Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously…

Prompt word:

STRAND

“I’d say, ‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ but we both know I hate cats, am I right?”

My part-time-receptionist stared with a look of anticipation common in a child on Christmas morning or a teenage boy getting into the backseat of his parent’s car with his first girlfriend; gifted with an innate sensuality, her outfit leveraged expensive lingerie and a business suit, the sweet ‘n dour couture expertly counter-balanced by long brown hair piled into a non-euclidean knot, the whisper strands of hair touching her neck, the illusion of unselfconsciousness, it worked on almost everyone.

Hazel Kohinor sat at the receptionist desk in my two room office suite on the fourth floor of an art deco office building; the corridor was polished marble, the door was half frosted glass with my agency name etched at eye level, ‘Desiderata Investigations’; it was a toss-up between Ehrmann and Nietzsche when I decided to leave school and commercial fishing to become a private eye, to her credit, my ex-wife Haley cast the deciding vote for the Ehrmann, because, “I am just beginning a career as an attorney and people will, at some point, ask what my husband does and if my husband doesn’t want to experience the joys of celibacy, Max’s poem is the pick.”

Hazel had a gift for seeing the shortcuts; like those old-fashioned paper maze puzzles, where you had to trace a route from the center to the sole exit, she did them in ink; having the ability to judge people is everything in an effective receptionist, especially in the field of private investigation.

I’m good at inferring the unknown from seemingly unconnected facts, but when confronted with a sad story from a desperate client looking for answers, Hazel has been there to intercede with either, “Don’t worry about nothin’, Mr. Devereaux will be following up” or a “Tell you what, keep a journal for the next month or so, on just what you need a detective for and I’ll be following up.”

In the first situation she would be smiling with an intensity to make a priest check the wording on his vow of celibacy, in the second, the hopeless client would send Christmas cards to the office for at least five years, all addressed to Hazel.

 

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