Waterbury Winter, page 10
“I’ll do what I can to help. I’ll be in touch soon.”
Julia sits in the car for a few minutes before driving off. She can see that Elsa is exhausted. Caregivers often are. She questions why Lisa failed to gain Alma’s confidence, and she’s not certain that she, Julia, can do any better. But it’s obvious the family needs help, and a good assisted living facility or group home might be the right solution. Or, because of Alma’s possible dementia, a memory care facility might be more appropriate.
She remembers Carano Hardware is nearby and that Barnaby works there. It would be good to see him again without the complication of a purely social visit. She drives the several blocks and parks the car outside the store. Inside, she sees a man at the cash register but no sign of Barnaby.
“Hello. I’d like to talk to Barnaby,” she says.
“It’s his day off. May I help ya?” Sal asks.
“I guess so. I wanted to talk to him, but I have a problem that can’t wait. My washing machine flooded all over my floor, and I’m concerned that the wood might be ruined.”
“Water’s not good for wooden flooring. It can warp. First ya need to get rid of the water. Has the room been flooded for long?” Sal asks.
“Just since last night.”
“It should be okay, then. As I said, ya need to mop the floors good. When they’re dry, treat them with floor wax. I’ll get it for ya.”
“Thanks. Will Barnaby be at work tomorrow?”
“Yes. He’s been real good at coming in lately. I’ve been sick, ya see. Couldn’t get by without him. Do ya want to leave him a message?”
“No. That’s not necessary. Thanks for your help.”
Sal fetches the floor wax and deposits it on the counter. “That’ll be eleven dollars and fifty cents.”
She pays the bill and leaves the store. Sounds as though Barnaby’s a good employee, she muses. Perhaps there’s some good in him. She’ll think about calling him soon.
Back at the office she finds Lisa talking angrily on the phone.
“Yes. That’s what I told you, sir,” she says.
She catches sight of Julia, rolls her eyes, and motions to a chair.
“All right. I’ll call you next week.” Lisa hangs up the phone and glances at Julia. “Some days I wish I’d never gotten out of bed. You know, I’m getting sick of this job. I may be burning out, as they say. How did you make out at the Hawkinses’ place?”
“I talked to Elsa. Her mother was out. The situation is troublesome for the two daughters, and it looks as though Alma would be safer living elsewhere. She’ll need a formal evaluation, of course, but I told Elsa I would talk to her mother about moving.”
“I already did that,” Lisa says. “Between you and me, the old lady’s losing it. Won’t listen to reason, or can’t. However, in my opinion she will be able to convince authorities that she has a sound mind, and if so, she’ll have to agree before they send her to an assisted living facility. There are probably no grounds for committing her at this point.”
Julia scrutinizes Lisa’s expression, thinking her attitude unprofessional, but sees no sign of awareness on her co-worker’s face. “Did they tell you she has a shoplifting habit, and that she may have stolen a possibly valuable piece of art?” Julia asks. “If she’s caught, she could face charges of theft.”
“I didn’t know that. What kind of art? Did you see it?”
“I did. It’s a painting of a beach scene. They don’t know how she got it. Alma said her employer promised it to her so it belongs to her.”
“Amazing story. Who was the employer?”
“They don’t know. She came home from a party with the painting.”
Lisa’s eyes light up. “My God!” she says. “I wonder if it’s Barnaby’s painting, the one that got stolen. Let me think. I saw a woman going into his house. Come to think of it, she walked slowly, like an old person. She arrived in a green Mercedes. I don’t know if she was the driver.”
“Elsa told me the people who held the party sent a car to pick her up. Maybe Alma got the driver to take her to Barnaby’s house, and maybe Barnaby’s parents were her former employers.”
“Good thinking. We’ll have to talk to Barnaby,” Lisa says, smiling. “I’ll give him a call. He’ll be happy if we’ve solved the mystery of his stolen painting.”
“No, let me call him. I’d like to ask him some questions anyway before I talk to Alma Hawkins.”
Lisa raises her eyebrows. “Are you sure? I thought you wanted to stay away from the man.”
“But this is business, isn’t it?”
“Be careful. You don’t want to mix work with relationships. That can get complicated. I’ll call him. It’s my case, and I’m the one who’s been talking to him about the missing painting.”
“All right. Go ahead.” Julia says, standing to leave. She hopes disappointment doesn’t show on her face. As she returns to her desk, the thought crosses her mind that Lisa appears quite eager to get involved in the Hawkins case again. Now she wants to call Barnaby about a case she had happily handed over to Julia only a few short hours ago.
Something’s not right.
CHAPTER 15
Wearing his new coat and carrying a bouquet, Barnaby arrives home. He finds Popsicle in the kitchen, greets her, and reaches to scratch the back of her neck. She lowers her head in response. She always enjoys having her neck scratched.
“Good parrot,” she tells him. She climbs up his arm to his shoulder, then nibbles tenderly on his ear.
“We’ll go to O’Malley’s for dinner tonight.” he says, “But first I have to deliver these flowers to Mary, the kind lady who took care of you.” He had told her he would think of a way to thank her for returning Popsicle and couldn’t think of anything else to buy for her.
He knocks on her door. “Hi, Mary,” he greets her.
She regards him uneasily. “Excuse me, but do I know you?”
He bows slightly and offers her the flowers. She takes them, and after a minute her face lights up.
“Oh, I didn’t recognize you without the beard. You’re Barnaby.”
“I told you I’d give you a present for bringing Popsicle back.”
“Thank you. That’s not necessary, but flowers are always welcome. Come in.”
“Well, for a minute.”
He follows her inside. Her house is immaculate, with polished floors and a shiny black piano in in the living room.
“You must be a musician.” he says.
“Yes. I play with the Waterbury Symphony. Not piano, violin. I’m surprised you haven’t heard me practicing.”
“I haven’t, but then I usually keep the window facing your house shut to keep the parrot in.”
“Right. How’s she doing?”
“Well. I’m grateful to have her back, as you know.”
“Have a seat on the couch. May I offer you a drink? A glass of wine?”
“No, thanks. Tell me more about the orchestra.”
“It’s small, but we’ve been around a long time. You should come to a concert. In fact, there’s one this weekend. I can give you a couple of complimentary tickets, if you’d like. It’s an all-Scandinavian program, Grieg and Sibelius.”
“I don’t know much about classical music, but I’d like to go.”
“Great. Hang on and I’ll get the tickets.”
Barnaby watches as she leaves the room. Her hair is tucked into a scarf that reflects her cobalt blue eyes, and he notices again she’s a pretty young woman. Too young for him, though. She returns a few minutes later with the flowers in a vase, which she sets on the piano, then hands him an envelope.
“The seats are the best, half way back. I hope you enjoy the concert.”
“Thank you.” He stuffs the tickets in his coat pocket and sits, twisting his hands. He has run out of things to say. It would be easier to talk if he had accepted the drink. “Well, I’d best be going. Thanks again for the tickets,” he says.
“You’re welcome. Let me know how you like the concert.”
He stands up, and she lets him out the front door. As he enters his house, the phone rings.
“Barnaby? Lisa here. Good news. We may have found your thief.”
“Really? Who?”
“Her name is Alma Hawkins. Does that ring a bell?”
“Alma. An unusual name. Sounds familiar . . . yes, now I remember. That’s the name of the woman who used to clean house for my parents. I didn’t keep her on when they died, and I understand she was furious.”
“She was? So you do remember her. Any other details?”
“Let me think. Alma had worked for them for years and expected me to give her work. I couldn’t afford her. Yeah . . . that’s right. I might have promised her a painting but never gave it to her. It’s coming back now. I had a phone call recently from a woman in the middle of the night, too. She sounded deranged.”
“That could have been Alma. I hear she’s not doing so well. I’m trying to help her and her family.”
“Of course, now everything fits. She probably kept her key. The question is, why would she decide to come for the painting now, all these years later?”
“No idea, but I understand a family she used to work for, the Burtons, had a party on Christmas Eve. They’re fond of her and sent a car to pick her up. We think she may have had the driver stop by your house to get the picture.”
Barnaby plops down. “My God! Christmas Eve is when I saw my old friend Sylvester again. He came into the store to buy lights while he and his wife were in town visiting her parents. Could they be the Burtons? He said they lived in the Hillside neighborhood. If Alma attended that party and talked to Sly, she might have learned of his and my friendship and that could have triggered her memory about the painting.”
“Aha. Sounds like we’re unraveling the mystery.”
“Maybe so,” Barnaby says. “I half suspected Sly was somehow involved in its disappearance. He may not be directly responsible, but there’s definitely a connection. I can’t thank you enough for helping to solve this puzzle.”
“Glad to help. This is one positive outcome of my challenging case. What do you want to do about the painting? Alma likes it a lot, says it reminds her of younger days. But we can ask for it back. Frankly, I wouldn’t advise that you file charges of theft against her. She and her family are dealing with enough problems as it is.”
“I’ve no intention of filing charges. Let her keep the painting, if she likes it. We all enjoy things that bring back thoughts of happier days. It may even be worth something, too, if she wants to sell it.”
“All right. I’ll pass this information on to Alma’s family.”
“Lisa, this is good sleuthing on your part. What made you connect the painting with me?”
“Well, let’s just say you’ve been on my mind, and the beach scene echoed some of the other works you’ve shown me.”
“This is cause for celebration, and it may let my friend Sylvester off the hook, besides. He bought some of my paintings and may buy more, and I’d like to keep the relationship friendly. Tell you what, I have tickets to the symphony for Saturday. Would you like to go? It’s the least I can do to thank you.”
“This Saturday? That would be lovely, but you don’t have a car. Do you want me to drive?”
“Thanks for the offer, but I should have transportation by then. I’ll pick you up at six-thirty.”
“Wonderful. I look forward to it.”
Barnaby sets the phone down. He’s glad the mystery of the stolen painting is solved and vaguely remembers promising it to Alma. He had been drinking at the time. If she’s having a hard time struggling with dementia, as Lisa implied, he’s glad to help. He would prefer to take Julia to the concert, but she hasn’t called and he doesn’t know if she wants to see him, anyway. And he owes Lisa. His mind can hardly grasp how his life is changing right before his eyes: a fancy car, tickets for a concert, and an evening out with a woman for company. He almost sprints with Popsicle to O’Malley’s for dinner. On his way out, he grabs his bag of sketching materials.
The regular crowd is there. Sean serves drinks, Charley plays pool with his teammates, and the professor leans against the counter perusing the newspaper, a glass of Jack Daniels at his side. Engrossed in reading, he hardly acknowledges Barnaby, who takes his place at the opposite end of the bar.
“Evenin’, Barnaby,” Sean greets him. “How’s life?”
“Not bad. Not bad at all. I’ll have the usual and a grilled cheese sandwich, please. And french fries.”
“And a pickle for Popsicle?”
“Pickle,” the parrot says.
“She’s strange, that bird,” Sean says. “Never heard of one that likes pickles.”
“No stranger than people. Folks have different likes. Take Charley, for example. He only wants Bootleggers Beer. Won’t touch Sam Adams, or plain old Budweiser.”
“Yeah. Pain in the you-know-what, too. It’s hard to get Bootleggers, and when we’re out of it, he gets mad. But that’s one reason he comes here. They don’t serve Bootleggers over at his friend Horace’s place.”
“Is that so?” Barnaby asks. “Well, anything to keep the competition away.”
“Sure. Horace draws a different crowd. Comes here to play pool when he can get away, though. Better players.”
“I haven’t noticed, but then I don’t play. I’d rather talk to you here at the bar, Sean my friend.” He doesn’t add that after a few drinks he doesn’t notice much of anything, definitely not who’s at the pool table. But as he turns the thought in his mind’s eye, a wonderful opportunity for a painting emerges: Charley at the table, cue in hand. He pulls a sketchbook from his bag and twists on his stool to view the players.
Sean gives him the thumbs up, takes the order for the sandwich to the kitchen, and comes back with a scotch on ice.
The professor rushes over, eyes gleaming behind his glasses.
“You’ve got to see this!” he says, his eyes bouncing from Barnaby to Sean as he waves the local newspaper. “They’ve been running poems, and this one must have been written about O’Malley’s. The uniform on the wall, the brass-edged counter, the pool tables—all are there. Who’s the poet? Someone who comes here, but who? Ever heard of N. Staey? That’s the author.”
Barnaby shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Here’s how it starts,” Professor Miller continues. “The title is ‘At the Bar.’” He recites,
“At close of day they come,
with their horses’ eyes
focused blind, like steeds in a race.”
“Nice language, but it sounds as if the writer doesn’t approve of the drinkers,” Barnaby says. “Horses, and blinders? How does it go on?”
The professor hands the newspaper to him.
“You’re right. The setting is right here, in the bar,” Barnaby says.
“We’ve got to find out who wrote it. Do you have any customers who are poets, Sean?” the professor asks.
“Not that I know of. No one famous comes here, with the possible exception of yourself, Professor. This is a place for locals. Just everyday folk, not celebrities.”
“Wait a minute, you’re forgetting Brooke Taylor,” Barnaby says.
“I don’t think she’s famous, though she could be,” Sean replies. “No one knows much about her—though I, for one, would like to.”
“Wouldn’t we all,” the professor sighs. “It’s possible she’s the phantom poet. The research is on! I’ll take it as a personal challenge to find out whoever it is.”
Barnaby smiles at the professor’s enthusiasm. Then he sits at the counter until closing time, nursing only two drinks before heading home. He doesn’t want to think of himself as a racehorse, blindly following the course.
CHAPTER 16
Julia arrives at work exhausted. She spent the evening before waxing her kitchen floor, relieved to find the water didn’t damage it. Now, she schedules a service call for the washer repair.
Lisa stops by her office.
“Hey. Did you talk to Barnaby yet about the painting?” Julia asks.
“Yes. He was thrilled, and invited me to go with him to a concert on Saturday.”
“He did?” Julia feels a sudden pang of envy. “Are you going?”
“Sure. Why not? He’s a nice guy.”
Julia almost chokes. Barnaby, a hopeless drunk according to Lisa, is suddenly a nice guy?
“So what are you doing this weekend?” Lisa asks.
“Getting my washing machine fixed,” Julia says slowly, fixing her gaze on Lisa.
“Oh. Sounds exciting.” Lisa smirks, fumbles in her purse, and applies apricot-colored lipstick, smoothing her lips together. “Regarding the Hawkins case,” she says, “since you’re still assisting me with it, could you to talk to Alma soon?”
“Sure. I can call today to find out a good time.”
“Okay. Let me know what happens. And by the way, Barnaby doesn’t want to report the stolen painting or press charges. He said he probably offered her the painting at some point, anyway. She can keep it. As I said, he may have his problems, but he is a decent guy.”
“That’s what I think, too,” Julia says.
“I’ll see you later,” Lisa replies as she turns to go.
Bitch, Julia says to herself, making a face behind Julia’s back. Lisa warned her not to have anything to do with a man who she’s obviously attracted to herself, and now she even has a date with him! Julia chastises herself for having turned down his offer for coffee. Now he probably thinks she’s not interested. She can’t go to the hardware store again with the excuse of asking for advice about the floor. He had invited her to call if she wanted to meet for coffee, though. She’ll do that. Take the initiative. She can hardly accept that she might be in competition with a friend over a man, but Lisa isn’t much of a friend these days. She’s a colleague who mostly treats her with condescension, and she doesn’t want to let Lisa gloat—or win.
