The Mystery of the Gilded Mirror
Oral Practice surveyed the room with delicate secret and stealthy abandon. The curtains were a deep scarlet; velvet sashes, he thought. The walls were decorated with several reproductions, Monet and Picasso, “A terrible combination,” he whispered to himself. Touching the nightstand his finger came away dusty and dry.
“Has anyone moved the deceased?” he asked the hotel manager and the night clerk.
The manager spread his arms outward in exasperation. “This mess,” he pointed to the torn bleeding bodies, “is as I found it Mr. Practice.”
Practice, in steadfast summery, examined the bloody remains of Cordial Germ. The carpeting was a surge of amended beige and scarlet. The gouts of blood had splashed the entire room with what was now a congealed, sticky gloss. Cordial lay scattered about the room in an array of puzzle pieces, arms, legs and head; his head was in the flower basket and his arms were sticking upward like great bloody stems from the waste paper basket near the silken flowers.
A moment of silence passed between the three and in that space a gentle thunder rolled far away, distant, desolate yet exclaiming the grace of those who were in the arranged veils of life. Silent, the blood had streamed and spattered the wallpaper with tiny copper arrays of essence, essence of Cordial brought to you by unknown demons and affairs of fear. The silence weighed like a chunk of lead in the stomachs of the three.
Practice cleared his throat and scratched his scalp. “What whimsy in tumult and two pennies for the eyes, what fury in wayward bond with the devil, what deed doth draw us into the will of fear and angry rebuke?” Practice paused for an instant and tapped the manager on the breast. “Tis a storm, in arrays of price paid by those who live by shadow and silhouette.” He pointed to the gilded mirror hanging askew on the wall. “Tis here, the answer, the secret, we need only capture in the reflection of a gilded mirror.”
Ron Koppelberger is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 93 books of poetry over the past several years and 16 novels. He has published 266 poems and 101 short stories in a variety of periodicals, including, The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. His poem, 'Secret Sash' recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller, and he is a member of both The American Poet’s Society and The Isles Poetry Association.