The Puffin of Death

by Betty Webb

  Dawn’s distress looked genuine to me. After throwing down enough Icelandic krona to pay my bill, I excused myself and hurried after her. I caught up with her in the foyer of the hotel.

  “What’s wrong, Dawn?”

  “Everything.” She strong-armed me aside and ran toward the stairs, while Leifur and the rest of the hotel staff looked on in alarm.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, I reached her as she entered her room. “Maybe I can help. That’s what you wanted me to do, remember.”

  “Not with this. But…But…” She took in a big gulp of air, which appeared to calm her. “There’s something important I need to…But not now. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

  She closed the door in my face.

  Sighing, I walked downstairs and approached the reception desk.

  “Your friend, is she all right?” Leifur asked, concern in his voice.

  “Dawn’s fine. She…” Involved in a murder case? Unhappily married? Opting for diplomacy, I said, “Just a migraine.”

  “Ah. Then she will feel better in the morning. Our guests always find Stykkishólmur’s clear air quite healing.”

  After agreeing that the air in Stykkishólmur was most definitely clear, I started to turn away, then stopped. I’d planned on driving back to Reykjavik this evening, but Dawn’s promise to tell me something important tomorrow made me change my mind. If possible, I could spend the night here, talk to Dawn over breakfast, then make it back to Reykjavik in plenty of time to work with the polar bear cub before heading to the bookstore to talk to Simon Parr’s widow.

  “Do you by any chance have another room available, Leifur?”

  He replied in the affirmative, and after scanning my credit card, escorted me up to a small but beautifully appointed room on the second floor. “We are known for having the most comfortable beds in Iceland,” he said, “so you are assured of a good night’s sleep. But just in case, you are welcome to borrow any of the books from our library.” Noting my lack of luggage, he went on to inform me that Hótel Egilsen also kept a stock of emergency toiletries, and if I needed access to a computer, the hotel could even loan me an iPad. “We have a strong Wi-Fi signal,” he finished.

  Since I’d brought along my laptop, borrowing a hotel iPad wasn’t necessary, but following Leifur’s suggestion, after I’d fetched the laptop from Bryndis’ Volvo, I availed myself of a battered copy of Njál’s Saga, written in English. I’d forgotten my new copy back at Bryndis’ apartment, and was eager to start it. Considering the fact that the ninth-century Icelander wound up being burned alive as the result of a blood feud, it promised to be an exciting read. Not that I would have time to finish the book.

  Once settled into my room, I called Bryndis to tell her I was following up a promising lead in the case, and that I’d return to Reykjavic early the next morning. Then I cranked up the laptop and got to work, searching for any mention of the individual members of the Geronimo County Birding Association. The first hit was for the original article I’d found—“Powerball Winner Treats Birders to Iceland”—but when I typed in the birders’ names, other interesting newspaper articles popped up.

  For starters, Benjamin Talley, Dawn’s husband, he of the Talley Restaurants chain, had a prison record. Ten years earlier, he had been convicted of vehicular homicide after his car ran a red light and hit a man in the pedestrian crossing. According to the article, Talley swerved at the last second and rammed his classic 1972 Corvette into a utility pole, but not soon enough to spare eighty-three-year-old Douglas Grey Hillman, who died on the way to the hospital. When Tally regained consciousness the next day—he’d hit the light pole going one-ten in a forty-five mile zone and was hurled through the windshield—he claimed not to remember a thing. He was sentenced to eight years. Due to good behavior and an even better criminal attorney, he wound up serving only a year and a half.

  During Talley’s incarceration, a fight with his cell mate added to the mess the trip through the Corvette’s windshield had made of his face. According to another article, the cell mate—one James Edward Petovski—subsequently won a one-point-two million-dollar civil lawsuit against Talley for damages received to his own face during the fight.

  Talley wasn’t the only Geronimo with an eyebrow-raising past.

  Of all people, charming old Perry Walsh and his equally charming wife Enid had narrowly escaped a fraud conviction in a scam revolving around fake gemstones. In charges brought against them and other franchisees of Hope Diamond Enterprises, they successfully convinced the jury they were unaware that the “gemstones” shipped to their customers were zircons, not diamonds.

  Nothing on crotchety Lucinda Greaves, but her daughter Judy had once been arrested and fined for breaking someone’s car window with a rock. As for Adele Cobb, Simon’s ex-mistress, she had once been arrested for stalking.

  If people realized how easy the Internet made it to find out their peccadilloes, maybe they’d behave better. The only people who emerged from my online snooping as prospective saints were the murder victim; writer Elizabeth St. John, his widow; ex-model Dawn Talley; and actor Tab Cooper.

  I never felt good about prying into other people’s dirty secrets, so after shutting down the laptop I took a long, hot shower to wash off my guilt. It didn’t work. Still feeling sleazy, I crawled into bed. Leifur had told the truth; the bed was amazingly comfortable. Not yet ready to go to sleep, I opened up Njál’s Saga and began to read. I had reached the part where wise Njál was warning his friend Gunnarr about the perils of bigamy when I fell asleep.

  A little after two a.m. someone pounding on my door pulled me out of a dream where I’d been climbing a glacier only to have a volcano erupt beneath me.

  “Teddy! Teddy, wake up!” A man’s voice.

  After pulling the hotel’s fleecy white robe around me, I staggered to the door and opened it to find Ben Talley, his scarred face twisted in concern.

  “Is Dawn with you?” Coming from him, it sounded more like a demand than a question.

  “Huh? Dawn? She was at…” She was at dinner, I was about to say, but he interrupted me.

  “She’s gone!”

  “Gone? Gone where?” Fuzzy-headed from sleep, I couldn’t understand why he was bothering me at this hour.

  He shoved me aside and barged past me into my room. While I stood in the doorway staring, he searched the bathroom, the closet, then squatted down and looked under the bed.

  “Ben, what the hell are you…?”

  “I thought…I thought…” Whatever he’d been about to say ended in a low moan.

  My brain finally clear, I asked the obvious. “Did you two have a fight or something?” Which would come as no surprise, since according to Dawn, they were already headed to the divorce courts.

  He stood up, apparently not caring that one of his pants legs remained crumpled at knee-length. He wasn’t wearing socks. “No fight. She…she…at ten, she told me she was going out for a walk. But she never came back.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Once Leifur was certain Dawn was nowhere on hotel premises, he and Oddi organized a hasty search party composed of hotel guests and nearby townsfolk, since Stykkishólmur was too small to have a police outpost. For the next couple of hours we walked the dark streets calling out her name. By the time the sun rose, the size of our search party had quadrupled, with more of the townsfolk and fishermen joining in. At no point did anyone articulate what some of us were thinking.

  The night had been cold and the water in the harbor—less than two hundred miles south of the Arctic Circle—was even colder.

  If Dawn had been foolish enough to walk along the narrow causeway in the dark to the tiny island of Súgandisey, she might have slipped and fallen into the harbor. Then the tide…Well, there was no point in thinking the worst. I hoped we would find her hunkered down somewhere warm, enjoying the drama she’d purposely created.

 
But by six, we’d found no sign of Dawn so I called Bryndis and alerted her to the situation. Shortly after I ended our conversation, several policemen arrived to organize the search in a more effective manner. With my services no longer needed, I exchanged cell phone numbers with Perry Walsh and Adele. Both promised to keep me updated. Then I checked out of the hotel and headed for Reykjavik.

  The sun shone all the way, and I made the trip in what had to be record time. But when I entered Bryndis’ apartment, Ragnar was exiting the bedroom, buttoning up his shirt. Before I could censor my mouth, it blurted, “Aren’t you supposed to be in jail?”

  Ragnar gave me a puzzled look. “Why?”

  “Because you were…” I couldn’t quite bring myself to say “arrested.”

  Bryndis appeared behind him, wearing a surprisingly feminine pink robe. “Oh, Teddy, forget everything you’ve seen on American TV. In Iceland, the police can’t hold a suspect more than twenty-four hours unless they prove to a magistrate they have enough evidence to convict, which of course isn’t the case here. Because Ragnar didn’t kill anyone.”

  Using her vast knowledge of American law gleaned from watching reruns of Monk and Criminal Minds, Bryndis explained the major difference between her country’s judicial procedures and the U.S.’s. Any suspect of a crime, even murder, could be picked up and questioned, but once that was accomplished, he was automatically released without bail. The concept of bail didn’t exist in Iceland. Later, if enough physical evidence was found that would render a guilty verdict probable, the suspect would be re-arrested and kept in a cell until the trial.

  “Ragnar’s still under suspicion, then?” I asked, as I followed the two into the kitchen, where, after we’d settled ourselves at the table, Bryndis poured out big mugs of hot tea.

  She nodded. “Only because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Say, is there any news the news on that missing woman?”

  I shook my head. “When I stopped for gas, I called Perry Walsh, he’s the president of the birding club, but he said she hasn’t been found yet.” Suddenly remembering Ragnar’s painting of the puffin with the white streak across its head, I said to him, “Wait a minute, Ragnar. Did Bryndis just say you were in Vik when Simon Parr was murdered?”

  He averted his eyes. “Um, yes. I heard about the hoopoe sighting and drove down there first thing that morning. I only stayed for about an hour, so when it did not show up, I came back. While I was there, I did not see any dead man.”

  I noticed that he’d averted his eyes when adding that last part.

  “But Reykjavic to Vik, that’s almost a three-hour drive,” I said. “Each way. You’re telling me you drove all the way to Vik looking for the hoopoe, and only stayed for one hour?” It wasn’t unusual for dedicated birders sometimes to lie in wait for days hoping to catch a glimpse of their quarry, but this was a stretch.

  “Well, I, hmm, I had to hurry back and get some canvases ready for my upcoming show. Artists have deadlines, too, you know.”

  Bryndis looked at him as if had delivered the Sermon on the Mount. Nodding, she said, “He swears he was back in Reykjavik long before the murder happened,” she said. “Hours before.” When she caught me staring at her, she added, “And I am certain the situation with the missing woman will turn out to be a misunderstanding. Iceland is a safe country. We do not murder tourists!”

  There being nothing to say to that, I concentrated on my tea. It hinted of flowers and fire.

  ***

  At nine-thirty, I arrived at the zoo with Bryndis. Putting my concern for Dawn aside, I made a beeline for Magnus. When I entered the quarantine shed, the cub looked up at me with his big dark eyes and squealed a hello. Lonely. He hadn’t yet finished eating, so the zookeeper feeding him moved aside to let me hold the cub’s bottle of fat-enriched milk. Still cuddle-sized, and only slightly gamey, the little bear squirmed around on my lap for a minute before snatching away the bottle with both paws.

  “Delicious, huh?” I asked him.

  Grunt. Slurp.

  One of the reasons I like animals is because they are so uncomplicated. Eat, poop, sleep, play, mate—that was the sum total of their existence. Animals didn’t muddle their lives with plotting and planning or dreaming of vengeance and murder. They killed for food or territory, but without malice.

  “Teddy loves you, Magnus,” I whispered, once the other zookeeper exited the shed.

  Grunt. Slurp.

  “Do you love Teddy back?”

  Grunt. Slurp.

  Although no great conversationalist, Magnus enjoyed being cuddled as he fed, so we spent a happy few minutes together until he finally batted his bottle away.

  “Finished?”

  Grunt. Belch.

  I knew what was coming next, so I gently rolled him off my lap and moved away as he trundled into a corner, squatted, and defecated.

  “Good bear!” I praised, picking up a pooper-scooper. “So neat! So tidy!”

  Big black eyes blinked at me while I worked. Once he nosed at my leg, but since it didn’t seem to be the source of any more food—he was too inexperienced to know that humans are yummy—he wandered away and began playing with his Boomer Ball.

  Puffins Sigurd and Jodisi were nesting quietly in another quarantine shed near Magnus’. They’d been given an old cat carrier partially covered by a thick rug which mimicked one of the underground burrows I’d seen at Vik. As I approached, Jodisi stuck out her white-streaked head, stared at me warily for a moment, then went back to sleep. Her mate never roused at all.

  My next stop was at the foxes’ enclosure, where Loki and Freya were busy entertaining each other playing Attack, a common fox game which involved pouncing, biting, and rolling around in a two-fox bundle of fur. They yipped and snarled, and were having a grand old time. Once, at the end of a roll, Sigurd looked up at me, curiosity and intelligence radiating from his eyes and in that instance, I recognized the same curiosity accorded me by the wild fox near Snaefellsjökull.

  People who believe animals have no souls have never looked into their eyes.

  Deciding that I was no threat, Sigurd dismissed me and nipped at Ilsa’s tail. She returned the favor.

  I spent the rest of the day helping Bryndis with various tasks around the zoo. In between cleaning out one enclosure after another, I pestered Perry Walsh and Adele for news about Dawn, who by early afternoon, hadn’t yet been found. Ben denied the two had fought, but I suspected he was lying. Given his history, I wouldn’t have put it beyond him to say something so hurtful that she’d decided to travel back to the U.S. on her own. I consoled myself with the belief that a woman as beautiful as Dawn would have had no trouble hitching a ride from a helpful Icelander. The airport at Keflavik offered several U.S.-bound flights per day, and all she needed was a passport and a credit card.

  I refused to ruin the rest of my day worrying about a woman who might already be buckling her seatbelt in preparation for a landing at Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix. Shaking her out of my head, I headed over to the quarantine shed to give Magnus another bottle feeding.

  At five, Bryndis and I returned to her apartment to clean up. Knowing how eager she was to see Ragnar, I turned down her offer for a ride, and instead, enjoyed a leisurely walk to the bookstore to see Elizabeth St. John.

  The streets of midtown Reykjavik were surprisingly crowded for a Sunday, but I enjoyed the walk, weaving my way through window-shoppers, tourists, and sidewalk musicians. I had been concerned that given Elizabeth St. John’s popularity the store would be so crowded with her fans that getting close enough for a conversation might prove impossible. That turned out not to be the case. If anything, the bookstore was less crowded than it had been the day Bryndis and had I visited, and Kristin, the store manager, looked concerned. Especially since some of the attendees seemed more interested in the refreshments she had laid out than they did in availing themselves of one of St. Joh
n’s books. After buying a copy of Tahiti Passion for the author to autograph and helping myself to cheese and crackers, I was still able to find a seat in the first row.

  At six on the dot Simon Parr’s widow emerged from the back room and stepped onto the podium. With her long raven hair, she was still attractive, but those unusual dark blue eyes were reddened, and the ravages of grief made her appear far older than the photograph on the back of her book. Her designer dress, a blue Anotonio Berardi, hung on her as if she’d lost weight since its purchase, and her makeup looked hurried. A slash of coral lipstick accentuated her pallor, and clumpings of lashes caked in black mascara flaked onto her unrouged cheeks. When she adjusted her lapel mike with a shaking hand, I saw that her fingernails were bitten to the quick. I doubted she would make it through her talk.

  Kristin introduced her to the audience, giving a brief summary of the author’s accomplishments, but making no mention of the recent tragedy. She ended with, “Now here she is! Elizabeth St. John, the fabulous creator of the best-selling Jade L’Amour books!” Then she stepped away and let the writer take over.

  Despite my misgivings, St. John’s voice was strong as she spoke, although while giving the history of her fictional heroine, every now and then she appeared to lose her train of thought. Once she even misidentified the location of her latest book as Samoa instead of Tahiti, and found herself being corrected by a woman in the audience.

  She tried to laugh it off. “Oh, well, Jade has conducted archaeological digs in so many different countries that I sometimes forget where she is! But as I was saying, in Tahiti Passion—not Samoan passion—Jade finally meets the man she thinks is the love of her life. Dr. Lance Everington runs a free vaccination clinic for the island’s at-risk children, but as those of you who have already read Tahiti Passion know, he has a dark and tortured past.”

  I looked around and saw a chorus of nodding heads. The crowd was small but warm and enthusiastic. No matter how often the author bumbled and misspoke, they gave her a standing ovation when she finished, then lined up to get their books signed and personalized. I positioned myself at the end of the line. The short wait proved convenient, because when I handed her my copy, I had figured out the best way to start the conversation.