The Mystery of the Gilded Mirror

Ron Koppelberger

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.”