Waterbury Winter, page 21
“I’ve been asking around. No takers.”
“Keep at it. I’m sure you’ll succeed.”
“There’s another poem. Want me to read it?” Before Barnaby can reply, the professor picks up the newspaper. He reads aloud:
“The professor comes in
Takes a place with his gin
And a nod and a wink in his eye.
‘There’s a story, says he,
If you’ll listen to me’
But his voice just gets lost in the din.”
The professor takes off his glasses. “That one’s about me, I suppose, though I don’t drink gin.”
“Rhymes with din, though. I’m no expert, but in my opinion, these aren’t very good poems.”
“They’re light, with a grain of truth. There’s another, though it may not be one some people would want to hear,” the professor says, stealing a glimpse at Barnaby.
“Out with it. We’re all open to poetic license.”
“Okay, since you ask, here goes,” says the professor, replacing his glasses.
“The man with the beard
Has already been feared
For his talent. But when will he learn?
He’s forsaken his brush
For the drink. He’s a lush
And his life, like dry tinder, will burn.”
Barnaby splutters, almost spilling his Coke. Who would portray him this way? No friend of his, that’s for sure. Raising his hand to flag Sean’s attention, he orders a bowl of soup with bread and butter. He only wants dinner, not conversation, and has an important mystery of his own to solve. The professor and he share one characteristic, he muses drily—both are sometimes objects of ridicule. An unsettling thought.
Dry tinder? He does not want to think his life will burn, leaving a pile of ashes in its wake, before his time.
As though reading his mind, Professor Miller taps Barnaby on the shoulder. “Don’t take it too seriously. Getting older requires humility and a good dose of humor. I should know,” he says, thinning his lips. “Here’s another poem. Different style. Unsigned. Not like the others.”
The professor has a point, Barnaby thinks. I do take offense sometimes. He swings round on his stool to face the older man.
“It’s called ‘Sean’s Place.’” The professor begins reading.
“Like birds at a feeder
they flutter low
for a safe landing.
Each seeks a kernel
from the font—
a clip of kindness,
a wink of words,
their secrets locked
under the soft-strong beam
of the barlight.”
“What do you think? Pretty good, I’d say.”
“I like it. Puts us in a more literary light, wouldn’t you say? Everyone here has a secret, perhaps even you, Professor.”
Professor Miller smiles. “Well, this one has me completely baffled.”
Barnaby racks his mind, trying to think of a way to retrieve his paintings. He’s left the investigation in Julia’s hands, but he doesn’t expect her findings to provide any evidence. Though he’s willing to let the money go, he wants the paintings back. They’re three of his finer works, and he’d prefer to consign them with Sylvester, as long as his friend will agree to an acceptable commission arrangement. It would be a good idea to talk to him anyway to rule out the possibility he was the scammer. He lifts the phone.
“Sylvester, Barnaby here. How’s it going?”
“Hey there. Thought about you. A client would like to view more of your work. She likes beach scenes. Have you got a website yet?”
“Actually, I do, but I’m probably taking it down. I may not want to continue online sales.”
“Yeah, I get it. A lot of artists get scammed. Well, I’d like to buy a few more of your works on a commission basis.”
“Okay, I hope we can work something out. What are you offering?”
“Fifty percent commission. Your stuff is good and sells well. I think I can ask $5,000 for the larger paintings.”
“Sounds good. Unfortunately, I only have two left. Want to come by and pick them up?”
“I’ll swing by soon. Perhaps we could have a bite to eat as well.”
So that likely puts Sly out of the running, Barnaby thinks. He’s offering a decent deal now, and if he was the culprit, he did a good job of hiding it. If he can continue to sell, Barnaby can give him the new series of paintings as well. Then he, Barnaby, will be on his way to making a successful career as an artist, a dream he’d given up on a few years ago. And Julia is still working to find the identity of the scammer. He hopes she’ll have something to tell him before long.
Barnaby spends some time looking up the details of City Hall online: “Artfully designed by Cass Gilbert, who won a contest in 1910, the marble and brick City Hall building exemplifies Georgian Revival style. Bas-relief sculpture on the third story represents ‘Industry’ as a workman.” Barnaby likes that—the theme perfectly fits his new series of paintings of the ordinary working man. The building’s lines appeal to him as well, and perhaps for the first time in his life, he feels proud to be a resident of this historic city, his hometown. He might even listen more closely to Professor Miller’s lectures from now on. He has dismissed the professor’s knowledge in the past but now realizes the man possesses a depth of knowledge that might be useful as he, Barnaby, reexamines familiar buildings with his artist’s eye.
Armed with newfound information, Barnaby is ready to sketch buildings for the mural contest. Though he dislikes standing for hours outside, he’d rather work plein air than from photographs. Something always gets lost when he paints a subject viewed through the camera’s lens. It might be the way a shadow falls across a window, or a curve that needs sharpening—details that make the artist’s rendering unique.
He concentrates on two subjects, City Hall and Union Railroad Station, both grand buildings with clock towers. One bay on the City Hall façade displays Waterbury’s motto: QUID AERE PERENNIUS (“What Is More Lasting Than Brass”). As he completes his drawing, he’s gratified by the recent community preservation efforts. But for those, the old buildings would be like sandcastles waiting for the tide, scenes he had portrayed countless times in his beach paintings.
Now he knows. There’s comfort in a respectful recognition of history, even his own muddy-hued past.
CHAPTER 38
A week goes by before Nancy talks to Julia again.
“What’s going on with your friend’s scamming dilemma?”
Nancy asks. “Any new information?”
“No. Barnaby’s pretty sore about it all, but he recognizes he needs to pay more attention to security on the internet.”
“Glad to hear it. I have some time this week. Perhaps I could sit down with him and draw up some contracts he might use with potential buyers. I can refer him to a colleague as well, someone with expertise in internet fraud.”
“That would be wonderful. I’ll talk to him about it. Thanks a million. How about dinner? On me.”
“Sure, though you don’t owe me anything.”
Happy she has news to report, Julia calls Barnaby.
“Did you find out more about Horace, enough to investigate him?” he asks immediately.
“No. Nothing new. But my friend Nancy has offered to give you legal advice.”
“I appreciate that. I could use some. But I’ve reached a conclusion. Even if I don’t recover them, those paintings represent my old life. Every artist has to learn to let things go. What’s important is to keep producing new work. I had stopped doing that and almost lost myself. Now that I’m painting again, it makes all the difference.”
“Good insight,” Julia says, “but I’d love it if we could find the thief. People shouldn’t take advantage of others illegally, with no consequence.”
“You’re right, but I need to learn how to accept responsibility, too. I made a mistake, trusting a complete stranger. I made another mistake suspecting Horace with no evidence. Guess I wanted an easy solution to my problems. An old habit I’m trying to break.” After a moment’s pause, he continues. “We may never find the culprit, and I’m willing to let this go. But you know what else I’ve discovered? We have to demand responsibility from ourselves as well as others to earn respect.”
“You just sunk the eight ball,” she tells him.
CHAPTER 39
As Barnaby turns into his driveway after work one day, he notices a FOR SALE sign posted beside Lisa’s house. So she’s leaving town? He ought to stop by and wish her luck. The old dilemmas confront him: should he buy her a present, flowers, or send a note? He doesn’t want to send the wrong message to Lisa, but he does consider her a friend. He’ll think about it later.
As he’s finishing dinner, the doorbell rings. He opens the door to find Lisa standing on the doorstep.
Before she can speak, he blurts, “Lisa, I’ve been thinking about you. I saw your ‘for sale’ sign and hoped you wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye. Would you like to come in?”
She steps inside, brushes past him, and heads for the kitchen. Startled, he follows.
“Helluva woman,” Popsicle says from the top of the cage.
“Perhaps she’s right,” Lisa says. “I hardly know myself anymore, sometimes. But I’ve done a lot of thinking and plan to move to New York.”
“So I heard,” Barnaby says. “May I offer you something to drink?”
“Bourbon, with ice, please.”
“Sorry. I don’t keep alcohol in the house now.”
She nods. “How about a Coke, then?”
She takes a seat at the table and pulls her coat a little tighter around her neck. Barnaby pours her drink, sets it in front of her, and clears his dinner dishes.
She takes a sip, then a gulp, and twirls the ice in the glass, viewing it intently. “I came to talk to you about something important.”
Barnaby eases himself into a chair opposite her. He’s not sure he wants to hear this.
“I feel awful. I really had nothing to do with what happened. Well, not directly.”
She swallows another mouthful, then pushes the tumbler to the side. He waits, eyeing her as she fiddles with the cuff of the sweater peeking from under her coat. Finally, he asks, “What happened?”
“I know who the scammer is, the person who stole your paintings.”
Barnaby’s mouth drops. “Really? Who?”
“My brother Alan.”
Barnaby gulps, feeling his mouth dry. “I had no idea,” he says slowly. “Alan’s the last person I’d suspect. Whatever caused him to commit such a crime? He was so helpful, so thrilled to do anything for you, his sister.”
“That’s the problem. He got overzealous. He wants nothing so much as my happiness, and when I met you, he thought I’d found a partner at last.”
Barnaby’s throat constricts, and he stands to fetch a glass of water. “I’m sorry. Never meant to lead you on.”
She holds up a hand. “It’s okay. You didn’t, and I don’t blame you. I won’t deny I had hopes, but deep down I knew your heart was elsewhere. I never told Alan. He thought we were on the road to marriage.”
“How could he think that?” Barnaby asks. Then he remembers. It’s true he had never disabused Alan of the notion that he and Lisa were dating, but really, all Alan had said recently was that he was glad they’d met.
“Well, he did think that. Then when he learned we weren’t a couple, he went ballistic. An over-reaction, of course. But he wanted revenge. He thought you broke my heart, and that I was falling apart over that. But it wasn’t only that. I had problems at work, too. I’m all right now, though.”
Barnaby sighs. “My goodness.”
“So you can guess the rest. He had all the means for setting you up. We have a cousin in Portland who received the paintings.”
Barnaby lets out a long whistle and stretches his legs. His mind feels numb from the strangeness of it all. How can everything have gone so horribly amiss?
Behind him, Popsicle echoes his thoughts. “What a mess!”
He regards Lisa sadly. “I’m grateful to you for telling me this.”
“I’m afraid we can’t return the paintings. They’ve been sold. But Alan asked me to tell you that he’s committed to returning every penny of your money, including the profit he made on the sales.”
She grabs her glass again, and seeing it’s empty, stares vacantly at it. Barnaby moves quickly to refill it.
“Thank you,” she rasps, taking a mouthful. “Barnaby, we’re hoping you might consider not pressing charges if Alan makes full restitution. We know you’re fully entitled to do so, and we understand the gravity of what he’s done. But . . . we’re hoping.”
Barnaby shuffles in his chair. Theft. Fraud. Felony. Police. Lawyers, so much unpleasantness . . . his mind whirls. Then he faces Lisa.
“I think that would be okay,” he says. “No charges, if full restitution within thirty days. Let’s look at it this way. I’ve learned a hard lesson. I won’t make the same mistake again.”
Lisa’s eyes water and she passes a hand over her forehead. “Thanks for understanding. My brother means well, but was really misguided this time. He’s never been a criminal.”
“I believe you. But I’ll have someone else handle my website from now on,” Barnaby says, a twinkle in his eye.
“Of course. And, again, I’m so sorry for the trouble I’ve caused. It’s a family affliction. I’ll go home now.”
She stands, and Barnaby gives her a hug. She pulls back.
“One more favor,” she says. “Please don’t tell Julia. I’m so embarrassed. I’ll write to her myself later.”
“Of course not,” he says. “I’ll see you before you leave town.”
After she goes out, he collapses on the couch. Just when he’s reconciled himself to his losses, things change. Things change, even me.
CHAPTER 40
Sean leans across the counter, looking Barnaby in the eye. “Out with it, Barnaby. Did you tell the professor I wrote those poems?”
Barnaby jerks forward. “What? No, of course not! Well . . . did you?”
“He figured it out. I couldn’t deny it. He’s been accusin’ everyone in sight, and people started complainin’.”
Barnaby rolls his head back and laughs. “So the professor solved the riddle! I had a hunch it was you, but I understood you wanted to remain anonymous. If you’d wanted us to know, you would have published under your name.”
Sean raises his finger to his lips. “Here he comes, now.”
“Evening, Professor,” Barnaby says.
The old man dips his head, hoists himself onto his post, and deposits a can on the counter. “You’ve heard the news? I’ve solved the mystery of the phantom limerick poet.”
“Yes! Congratulations! How did you figure it out?”
“It wasn’t hard. Remember when Sean quoted the line from Yeats a while back? I asked him then if he was a poet, and he said his father used that expression. That threw me off, until I realized the poet’s name Staey is Yeats, spelled backwards.”
Barnaby laughs and settles his eyes on the bartender who is busily engaged wiping glasses with a dishcloth. A flush rises to Sean’s ears.
“Why didn’t you want us to know you’re a poet?” Barnaby asks. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Come on now, how could I let it be known I was writin’ silly poems about my customers?”
“They’re not silly,” the professor says, “or even if they are, we need more nonsense in our lives.”
“My sentiments, exactly,” Sean nods.
“Most artists suffer from fear of failure when they throw their work into the world,” Barnaby says. “So you get credit for publishing.”
“But I didn’t publish. My mother did, without my knowin’. After the first time, I begged her to stop, but she wasn’t havin’ any of it. She worked out an arrangement with the paper. They even paid for the poems. She’s proud of me, you see.”
“As she should be.” Barnaby says. “Are there any more to come?”
“I’ve got hundreds, some better than others.”
“This is splendid news, cause for a celebration. Another artist in our midst!” the professor says. “Pour me a jigger of gin!”
Barnaby examines the can sitting on the counter. “What’s this, Professor? More secrets?”
Professor Miller lifts the lid and displays the contents. “Brass buttons. Bought them from your friend Sal. A treasure trove, an impressive addition to my collection.”
Barnaby claps the older man on the back. “Well, bless my buttons, as Popsicle would say.”
Two days later, Barnaby strides into the bar with his latest painting. He props it on a lighted table.
“What’ve you got there?” Sean asks. He strolls over. “What do you know? I recognize those figures! You’ve got the professor exactly right. He always looks like he’s about to fall off the stool. I like the way you’ve painted the bottles, too. And what’s this? A red rose on the counter?”
“Of course. She brings you one each time she comes in, doesn’t she?”
Sean steps back, raises his eyebrows, and throws up his hands. “How do you know?”
Barnaby winks. “You’re full of surprises and secrets, my friend, but anyone can tell you’re smitten with Brooke. And it appears it’s mutual.”
Sean guffaws. “What can I say? Between you and the professor, my life is now an open book.”
“Tell us more. We’re all dying to hear about the mystery woman,” Professor Miller says. “What does she do?”
“She writes poetry. She’s an English teacher. We’re no Yeats, but we’ve had fun writing about the bar here,” Sean says, eyes glowing with pride.
The professor nods slowly. “Aha. So she’s the other poet, the one who eluded me.”
“Yes. She confounds us all,” Sean says.
Barnaby points to his painting. “Well, what do you think? Do you want it?”
