The Puffin of Death (15 page)

What was the name of that ranch? I should remember, because we used to make fun of it. Oh, yeah the Lazy S, and teenagers being teenagers, we'd promptly reduced that to its lowest common denominator.

I wondered if, by any chance, Cowgirl had ever run into any of the birders. She didn't seem the birding type, but it was worth a try. And given her love of one-upmanship, if I worded a message in the right way, she might bestir her lazy S enough to help me out. The fact that I had already texted Joe for the same information made no difference; gossip can be more revealing than police records.

A quick search of the Internet brought up the Lazy S website, where I found a picture of Cowgirl Spencer wearing a Stetson and as good-looking as ever, albeit slightly weathered. She must not apply night cream on a regular basis, either.

As with most websites, this one offered a contact button. I clicked on it and wrote an email:

Howdy, Cowgirl!

Theodora Iona Esmerelda Bentley here, emailing you after all these years from the icy reaches of Iceland. Somehow I've gotten myself involved in a murder investigation up here, and remembering how much you love mysteries, I was wondering if you can help me out. Do you know anyone who belongs to the Geronimo County Birding Association? I've looked them up on the Net but can't seem to find out any information at all. You know me—I was never good at that sort of thing.

Big fat lie there, but knowing Cowgirl Spencer, she'd jump at the chance to show me up.

The people I'm most interested in finding out about are Simon Parr, Elizabeth St. John (yes, the famous writer!), Adele Cobb, Benjamin and Dawn Talley (she's a model and used to be known as just “Dawn,” you might have seen her picture on the cover of Cosmo), Lucinda Greaves, Judy Malone (she's Lucinda's daughter), Perry & Enid Walsh, and an actor named Tab Cooper. If you know anything about them, especially anything dastardly, email or text me back or give me a call if you're not too busy shoveling manure. My cell number is 1-831-555-7691.

P.S. Even gossip will be appreciated!

Your old Pal,

Freckle Face

After reading the message several times, I hit “send” and returned to my typing. I had finished typing the conversation I'd had with Elizabeth prior to Inspector Haraldsson's appearance when my phone rang the opening bars of “Born Free.”

I looked at the phone and saw a 520 area code. Arizona.

I snatched the phone off the bed and answered it. “Freckle Face here. Could that possibly be Cowgirl Spencer, calling me all the way from what she used to refer to as Butt Hole, Arizona?”

A familiar cackle. “Don't forget much, do you, you little snit? Yeah, it's me, and yeah, I'm still living in Butt Hole, but you had me the minute you typed the word ‘murder.' So which one of my ex-husband's fine feathered friends did you kill? If you need bail money, count me out. I'm broke. You wouldn't believe how much cows eat. When you emailed, I was online doing my accounts, and believe me, they're not pretty.”

I had to smile. “No bail money necessary since I didn't do the deed myself, but did you just say ‘fine feathered friends'?”

“You didn't know?” Another cackle. “The ex-Mr. Cowgirl Spencer was a charter member of that stupid birding club, which is one of the many reasons I divorced him. Somehow I'd got it in my mind that he'd help me out with the ranch, but, no, every weekend he took off with those idiots. The day he came home and told me about the breeding habits of the friggin' sandhill crane and started mimicking their pre-coital arias was the day I threw him out.”

Well aware of Cowgirl Spencer's irascible temperament, I suspected there was another side to this story, but truth is irrelevant when you're coaxing information from an old friend. I gave her the rundown on what had happened since my arrival in Iceland, beginning with Simon Parr's death and ending with Dawn's.

“Can't say I'm surprised about Dawn,” Cowgirl Spencer sighed. “All she ever cared about was money, and not even Ben had enough for her. Hell, there's not a millionaire in the county she didn't go after at one time or another. But Simon! I'm really sorry to hear about that. Weird hair and a bit of a wimp, but a real sweetie. We're all jealous of Elizabeth down here.”

I looked at the phone in disbelief. “I'll give you the weird hair, but wimp? Sweetie? Are we talking about the same Simon Parr? I've seen him in action and he was about as far from being a wimp or a sweetie as you can get.” I gave her the details of Simon's loutish behavior on the plane and in the Viking Tavern, finishing with, “The poor woman left in tears.”

“Which woman was that?”

“Adele Cobb.”

“Oh, yeah, the dark-side-of-forty redhead. A mere case of bad timing there, I figure. Simon always did love his liquor, although I never saw him get mean when he was drinking. If he had, Elizabeth would have done something about it. Strong woman, that. But, yeah, come to think of it, his behavior did start to change after he won all that money, or I might have made a run at him myself! For a fling, you understand, nothing permanent. He'd never leave Elizabeth. She's his meal ticket. Was, anyway. God, the poor woman! She must feel crushed. Those two were so perfect together, almost like honeymooners, they were…they were…” Her voice caught and she snuffled.

I gave her time to blow her nose then steered her back on course. “You thought about having a fling with Simon Parr?” Weathered-looking or not, the naturally blond Cowgirl was total man-bait.

Outside, I could hear one of the geysers spouting again and imagined the patter of droplets as they fell on the roof of my cottage. I was in a country so foreign it might have been another planet, and yet the phone connection was so clear Cowgirl could have been in the next room.

“Why so surprised at the idea of me going after Simon?” she said, recovering. “Freckle Face, it can sure get lonesome out here among the rattlesnakes and lizards, and the word through the Geronimo County Grapevine is that the man had incredible stamina, if you get my drift. Must've been all those long hikes cross country to see the purple-winged nebbish or the fork-tailed flipflop or whatever.” Her tone suddenly changed. “Not that it helped Roscoe any.”

“Roscoe?”

“My ex. A banker. Don't ever marry one. Once they seal the deal, it's over. I'm thinking about a personal trainer next or a marathon runner, maybe even a boxer. They say boxers are…”

Not wanting to get bogged down in Cowgirl's sexual fantasies, I pretend-sneezed, excused myself, and got back on subject. “Happy hunting, then, Cowgirl. Now what can you tell me about the other birders? Dawn's husband Ben, for instance. I found a newspaper article that he did time for vehicular homicide.”

A silence for a moment. Outside, another geyser hissed away.

“Cowgirl?”

Her sigh carried perfectly all the way from Arizona to Iceland. “Don't believe everything you hear about Ben, Freckle Face. He's not the one who ran that man down. Everyone knows Dawn did that. She was driving that night, speeding like crazy, doing one-ten in a forty-five mile zone. Before the cops arrived on the scene, Ben made her change seats with him. Not that he had to do much forcing. Dawn never takes responsibility for her actions. Er,
took
.”

In my experience, the phrase “everyone knows” is often the prelude to a stint of unfounded gossip, and maybe that's what I was after, but it didn't sit well with me. Dawn was dead, and there was nothing to be gained by slandering her memory.

Out of necessity, I controlled my irritation. “Why would he do such a stupid thing?”

“Because as flighty as Dawn could be, Ben was crazy in love with her, and he figured—rightly, I must add—that while he could deal with prison, it would destroy her. No Dior dresses, no two-hundred-dollar-an-ounce eye cream.”

It sounded noble enough, but if true, wouldn't the police have noticed that the car's windshield was cracked on the passenger's side, not the driver's? And that Dawn had no injuries? Then I remembered the faint remnants of a scar on her forehead. The original injury must have been more expertly repaired than Ben's face.

“What else do you hear on the Geronimo County Grapevine?” I asked.

Plenty, it turned out. She started with Adele Cobb. “As they say on the cop shows, no wants, no warrants, as far as I know. She's a perfectly nice woman. Volunteers at the Geronimo County Women's Shelter, a homeless pet sanctuary, charitable stuff like that. Oh, and a couple of times she's helped me out with our horses.”

“She rides?”

“No, just likes animals. You ought to see her own menagerie—something like seven cats, four dogs, and a Ukrainian-speaking parrot. God only knows how she was able to find a house-sitter to take care of them while she's in Iceland, but I do know that Simon covered the cost.”

I'd learned the hard way that someone liking animals doesn't necessarily mean they're pure at heart. Or won't commit murder. “I hear she was arrested once for stalking.”

“Sounds like you've got your own little grapevine twining nicely up there in the frozen north. I hate to burst your bubble, Freckle Face, because that so-called stalking incident eventually came to nothing because it wasn't really stalking in the first place. Cops dropped the charges. What had happened was, a couple of teenagers burgled Adele's condo. Some guard dogs those rescues of hers are, huh? Anyway, the kids took her big screen TV and some jewelry Simon had given her. He was always generous to his playmates. Anyway, Adele suspected the neighbors—real punks—were behind the break-in, and decided to play detective on her own.

“The kid's parents, potheads the both of them, caught her following them around, peeping through their window, stuff like that, and were stupid enough to call the cops. Adele was held for a few hours, fingerprinted, had her picture taken, the whole deal, but the upshot of it was that the TV and jewelry mysteriously reappeared on her front porch a few days later. Charges were dropped against everyone, even the punk-ass kids. So, nah, the only thing I can say against Adele is that she fell too hard for Simon. She should have known better. I mean, everyone who knew the man knew that once the thrill was gone, and it always did, he'd go back to Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth told me she and Simon had what she called a ‘European marriage,' not that any Europeans I know would agree with that description.”

She laughed. “The woman confuses her plots with real life. If it's something her heroine would do, Jadine or Jala some such phony name, Liz would try it, too. And in those books, Jadine screws around with any good-looking guy she comes across.”

“Jade. Jade L'Amour is the heroine's name.”

A snicker. “You read that trash?”

“Just her recent book.”

“Total garbage.”

Cowgirl Spencer might have been quick to condemn certain types of literature, but she was quick to pardon the supposed sins of Perry and Enid Walsh. “Those claims that they knowingly sold fake gems? Lies! Those two are as honest as summer days are long. They were suckered by their supplier, which even the most imbecilic jury could see, so if anyone told you they served a day in jail, they're lying. I bought a ring from them, myself, four-carat princess cut, platinum setting. Had it appraised last year, could buy eighty more acres with it, not that I'd want to. God knows I've got enough work on my hands as it is.”

She was less charitable toward the acidic Lucinda Greaves. “Horrible woman, everyone knows that.”

I nodded, then remembered we were on the phone. “She's unpleasant, all right.”

“She has trouble keeping a job, too, because of her mouth. The rumor around here is that she's about to lose her house. As for Judy, her daughter, I tried a couple of yoga classes at her studio and nearly dislocated my shoulder. Never went back. Other than that, I don't know much about her. I did hear from someone that Judy suffers from asthma, but I never saw an inhaler in her studio, so I don't know if it's true. She looked healthy enough to me. Although maybe a bit too thin. 'Course, that might only be jealously on my part, since I'm a bit too
un
-thin.”

“Do you know anything about her getting arrested once? For breaking someone's window?”

She made a dismissive sound. “Can't help you there, Freckle Face. When it happened, I was going through my divorce. All I know is that she got arrested and there was some kind of lawsuit. But since I was experiencing my own courtroom drama, I didn't pay much attention.”

Swallowing my disappointment, I asked, “Why do Judy and Lucinda have different last names? Is there an ex Mrs. Judy somewhere?”

“Nah, Judy's never been married. But Lucinda's been married three or four times.”

I yipped in surprise.

Cowgirl Spencer laughed. “The first unlucky man was Judy's father, hence her last name.”

I was still reeling from shock. “How in the world did such a harridan snag so many men?”

“Feminine wiles, m'dear. Lucinda always starts off like Miss Sweetie Pie, but once the ring's on her finger, she reverts to her old self, you know, like a rattlesnake crossed with a scorpion. But none of those guys, even Judy's father, were worth anything. Not in the financial department or the ethics department. For instance, Lucinda's second husband, Jim, he was a commercial real estate broker, supposedly brought in big bucks for a while. Then there was some financial hanky-panky and his license got taken away. And as for the home front, there was a rumor Jim made a move on Judy, and the kid was only thirteen at the time. Lucinda went damn near homicidal over it, took after him with a butcher knife before he could say, ‘But, honey, it's not like it looks.'”

My dislike for Lucinda slipped a bit. “Good for her.”

“Exatamundo. Even harridans have their good points.”