The Puffin of Death (11 page)

Chapter Eleven

The rest of the birders were almost as interested in the exhibit as Ben, which gave me a chance to make a hurried phone call. Muttering something about needing fresh air, I left them with the vanishing tubes of water and went outside. Earlier, I had put Bryndis on speed-dial, so within seconds I was telling her I'd managed to hook up with the birders who had been at Vik at the time of Simon Parr's murder. I also told her about my fabricated friendship with Dawn.

“You work fast,” Bryndis said, admiration in her voice.

“I try. How's Ragnar? Have you been able to speak with him since his arrest?”

Trying hard to control the hitch in her voice, Bryndis said, “Yes, and he is doing as well as can be expected, considering he is under suspicion of murder. Regardless of that rough-tough persona, he is a sensitive man.” Were those sniffles I heard? “You have to help him!”

“I'm doing the best I can, Bryndis. I plan on talking to as many of the other birders as I can this afternoon, but this evening I should drive back to Reykjavik.”

“Why? You need to stay with those people and…”

“Remember, Simon Parr's widow has a signing at your friend's bookstore tomorrow, and that may be my one and only chance to talk to her. That is, if Elizabeth St. John isn't mobbed by too many fans, and if she'll actually consent to having a conversation with me. I can rejoin the birders on their next stop tomorrow, which is…” I searched my memory. “Gull…Gulls something.”

“Gullfoss? The waterfall?”

“Yeah, that's it. I looked it up and it's not that far from Reykjavik, so depending on how long St. John will talk to me—if she does at all—I can meet them at the waterfall after the signing since it doesn't get dark until almost ten.”

“I would rather you stay there tonight and find out everything you can and drive back tomorrow. Her signing is not until six.” The desperation in her voice was almost painful to hear.

“But I need to spend more time with Magnus. It's the main reason I'm here.”

“Magnus is fine. He does not like quarantine much, but he will perk up when he is released into that nice new exhibit at your zoo. Right now we are babying him as much as possible. He is so desperate for attention it is obvious he misses his mama.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, as if afraid the cub was listening. “She probably drowned, you know. What with the disappearing ice and the bears having to swim so far without rest, a lot of carcasses have been washing up around Húsavik and Raufarhofn.”

I winced. The image of hungry polar bears swimming for miles and miles until they sank beneath the waves was horrible to contemplate, but it dissolved as the door to the museum opened and the birders streamed out into the sunlight.

Ben Talley spotted me before I could disconnect. “You must be one of those people who're addicted to their phones.”

While keeping the line open, I forced a laugh. “Just calling a pal at the Reykjavik Zoo.”

“You have interesting friends in interesting places.”

Was it my imagination, or did I see suspicion in his flint-gray eyes? I gave Bryndis a quick farewell and killed the call.

“I've been bunking with her since I arrived,” I told Ben. “She's working with a polar bear cub that's being transported to California.” While we walked back to Oddi's van, I kept up a running commentary on Magnus and the difficulty in moving animals between zoos, hoping to deflect his attention away from my fictionalized life in San Francisco. “Besides the disruption to the poor animal,” I finished up, “you wouldn't believe the amount of red tape involved in the process.”

Unlike the other Geronimos filing around us toward the van, Dawn's husband had listened to my rambling monologue with interest. “Sounds like a zookeeper's life isn't as idyllic as I'd believed. But being around all those magnificent animals must make it worth it.”

“Oh, it does.” What a relief to be finally able to tell the truth.

Oddi drove us back to the hotel, where we picked up a sulking Dawn, then set off toward the Snaefellsjökull glacier. Ben ushered Dawn into the back of the van, leaving me sitting toward the front, close to Perry Walsh, his wife, Enid, and Tab Cooper, the young man I'd seen Lucinda's daughter talking to earlier. Tab kept us entertained during the drive by teasing the group's new president that he was so old he'd birded with Audubon.

“Don't lie, Perry,” Tab said, straightening his shirt's already-perfect collar while we drove toward a range of mountains to the west. “I know you helped Audubon identify the ivory-billed woodpecker.”

Perry didn't mind the teasing and actually played off it.

“Since you've discovered my little secret, that I'm an immortal masquerading as human,” Perry said, with a wink toward me, “I might as well fess up to the rest. I once netted him a couple of passenger pigeons and a slender-billed grackle.”

“I was with him at the time,” Enid Walsh said, gleefully joining the conversation. “And I once made a try for a great auk but it waddled away so fast it escaped. They were speedier than they looked.”

Enid tapped me lightly on the shoulder. “And what extinct species have you seen, Teddy? Not many, I'll bet, you're so young.”

Taking up the challenge, I played along. “Carolina parakeet.”

She nodded in approval. “Last known specimen died in 1918 at the Cincinnati Zoo. So you do know your birds! After hearing some of Dawn's blather, there was some doubt about that.”

“Really? Yes, I'm a ‘mainly mammals' zookeeper and don't have your depth of avian knowledge, but some of my finest friends are feathered.”

The Walshes tested me with a game of Name That Bird all the way to Snaefellsjökull, and thanks to the Gunn Zoo's big aviary and my habit of watching
Animal Planet
, I scored a reputable seventy-five percent. By the time we exited the van, I had regained some of my lost credibility. However, I reminded myself to catch Dawn alone soon and deliver a stern warning.

Snaefellsjökull, a dormant volcano covered by a glacier, was described in Jules Verne's
Journey to the Centre of the Earth
as the portal to Middle Earth, but the path to the summit was steep and dangerous, even with the proper equipment. After allowing the birders to take a multitude of photos of its menacing beauty, Oddi, who had no doubt ascended many an ice-capped volcano in his time, explained we would skip the five thousand-foot climb and keep to the safer trails at its base. Not surprisingly, no one argued.

Eagles flew above us as we began our hike, and it would have been a perfect outing except for Dawn's lack of common sense. Having ignored her husband's instructions to wear sturdy hiking boots, she wore strappy leather sandals, and before we'd gone less than a hundred yards along an easy trail, her whines could no longer be ignored. After a short discussion, Ben half-carried, half led her back to the van with me following, happy for the chance to talk to her without the others listening in.

She bid a sullen goodbye as Ben hurried to catch up with the others. “He should have stayed and kept me company,” she complained.

Not wasting any time, I said, “Dawn, you need to quit talking so much about our supposed childhood together.”

Her perfectly-shaped mouth made a perfect O. “But I need to convince everyone we're longtime friends. That's what you said to do, right?”

“You're getting it all wrong, and so some of them have stopped believing a word you've said.”

“Like who?”

“Like your husband, for one. Then Lucinda Graves, second, and even the Walshes.”

Those startling green eyes went saucer-big, feigning a naiveté it was obvious she didn't have. It wasn't attractive. “I'm only trying to help, Teddy.”

“Then stop trying. Stop discussing me. Stop discussing our so-called shared childhood. The next time someone asks about it, deflect their curiosity by moving to a different subject. Or have you changed your mind about wanting me to help Ben?”

She returned to her earlier sulks. At least they weren't an act. “No, I haven't changed my mind. Regardless of how it looks, with Ben always arguing about something with Simon, he's probably not capable of murder.”

Probably
not? “Good to know. By the way, what happened to your husband's face, if you don't mind me asking?”

“Car accident.” She said it with a total lack of sympathy.

I wondered when she'd started hating her husband. After he'd coaxed her into having an affair with Simon Parr, or before?

Leaving her to her sulks, I slid open the van's door and stepped outside. The Geronimos were long out of sight, but that didn't mean I couldn't take in some of the scenery. I wandered down one of the well-marked trails to an expanse of odd lava formations that reinforced Icelanders' belief in the gnome-like Hidden People. At a distance, a double mound—one large, one small—could easily have been mistaken for a mother leaning over to tend to her child. Another could have been an old man walking with a cane. Still another looked like a troll lying in wait for unwary hikers.

I took out my phone and snapped some pictures. As I was about to put it back into my pocket, a slight movement at the side of one of the formations caught my attention. Looking more closely, I saw that what I had earlier mistaken for a small lump of lava was in actuality a juvenile Icelandic fox, its dark gray coat almost the same color as the rocks.

The fox stared at me, pointed nose quivering as it took in my scent. I stared back, desperately wanting to ruffle its soft fur, breathe in its warm breath.

Instead, as the fox tentatively approached, I reached down and grabbed a small piece of lava. With a shout, I threw the rock close enough to alarm the fox but not close enough to hit him.

The fox scampered off, cutting a zigzag path between lava formations.

Mission accomplished.

Here's the problem with “friendly” wild animals. If a species known for its reclusiveness—such as the Icelandic fox—suddenly appears friendly, it might be sick. Sick, as in rabies. But if the animal isn't sick and still wants to come close, it has learned to equate human beings with food, never a good idea. Back in the States, bears have been known to attack campers in their tents, lured there by the smell of food. Some of the campers wound up dead, a tragedy repeated almost yearly at parks like Yosemite and Yellowstone. If caught, the bears responsible for human deaths were always euthanized.

Given its small size, the Icelandic fox presented no great danger, except to itself. And here's why. Some humans, most of them meaning no harm, like to befriend small, cuddly-looking animals, partially taming them with food and gentle voices. This seeming kindness signs the animals' death warrant. Because there's nothing a hunter appreciates more than an animal that won't flee when encountering a human.

Thus the shout. Thus the rock.

***

A little more than an hour later, the birders trickled back, tired but happy.

“We saw some lovely birds,” Enid said, climbing into the van with her husband. “And eagles all over the place.”

“Not to mention a boatload of varietals,” Perry said. “A pair of bramlings, a whinchat, and a yellow-browed warbler.”

“Don't forget the coup of the day, Perry,” said Lucinda, her usual waspish expression relaxed into a smile. “The sanderling! Bold as brass, standing right there on that lava outcropping as if he owned the thing.” Her smile vanished when she turned to Dawn. “And how are your feet, dear?” She sounded like she didn't care if Dawn's feet fell off.

“I'll live. I guess.”

“See that you do!” Lucinda snapped. “We don't need another fatality on this trip.”

The other birders gasped. Ben Talley, who sat next to his wife, looked thunderous. “That's a bit insensitive, Lucinda, considering what happened at Vik. I thought we'd agreed not to talk about that.”

“Well, your wife…”

With an alarmed look on his face, Perry intervened. “Now, now, folks” he soothed. “Let's not squabble. I'm sure Simon wouldn't have wanted that.”

The mention of Vik had changed the atmosphere in the van, and little more was said on the way back to Stykkishólmur.

***

Fortunately, everyone's raw nerves had eased by dinner and the conversation proved less testy. Of course, the calmer atmosphere might have been the result of Dawn—still sulking—announcing she wasn't hungry, that she preferred to stay in her hotel room.

My closest table companions were Adele Cobb and Judy, Lucinda's daughter. Adele appeared less depressed than earlier, but a thin veil of sadness still shadowed her face. She had loved Simon Parr, and it showed. Watching her, a thought struck me. That nude picture of her on Parr's camera, when had it been taken? Inspector Haraldsson hadn't given me that information, and there was no time stamp on the printouts, but the fact that Adele's picture was on the same memory card as the hoopoe made me believe Simon had snapped it recently. But that created a puzzle. If Simon had ended his relationship with Adele that night at the Viking Tavern, which was what I believed, when had he dumped Dawn?

The more I thought about it, the more I began to suspect that Simon had given Dawn her walking papers
before
he took the nude picture of Adele, which meant he'd either had two mistresses at the same time, or had exchanged a more beautiful mistress with an older and less attractive one. Despite what Dawn had told me, her drooping butt had nothing to do with their breakup. I also had to wonder if, with two mistresses assigned to the proverbial garbage can, if Simon had already found a replacement.

I looked down the long table and scored each woman's mistress potential. Enid Walsh, Perry's wife, was in her late sixties, and seemed quite fond of her husband, so I counted her out of the running. The age factor didn't work against Lucinda Greaves, who although little older than Adele, was too crabby to warm the cockles of any man's heart, or any other body part. That left Lucinda's daughter, Judy. With her willowy build and honey-colored hair the young yoga instructor was certainly attractive enough, but Simon's death appeared to have made little impact upon her. Then again, she might have been a good actress.