Waterbury Winter, page 4
“Good-bye, and thank you again,” Barnaby says.
He leaves with the parrot on his shoulder. The aroma of roast chicken greets them at the door. He sets Popsicle on her perch, pulls the chicken out of the oven, and gives her a drumstick. Between them they eat the whole bird, and Popsicle says, “Good stuff.” Barnaby grins, musing not for the first time that the parrot’s favorite food is another bird. It’s almost cannibalistic. After the meal, he washes the dishes and cleans the cage. It takes him a long time to complete the overdue chores. It’s late when he’s done—too late to go to O’Malley’s. His problems are far from over, but at least he has his bird back. Thank goodness for that—she is a lifesaver. His other troubles pale compared to losing her.
A full moon glows in the window. Exhausted by his labors, he sinks into the nearest kitchen chair. He half closes his eyes, trancelike, and stares at the moon’s silvery face. When he opens them again, the unusual sight of moonlight reflecting off clean dishes turns his thoughts to Anna. She always kept the house sparkling. Dull days with her simply didn’t exist—until the end, when the light in her eyes faded, rendering them almost transparent. He aches at the recollection.
It was during one of their last weekends, before she became bedridden, that she’d insisted on going to the local veterinarian’s office. She wouldn’t tell him why, only that it was important. He had resisted, knowing her weakened state made even small excursions taxing, but he couldn’t dissuade her and he wanted to please her, so they went. The parrot was perched in a large cage in the waiting room. She eyed them as they entered, then clawed down the side wires to meet them.
“Good looking bird,” Barnaby said. “Is that why we’re here? You wanted to show me the parrot?”
“I want you to have the parrot. She’s for sale.”
“What? I—we—don’t need a pet.”
“You might, later. For company.”
“But I have you . . .”
She held her finger to his lips, silencing him. Her pale eyes had taken on a faraway expression, as if she was already leaving. He’d gazed at her, full of love, his heart breaking.
That night, grateful for Popsicle in his life again to fill the aching hole, he sleeps soundly for the first time in days. Next morning when he wakes, he hears the familiar sound of the bird calling from the kitchen in her almost-human voice.
“Hello!”
“Good morning, Popsicle,” he replies.
“Top of the morning!” she says, ending with a loud squawk.
Top of the morning, indeed, Barnaby thinks. It’s a good day. He goes into the kitchen, and opens the cage door. Popsicle sidles out, climbs down the bars and flies the short distance to the table. Barnaby sets some peanuts down, and she picks up each one with her gray beak, then holds them with a claw while she pecks. She eats the nuts and spits out the shells.
“What a mess,” she says.
“You’re telling me,” he agrees, smiling.
She’s a messy bird, but he doesn’t mind. Noting the piles on the floor, he remembers his project of cleaning up. No time now because he has to get to work, but he vows he will do something to improve his living conditions. That includes having the locks changed. Obviously, since the bird wasn’t stolen, the thief wanted his painting. But why? No one had shown any serious interest in his art for years—except for Sly, of course. But he is a friend, and trying to help him out. Barnaby tells himself he should call the police and get the locks changed right away. He can’t afford to lose any more paintings—it’s possible they’re even valuable.
He picks up the phone to call the police and gives the officer details about the burglary.
“What’s the value of the stolen property?” the officer asks.
Barnaby frowns. “No idea.”
“Okay. So I guess you’re not worried about the loss. How did the perpetrator enter the house?”
“Actually, the person didn’t break in. Had a key.”
“Well then, that’s not burglary. It’s robbery. Trespassing, if the person entered without permission. Where does the person of interest live?” the dispatcher asks.
“Possibly right here in Waterbury, since she has a key. A neighbor saw her.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Do you have a description?”
“She wore a long coat and hat.”
“Oh, did she now? It’s winter, so that’s normal. Anything more to identify the individual? Physical characteristics? Height? Age?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. I could ask my neighbor. She arrived in a green Mercedes.”
“Okay. License number?”
“Don’t know that.”
“All right. You let me know if you have more details and we’ll include them in the report.”
Barnaby sighs, feeling slightly foolish. As he’d thought all along, to find the culprit he’ll have to do some investigating himself. Meanwhile, he has to go to work. He can talk to a locksmith there about changing the locks. He knows several good ones who regularly buy supplies at the store.
Barnaby strokes Popsicle’s head before shutting her in the cage for the day.
“Bye-bye. Be a good parrot,” Popsicle says. She always knows he’s leaving when he puts on his coat.
“I’ll be a good parrot,” he replies, chuckling. “You, too. See you soon.”
The bus comes quickly, and he arrives at work on time.
“We need to take inventory before the new year,” Sal says. “Can ya get up the ladder and check the paint on the top shelves? Hard for me to get up there with my big gut hanging out. Might fall. Too much good home cooking,” he says, patting his stomach.
Barnaby carries a ladder to the shelves, puts a pencil over his ear, and picks up a notepad. He climbs up and whistles as he checks the cans and expiration dates.
“Yer in a good mood today. Something good happen?” Sal calls to him.
“Yeah. Got my bird back. She flew into a neighbor’s house.”
“That’s great. Happy for ya.”
An hour later the store is full of customers and Barnaby descends the ladder. Billy, a locksmith, is there buying tools.
“Hey Billy, got a job for you,” Barnaby says. “Can you go by my place and change the locks today?”
“Sure. Where do you live?”
“On Russell Road, number 55.”
“I can go by right away. What kind of lock?”
“You can switch out the cylinder. Yale lock. I’ll need a couple of keys. Front and back doors. Let me know how much I owe you.”
“Oh, that’s okay. You’ve always served me well here, ordering parts and so on. Happy New Year to you.”
“You’re all right. Thanks, Billy.” Barnaby says. Can you drop off the new keys here when you’re done?”
“Will do,” the locksmith replies as he goes out the door.
Despite the broken car and mystery of the stolen painting, things are looking up. Barnaby’s amazed how much happier he is now that Popsicle is back. That’s really the most important thing. People have been kind and helpful. Now he only needs to get the car running, and he can turn things around. He didn’t even have a drink last night.
Maybe 2009 will be the year he’ll finally move out West.
CHAPTER 5
Monday is Barnaby’s day off. He has new locks on the doors and a day ahead of him to take some control over his recent luckless life. He’ll call the repair shop to find out when the car will be back in service and he’ll buy some groceries. Payday isn’t until Friday, but he has enough money for food and a new pair of boots. Outside, the weak sun flings blue shadows on residual snowdrifts, but the temperature has risen. It’s a good day to take Popsicle out, something he’ll have time to do after he runs errands. He takes his coat from the hall closet and bundles up.
“Bye-bye, see you later,” Popsicle calls.
He splashes along watery streets to the nearest grocery shop. As he passes Lisa’s house, he again wonders if he should invite her to dinner. He’ll buy some extra vegetables just in case. Women like vegetables. In the market he fills his sack with as much food as he can carry and heads back. There’s a SALE TODAY sign in a discount shoe store, and he goes in. He buys a pair of boots and wears them on the way home. They’re stiff, but comfortable, with non-slip soles, and his toes feel warm and dry. At home he takes the boots off, fills the fridge with food, props up his feet, and calls the car repair shop.
“Barnaby Brown here. Could you tell me when my car will be ready?” he asks.
“Yours is the 1980 Ford Pinto station wagon, right? Probably in a few weeks. We’ll have to locate the parts first.”
“Okay. How much are we talking about?”
“I’d guess somewhere between one to two thousand bucks. If we can find the parts, that is. We’ll need your authorization to go ahead.”
Barnaby moans. “Let me think about this. I’ll get back to you.”
He already missed two equity loan payments. Another will come due for January, and his next paycheck will be short because he missed some hours of work. Also, he splurged on cognac for his birthday last month. A thousand dollars is more than his pay. He needs another source of income. He might get in touch with Sly about selling some paintings. Under the circumstances, even if Sly is involved in the theft, Barnaby would gladly forgive him if he bought some. After all, he’s an old friend, and friends forgive each other, don’t they? And besides, he has no proof that Sly is guilty. He ponders who else could have taken his painting, and why.
“What do you think, Popsicle?” he says, handing her a banana. “Shall I sell a painting? Get money to pay bills and buy you peanuts?”
“Heavens to Murgatroyd!” she says, peering down at him from the top of her cage.
Popsicle always amuses him. He and Anna used to repeat those words from the old Yogi Bear cartoons, often giggling at the corniness of it all. “Silly bird,” he says, and Popsicle obliges by bowing. Sometimes he’s sure she understands him, or at least his feelings. He has debts that will be difficult to pay off. But he has Popsicle, and that’s cause for a celebration: a drink at O’Malley’s.
He dons a scarf, buttons his coat almost to the top, then invites her onto his arm and tucks her inside, leaving her head out. He knows she likes traveling with him this way, heart to heart. On sunny winter days he takes her out as often as he can. The vet had told him she needs fifteen minutes of direct sun a week, and she’s safe outside, as long as she’s protected and the temperature is above freezing. They head out to O’Malley’s.
“Well, look who’s back!” Sean welcomes him as he observes the parrot. “How did you find her?”
“Neighbor had her,” Barnaby smiles, removing his coat and allowing Popsicle to climb onto his shoulder.
Three hours later he’s still at the bar. He wasn’t planning to have more than a couple of drinks, but Ben, a former employee at the hardware store, talks to him, and the drinks keep coming. Professor Logan Miller sidles up to the counter.
“How’s it going, Professor?” Barnaby asks.
“So-so. Can’t complain.”
The history professor, recently retired from the University of Connecticut, sports a neat gray beard, thick glasses, and a worn tweed jacket over brown flannel trousers. He uses musky aftershave. It doesn’t mix well with the beery bar air, and Barnaby leans away from him. He hopes the professor won’t begin lecturing about some of his favorite subjects like the history of the Industrial Revolution and the demise of the Waterbury brass business, but then he remembers that the older man usually only waxes eloquent after his third drink. He must miss his students.
“Sean, give me a shot of Jack Daniels and a splash of soda,” the professor calls.
The bartender pours the drink and sets it down.
“Thanks. Brooke been in today?” the professor asks.
“Not today. Haven’t seen her in more than a week.”
“Good looking woman, that one,” the professor says.
“I’ll say,” Sean replies.
Barnaby stifles a smile. Brooke Taylor is way out of Professor Miller’s league and probably Sean’s as well.
Popsicle is happy on Barnaby’s shoulder. Every so often she flies to the pool table, walking pigeon-toed and pushing the balls around with her beak. The players shoo her away, laughing.
“Behind the eight ball,” she says.
“Would you get the damned bird off the table, Barnaby,” Charley Carson calls at last.
Barnaby wanders over to the table. “You should let her play. She’d add interest to your game,” he says with a lopsided grin.
Charley, a chunky man wearing a baseball cap and a tattoo of a dragon on his right arm, points his cue at Barnaby and glares at him. “You don’t play, so what do you know? I’ve got money at stake, and she’s in the way.”
“Okay. Come on, Popsicle.” He holds out his wrist and the bird climbs on.
“Popsicle pickle eater!” she says, squawking.
“I know. You’re hungry.” Barnaby says.
Back at the bar, he asks Sean for a pickle. He has no idea why a parrot would have a taste for pickles, but there’s a lot he doesn’t understand these days. Sean offers one, and the bird reaches for it with her beak.
“So when are you going out West?” Sean asks.
“Not till I get my car fixed. Had a lot of expenses lately. Someone broke into my place and stole one of my paintings.”
“Really? Any idea who?”
“I have a hunch. Need to follow up on it, but I don’t have a computer.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“I only have the suspect’s email address so how can I contact him, if I don’t have a computer?”
“That’s easy. You could go to the library to use one. Or what the heck, I can send a note for you. What’s the address?”
“I don’t have it with me. If you’re willing, it would be a big help.”
“Sure. Bring me the info.”
Barnaby finishes his drink and shakes his head when the bartender offers a refill.
“Haven’t done much paintin’ these days, have you?” Sean says. “I remember you were always bringin’ stuff in back when your parents were alive. I liked it. Think you should pick it up again. You could probably sell some, too.”
Barnaby yawns. “It’s not so simple, Sean, my friend. The muse has to speak.”
“The muse? Well, if you wanna paint a masterpiece, maybe so. But you can paint ordinary pictures that people would like. Paint us, here at the bar. Hell, I’d buy one. Put it right here on the wall.”
“Perhaps I will,” Barnaby says.
He orders a grilled cheese sandwich and gives Popsicle the pickle. He’s warm inside and glad for the company in the bar. The hum of conversation around him and the thwack of balls on the pool table and occasional cheers from the players relax him. His troubles seem to vanish when he’s there. The professor has found a willing listener, bending some poor guy’s ear about the terrible Waterbury floods in the 1950s. Time to go.
Back home with Popsicle, Barnaby ponders Sean’s suggestion of painting the regulars at the bar. Not a bad idea. There are some colorful characters, all there for reasons known only to themselves. He’ll bring a sketchbook next time and make a preliminary drawing.
On Tuesday Barnaby takes the bus to work again. The sun’s out. It’s almost time for the February thaw, the balmy interlude before the last savage snowfalls of winter. He buys a donut and eats it as he strolls to the hardware store. He’s right on time, but the building is dark. Sal hasn’t arrived early to open, as he usually does. Barnaby peeks through the window. Eight o’clock, and no one is there. Something’s amiss. He reaches in his pocket for the key, unlocks the door, and turns on the lights.
“Glad you guys are here,” a woman says as she wanders in. “I desperately need some light bulbs. Don’t know why, but all my lamps went out at once and I can’t live in the dark, can I?”
“No, ma’am. What’s the wattage?”
“Wattage? I don’t know. Regular, I guess. My husband died. He always took care of things like this.”
“What do you use the lamps for? Bright ones for reading or low lights for atmosphere?”
“For atmosphere, I guess. I don’t read much. Don’t want them too bright.”
“All right. Sixty watts will probably work. If these are too dim, bring them back with your receipt, and we’ll be happy to exchange them.” Barnaby goes to the aisle stacked with light bulbs and brings a few packages to the counter. “They come in packs of two. How many do you need?”
“Well, there are six lamps, so three, I guess, plus one extra. That makes four.”
Barnaby rings up the sale. It bothers him to think of the woman sitting by herself in the dark. Perhaps she’ll be back for brighter lights. What could have happened to Sal? In all his seventeen years of working there, his boss had never missed a day without telling him ahead of time. He picks up the phone to call Sal’s home. As he does so, Billy, the locksmith, comes in.
“Hey, Billy, thanks for changing my locks,” Barnaby says.
“No problem, happy to help out. I wanted to tell you. Strange, but when I went into your house, I remembered I’d been there before. Must’ve been when your folks still lived there. They wanted the locks changed and asked me to make an extra key for the house cleaner. That’s not too common, for home owners to tell me the reason for extra keys. Stuck in my mind.”
“Interesting. Thanks for letting me know,” Barnaby says.
He frowns. So maybe that’s the person who broke into the house. Sly may have had nothing to do with the robbery. But why would the housekeeper want one of his paintings? His parents died fifteen years ago, he didn’t keep the housekeeper on afterward, and he doesn’t remember that she’d paid any attention to his art. Very puzzling. In any case, now he can follow up on Sly’s interest in seeing the work without suspecting him of stealing it. Or so he imagines. He prefers to think Sly had nothing to do with the theft and that he’ll become a promoter of Barnaby’s work in the future.
The phone rings.
“Barnaby? Gina Carano here. Sal’s had a heart attack. He’s okay, it’s mild, but he’s still in the hospital for tests and needs to take it easy for a few days.”
He leaves with the parrot on his shoulder. The aroma of roast chicken greets them at the door. He sets Popsicle on her perch, pulls the chicken out of the oven, and gives her a drumstick. Between them they eat the whole bird, and Popsicle says, “Good stuff.” Barnaby grins, musing not for the first time that the parrot’s favorite food is another bird. It’s almost cannibalistic. After the meal, he washes the dishes and cleans the cage. It takes him a long time to complete the overdue chores. It’s late when he’s done—too late to go to O’Malley’s. His problems are far from over, but at least he has his bird back. Thank goodness for that—she is a lifesaver. His other troubles pale compared to losing her.
A full moon glows in the window. Exhausted by his labors, he sinks into the nearest kitchen chair. He half closes his eyes, trancelike, and stares at the moon’s silvery face. When he opens them again, the unusual sight of moonlight reflecting off clean dishes turns his thoughts to Anna. She always kept the house sparkling. Dull days with her simply didn’t exist—until the end, when the light in her eyes faded, rendering them almost transparent. He aches at the recollection.
It was during one of their last weekends, before she became bedridden, that she’d insisted on going to the local veterinarian’s office. She wouldn’t tell him why, only that it was important. He had resisted, knowing her weakened state made even small excursions taxing, but he couldn’t dissuade her and he wanted to please her, so they went. The parrot was perched in a large cage in the waiting room. She eyed them as they entered, then clawed down the side wires to meet them.
“Good looking bird,” Barnaby said. “Is that why we’re here? You wanted to show me the parrot?”
“I want you to have the parrot. She’s for sale.”
“What? I—we—don’t need a pet.”
“You might, later. For company.”
“But I have you . . .”
She held her finger to his lips, silencing him. Her pale eyes had taken on a faraway expression, as if she was already leaving. He’d gazed at her, full of love, his heart breaking.
That night, grateful for Popsicle in his life again to fill the aching hole, he sleeps soundly for the first time in days. Next morning when he wakes, he hears the familiar sound of the bird calling from the kitchen in her almost-human voice.
“Hello!”
“Good morning, Popsicle,” he replies.
“Top of the morning!” she says, ending with a loud squawk.
Top of the morning, indeed, Barnaby thinks. It’s a good day. He goes into the kitchen, and opens the cage door. Popsicle sidles out, climbs down the bars and flies the short distance to the table. Barnaby sets some peanuts down, and she picks up each one with her gray beak, then holds them with a claw while she pecks. She eats the nuts and spits out the shells.
“What a mess,” she says.
“You’re telling me,” he agrees, smiling.
She’s a messy bird, but he doesn’t mind. Noting the piles on the floor, he remembers his project of cleaning up. No time now because he has to get to work, but he vows he will do something to improve his living conditions. That includes having the locks changed. Obviously, since the bird wasn’t stolen, the thief wanted his painting. But why? No one had shown any serious interest in his art for years—except for Sly, of course. But he is a friend, and trying to help him out. Barnaby tells himself he should call the police and get the locks changed right away. He can’t afford to lose any more paintings—it’s possible they’re even valuable.
He picks up the phone to call the police and gives the officer details about the burglary.
“What’s the value of the stolen property?” the officer asks.
Barnaby frowns. “No idea.”
“Okay. So I guess you’re not worried about the loss. How did the perpetrator enter the house?”
“Actually, the person didn’t break in. Had a key.”
“Well then, that’s not burglary. It’s robbery. Trespassing, if the person entered without permission. Where does the person of interest live?” the dispatcher asks.
“Possibly right here in Waterbury, since she has a key. A neighbor saw her.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Do you have a description?”
“She wore a long coat and hat.”
“Oh, did she now? It’s winter, so that’s normal. Anything more to identify the individual? Physical characteristics? Height? Age?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. I could ask my neighbor. She arrived in a green Mercedes.”
“Okay. License number?”
“Don’t know that.”
“All right. You let me know if you have more details and we’ll include them in the report.”
Barnaby sighs, feeling slightly foolish. As he’d thought all along, to find the culprit he’ll have to do some investigating himself. Meanwhile, he has to go to work. He can talk to a locksmith there about changing the locks. He knows several good ones who regularly buy supplies at the store.
Barnaby strokes Popsicle’s head before shutting her in the cage for the day.
“Bye-bye. Be a good parrot,” Popsicle says. She always knows he’s leaving when he puts on his coat.
“I’ll be a good parrot,” he replies, chuckling. “You, too. See you soon.”
The bus comes quickly, and he arrives at work on time.
“We need to take inventory before the new year,” Sal says. “Can ya get up the ladder and check the paint on the top shelves? Hard for me to get up there with my big gut hanging out. Might fall. Too much good home cooking,” he says, patting his stomach.
Barnaby carries a ladder to the shelves, puts a pencil over his ear, and picks up a notepad. He climbs up and whistles as he checks the cans and expiration dates.
“Yer in a good mood today. Something good happen?” Sal calls to him.
“Yeah. Got my bird back. She flew into a neighbor’s house.”
“That’s great. Happy for ya.”
An hour later the store is full of customers and Barnaby descends the ladder. Billy, a locksmith, is there buying tools.
“Hey Billy, got a job for you,” Barnaby says. “Can you go by my place and change the locks today?”
“Sure. Where do you live?”
“On Russell Road, number 55.”
“I can go by right away. What kind of lock?”
“You can switch out the cylinder. Yale lock. I’ll need a couple of keys. Front and back doors. Let me know how much I owe you.”
“Oh, that’s okay. You’ve always served me well here, ordering parts and so on. Happy New Year to you.”
“You’re all right. Thanks, Billy.” Barnaby says. Can you drop off the new keys here when you’re done?”
“Will do,” the locksmith replies as he goes out the door.
Despite the broken car and mystery of the stolen painting, things are looking up. Barnaby’s amazed how much happier he is now that Popsicle is back. That’s really the most important thing. People have been kind and helpful. Now he only needs to get the car running, and he can turn things around. He didn’t even have a drink last night.
Maybe 2009 will be the year he’ll finally move out West.
CHAPTER 5
Monday is Barnaby’s day off. He has new locks on the doors and a day ahead of him to take some control over his recent luckless life. He’ll call the repair shop to find out when the car will be back in service and he’ll buy some groceries. Payday isn’t until Friday, but he has enough money for food and a new pair of boots. Outside, the weak sun flings blue shadows on residual snowdrifts, but the temperature has risen. It’s a good day to take Popsicle out, something he’ll have time to do after he runs errands. He takes his coat from the hall closet and bundles up.
“Bye-bye, see you later,” Popsicle calls.
He splashes along watery streets to the nearest grocery shop. As he passes Lisa’s house, he again wonders if he should invite her to dinner. He’ll buy some extra vegetables just in case. Women like vegetables. In the market he fills his sack with as much food as he can carry and heads back. There’s a SALE TODAY sign in a discount shoe store, and he goes in. He buys a pair of boots and wears them on the way home. They’re stiff, but comfortable, with non-slip soles, and his toes feel warm and dry. At home he takes the boots off, fills the fridge with food, props up his feet, and calls the car repair shop.
“Barnaby Brown here. Could you tell me when my car will be ready?” he asks.
“Yours is the 1980 Ford Pinto station wagon, right? Probably in a few weeks. We’ll have to locate the parts first.”
“Okay. How much are we talking about?”
“I’d guess somewhere between one to two thousand bucks. If we can find the parts, that is. We’ll need your authorization to go ahead.”
Barnaby moans. “Let me think about this. I’ll get back to you.”
He already missed two equity loan payments. Another will come due for January, and his next paycheck will be short because he missed some hours of work. Also, he splurged on cognac for his birthday last month. A thousand dollars is more than his pay. He needs another source of income. He might get in touch with Sly about selling some paintings. Under the circumstances, even if Sly is involved in the theft, Barnaby would gladly forgive him if he bought some. After all, he’s an old friend, and friends forgive each other, don’t they? And besides, he has no proof that Sly is guilty. He ponders who else could have taken his painting, and why.
“What do you think, Popsicle?” he says, handing her a banana. “Shall I sell a painting? Get money to pay bills and buy you peanuts?”
“Heavens to Murgatroyd!” she says, peering down at him from the top of her cage.
Popsicle always amuses him. He and Anna used to repeat those words from the old Yogi Bear cartoons, often giggling at the corniness of it all. “Silly bird,” he says, and Popsicle obliges by bowing. Sometimes he’s sure she understands him, or at least his feelings. He has debts that will be difficult to pay off. But he has Popsicle, and that’s cause for a celebration: a drink at O’Malley’s.
He dons a scarf, buttons his coat almost to the top, then invites her onto his arm and tucks her inside, leaving her head out. He knows she likes traveling with him this way, heart to heart. On sunny winter days he takes her out as often as he can. The vet had told him she needs fifteen minutes of direct sun a week, and she’s safe outside, as long as she’s protected and the temperature is above freezing. They head out to O’Malley’s.
“Well, look who’s back!” Sean welcomes him as he observes the parrot. “How did you find her?”
“Neighbor had her,” Barnaby smiles, removing his coat and allowing Popsicle to climb onto his shoulder.
Three hours later he’s still at the bar. He wasn’t planning to have more than a couple of drinks, but Ben, a former employee at the hardware store, talks to him, and the drinks keep coming. Professor Logan Miller sidles up to the counter.
“How’s it going, Professor?” Barnaby asks.
“So-so. Can’t complain.”
The history professor, recently retired from the University of Connecticut, sports a neat gray beard, thick glasses, and a worn tweed jacket over brown flannel trousers. He uses musky aftershave. It doesn’t mix well with the beery bar air, and Barnaby leans away from him. He hopes the professor won’t begin lecturing about some of his favorite subjects like the history of the Industrial Revolution and the demise of the Waterbury brass business, but then he remembers that the older man usually only waxes eloquent after his third drink. He must miss his students.
“Sean, give me a shot of Jack Daniels and a splash of soda,” the professor calls.
The bartender pours the drink and sets it down.
“Thanks. Brooke been in today?” the professor asks.
“Not today. Haven’t seen her in more than a week.”
“Good looking woman, that one,” the professor says.
“I’ll say,” Sean replies.
Barnaby stifles a smile. Brooke Taylor is way out of Professor Miller’s league and probably Sean’s as well.
Popsicle is happy on Barnaby’s shoulder. Every so often she flies to the pool table, walking pigeon-toed and pushing the balls around with her beak. The players shoo her away, laughing.
“Behind the eight ball,” she says.
“Would you get the damned bird off the table, Barnaby,” Charley Carson calls at last.
Barnaby wanders over to the table. “You should let her play. She’d add interest to your game,” he says with a lopsided grin.
Charley, a chunky man wearing a baseball cap and a tattoo of a dragon on his right arm, points his cue at Barnaby and glares at him. “You don’t play, so what do you know? I’ve got money at stake, and she’s in the way.”
“Okay. Come on, Popsicle.” He holds out his wrist and the bird climbs on.
“Popsicle pickle eater!” she says, squawking.
“I know. You’re hungry.” Barnaby says.
Back at the bar, he asks Sean for a pickle. He has no idea why a parrot would have a taste for pickles, but there’s a lot he doesn’t understand these days. Sean offers one, and the bird reaches for it with her beak.
“So when are you going out West?” Sean asks.
“Not till I get my car fixed. Had a lot of expenses lately. Someone broke into my place and stole one of my paintings.”
“Really? Any idea who?”
“I have a hunch. Need to follow up on it, but I don’t have a computer.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“I only have the suspect’s email address so how can I contact him, if I don’t have a computer?”
“That’s easy. You could go to the library to use one. Or what the heck, I can send a note for you. What’s the address?”
“I don’t have it with me. If you’re willing, it would be a big help.”
“Sure. Bring me the info.”
Barnaby finishes his drink and shakes his head when the bartender offers a refill.
“Haven’t done much paintin’ these days, have you?” Sean says. “I remember you were always bringin’ stuff in back when your parents were alive. I liked it. Think you should pick it up again. You could probably sell some, too.”
Barnaby yawns. “It’s not so simple, Sean, my friend. The muse has to speak.”
“The muse? Well, if you wanna paint a masterpiece, maybe so. But you can paint ordinary pictures that people would like. Paint us, here at the bar. Hell, I’d buy one. Put it right here on the wall.”
“Perhaps I will,” Barnaby says.
He orders a grilled cheese sandwich and gives Popsicle the pickle. He’s warm inside and glad for the company in the bar. The hum of conversation around him and the thwack of balls on the pool table and occasional cheers from the players relax him. His troubles seem to vanish when he’s there. The professor has found a willing listener, bending some poor guy’s ear about the terrible Waterbury floods in the 1950s. Time to go.
Back home with Popsicle, Barnaby ponders Sean’s suggestion of painting the regulars at the bar. Not a bad idea. There are some colorful characters, all there for reasons known only to themselves. He’ll bring a sketchbook next time and make a preliminary drawing.
On Tuesday Barnaby takes the bus to work again. The sun’s out. It’s almost time for the February thaw, the balmy interlude before the last savage snowfalls of winter. He buys a donut and eats it as he strolls to the hardware store. He’s right on time, but the building is dark. Sal hasn’t arrived early to open, as he usually does. Barnaby peeks through the window. Eight o’clock, and no one is there. Something’s amiss. He reaches in his pocket for the key, unlocks the door, and turns on the lights.
“Glad you guys are here,” a woman says as she wanders in. “I desperately need some light bulbs. Don’t know why, but all my lamps went out at once and I can’t live in the dark, can I?”
“No, ma’am. What’s the wattage?”
“Wattage? I don’t know. Regular, I guess. My husband died. He always took care of things like this.”
“What do you use the lamps for? Bright ones for reading or low lights for atmosphere?”
“For atmosphere, I guess. I don’t read much. Don’t want them too bright.”
“All right. Sixty watts will probably work. If these are too dim, bring them back with your receipt, and we’ll be happy to exchange them.” Barnaby goes to the aisle stacked with light bulbs and brings a few packages to the counter. “They come in packs of two. How many do you need?”
“Well, there are six lamps, so three, I guess, plus one extra. That makes four.”
Barnaby rings up the sale. It bothers him to think of the woman sitting by herself in the dark. Perhaps she’ll be back for brighter lights. What could have happened to Sal? In all his seventeen years of working there, his boss had never missed a day without telling him ahead of time. He picks up the phone to call Sal’s home. As he does so, Billy, the locksmith, comes in.
“Hey, Billy, thanks for changing my locks,” Barnaby says.
“No problem, happy to help out. I wanted to tell you. Strange, but when I went into your house, I remembered I’d been there before. Must’ve been when your folks still lived there. They wanted the locks changed and asked me to make an extra key for the house cleaner. That’s not too common, for home owners to tell me the reason for extra keys. Stuck in my mind.”
“Interesting. Thanks for letting me know,” Barnaby says.
He frowns. So maybe that’s the person who broke into the house. Sly may have had nothing to do with the robbery. But why would the housekeeper want one of his paintings? His parents died fifteen years ago, he didn’t keep the housekeeper on afterward, and he doesn’t remember that she’d paid any attention to his art. Very puzzling. In any case, now he can follow up on Sly’s interest in seeing the work without suspecting him of stealing it. Or so he imagines. He prefers to think Sly had nothing to do with the theft and that he’ll become a promoter of Barnaby’s work in the future.
The phone rings.
“Barnaby? Gina Carano here. Sal’s had a heart attack. He’s okay, it’s mild, but he’s still in the hospital for tests and needs to take it easy for a few days.”
