Grape Jelly

At three in the morning, in a small motel outside Somme city, a muffled scream sounded followed closely by a silenced shot in room 17. Everyone around room 17 heard nothing and slept soundly through the night. At nine a maid going about her rounds discovered the body of a middle-aged man named Cornelio Bisentin, shot dead in his room. At ten the place was crawling with cops, one among them homicide detective Omar De Mars.

Detective De Mars sighed, viewing the scene with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He loathed his job. “A shot to the back of the head,” Deputy Bixby reported. “It was instant. A Magnum bullet was found amid his teeth. I could ask the size…” Bixby paused, looking at the detective. He looked a bit puzzled. “Sir? Is anything wrong?”

De Mars studied Bixby in silence for a moment. “It smells exactly like grape jelly in here.”

Bixby sniffed. “You’re right. I don’t think I noticed before.”

De Mars shrugged. “Oh, well…okay, then. I guess I’ll take it from here.”

Bixby nodded. He shook De Mars’ hand and went to leave. “You’re the man. See you tomorrow, okay?”

De Mars nodded absentmindedly. “Say hi to your wife for me.”

“Got it. Bye.”

“Bye, Bixby.”

De Mars sat in the bench outside the small convenience store, waiting for the bus to arrive. He had found no traces of anyone beside Bisentin in the room. Useless. He was at a dead end. He watched a group of poor children playing kick the can in an empty lot across the street. He thought of his own daughter. She was twelve now, living with her mother in Xen.

A little girl sat next to him at the bus stop. He glanced at her, surprised. His glance surprised him all the more. She was around eight and quite well dressed. Her face was round and full of life, sharply different from the gaunt, thin faces of those that played across the street. She gripped what seemed to be a violin case in her hands. Her face was dirty; two clean streaks down her full cheeks showed she had been crying recently. She turned towards him.

“Mister,” she whispered. “Mister, do you know where Vine Street is?”

De Mars looked down at the little girl in amazement. She had the voice of an angel. “Uh…yeah. Yeah I do.”

Her eyes flooded with tears. “Can you give me directions?”

De Mars nodded. “Why don’t I just take you there?”

“Oh, would you?”

De Mars stood and took the little girl’s hand. “My name is Mr. De Mars. I’m a policeman. I’ll help you get home, okay?”

The little girl nodded. “My name’s Mira. Mira York.” With that they went, hand in hand, toward Vine Street, toward home.

“Here we are. Vine Street. Do you know where you are now?”

Mira nodded. “I live that way,” she said, pointing right.

De Mars and Mira started off again. “You remind me of my daughter, Mira.”

“You have a daughter, Mister De Mars?”

De Mars nodded. Mira stopped walking and pointed to a tall thin shop across the way. “I live above that shop,” she said. De Mars and Mira crossed the street. “Thank you, Mister De Mars.”

The old woman behind the counter in the shop came hurrying out the door. “Mira! You are back from your violin lesson so late! And you are so dirty! What has happened to you?”

Mira tolerated the old woman’s fussing. “I’ll tell you in a little bit, Grandmother. Thank you again, Mister De Mars.”

The old woman turned her eyes over De Mars, studying every inch of him. “Thank you for returning my granddaughter.”

“I really must be going now.” De Mars tipped his hat to the two ladies, and left, leaving the old lady to fuss over the girl.

Mira touched the barrel of the Korth Magnum again, loving its feel. She smiled at the gift for her eighth birthday. Her first real kill, how exhilarating. She stood now, a bit preoccupied. Exhilaration made her hungry.

She padded softly downstairs and fixed herself some food. She sat down to her favorite snack in the whole world. Grape jelly dribbled out of her sandwich and on to her hands as she ate.