Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
This is the Six Sentence Story bloghop.
Hosted by Denise
Crashed by ceayr (ok, with some egging on by management, but only along the lines of ‘You’ve been an appreciative audience. You have a certain proclivity for this flash fiction, we encourage you to practice your art.’) Go take a gander over at his place. He be doin a walk-on.
For our part, a bit of an aside: While we’re determined to move the plot along in ‘the Case of the Missing Fig Leaf’, whenever we invite another Sixarian to do a ‘walk-on’ we inevitably succumb to the temptation to ‘riff off’ our guest. Although ce yr promised not to get too close to the storyline of either of our serials, the About page at his blog says he’s from Scotland. Well, one thing naturally lead to another and, so, this, the latest installment in the Ian Devereaux serial.
Cliff Note for our Six. One of our favorite characters, Anya Claireaux, is based in Chicago where she runs the Omni Corporation. (Her official title is Executive Administrative Assistant. But, then, you know how she can be about exerting power.) She does a voice-only cameo.
Previously, in the Case of the Missing Fig Leaf…
The search for clues, a trail or anything that might reveal the identity of those who orchestrated the death of Dr. Leanne Thunberg’s ex-husband was arduous; understanding their rationale, near-hopeless. Ian Devereaux only recently embraced the conviction that the future was, at best a dead-end and, at worst, a false hope.
He decided to call Germany. The woman in Chicago decided on Edinburg.
Prompt word:
HANDLE
“Hey, why don’tcha get the Insulting Detective here to play us a tune,” the bartender at the All Bar One GeorgeSt watched the small crowd spread itself out according to desire and ambition; couples gravitated to the window booths, sharing their excitement with random pedestrians, solo patrons towards the bar, mostly silent, awaiting good fortune.
Joe Bell V, seated at the pre-War Steck and Welmar baby grand, looked up at the mostly affectionate nickname and accidentally caught sight of his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, that of an old ghost who’d finally let go of rattling chains and deathly howls, reduced to a furrowed brow and a menacing stare.
He smiled at the nickname, an off-hand tribute to his great-great-great grandfather, who despite not sharing the fame of a certain fictional detective, managed to acquire a fortune that would endure into the 21st century; the Joe Bell at the piano was required, when reaching his majority, to learn an instrument and establish a career as a physician or detective; half a medical degree from the Edinburgh Medical School made the latter unavoidable.
“I’d pay the devil whatever he’d ask, if only I’d get this damnadh Handel waltz down,” the dim lights in the corner of the All Bar One made reading difficult, only ‘Waltz in C Sharp Minor’ was visible; Joe supplemented his income by entertaining the patrons of several New Town establishments with light pop and old standards; unfortunately he maintained an unhealthy obsession with the classical repertoire.
The cell phone next to his Scotch and cigarettes began to glow and displayed a number from the area code ‘312’, which was unexpected, but not nearly as surprising as the sound of a woman’s voice from the as-yet unanswered phone,”You got yourself a deal, Jo… expect a visit tomorrow from Sven Stuveysant, the finest remedial piano teacher on the Continent.”
Not bothering to touch the phone, Joe stopped playing and heard the voice, at once lethal and playful, continue, “As to payment, your family history has something of value to me, I’ll be calling again very soon; and Joe, that’s Chopin, not Handel, leannan.”
