The Puffin of Death (17 page)

Chapter Sixteen

I heard the noise first, then a mini-second later felt pain as a bowling ball-sized rock roared down from above, grazing my right heel.

It missed my head by an inch.

Still, the impact knocked me off my feet. Momentarily stunned, I fell back on the Eurasian side of the chasm, staring at my ruined hiking boot. The rock had torn its leather heel away, exposing what was left of my thick sock. Now the beige sock was dappled with bright red polka-dots in the process of growing larger. As I studied the slow color change, I heard a clatter from above. Then a grunt.

The sound snapped me out of my stupor. Instinctively I rolled into the middle of the trail as another rock—this one only slightly smaller than the first—crashed down onto the very spot where I had been lying.

Ignoring the pain in my foot, I stumbled to my feet and dashed across the trail to the North American side, seeking shelter from the next Eurasian rock fall. I pressed myself against the cliff wall, praying that the western side of the separating plates was more stable.

Then I heard footsteps. Quick. Light.

A person on top of the Eurasian plate was running away, back toward the visitors' center.

Not a rock fall.

Someone had tried to kill me.

As his—or her—footsteps faded, I thought I could hear my heart pound and even the seep of blood through my sock. I looked down at my hands. They were shaking and dirt-encrusted, but empty. Where was my cell phone? I needed to call 9-1-1, or whatever passed for HELP ME in Iceland. What had the guidebook said it was? 2-1-1? 1-1-2? Whatever. I'd dial until some helpful Icelander answered. If I called quickly enough, the police might be able to catch my attacker. I'd been taking a picture of the tanager when the first rock fell…Scratch that. When my attacker threw the first rock at me.

Heart still pounding, I limped back to the Eurasian side and scratched around in the debris, finally finding my phone lying face-up beneath the second rock. Its screen had been crushed, and when I tried to punch in a number, nothing happened. No light. No sound. Dead as a dodo.

Regardless, I put the ruined cell in my pocket and began what now appeared to be a painfully long and uphill trudge back to the visitors' center. Hobbling along on a flapping piece of leather that used to be a boot didn't help.

Luck was with me. As I limped past several large stones arranged in a rough rectangle—the remnants of one of an ancient sacrificial altar?—I saw a group of sightseers walking toward me. I recognized none of them, but they, too had a tour guide, this one a woman.

“…and remember, this is the same place where the Icelanders, who up to this point had remained pagan, voted to accept Christianity as their official relig…Oh, my goodness, Miss! Are you hurt? Yes, of course you are. You are limping and there is much blood all over…”

I waved away her concern. “I'll live, but I'd appreciate it if someone could lend me a phone. I need to make a call.”

They all, including the tour guide, reached into their pockets, backpacks, and/or handbags, but Tab Cooper surprised me by emerging from the back of the mob and handing me his Android.

“Holy crap, Teddy! Do you need an ambulance?” His voice and face radiated concern. At least it sounded and looked like concern.

“I need the cops more.” Then I raised my voice, addressing the rest of the crowd. “Anyone know their number?”

“Try 1-1-2,” their tour guide answered.

I limped far enough away from the group that they couldn't eavesdrop. After a brief conversation with an emergency operator, I found myself transferred to a police sergeant, who after hearing my story, transferred me yet again, this time to Inspector Thorvaald Haraldsson. I wasn't happy about that, and neither was he.

“I am dispatching local officers immediately, but in the meantime, you stay put until I get to Thingvellir!” he ordered, after I'd repeated my story.

“Stay put? In between two separating tectonic plates?”

“Do not get smart with me, Miss Theodora Bentley. Go up to the visitors' center, have your leg attended to at the First Aid…”

“Foot.”

“
Foot
attended to at the First Aid station and then sit there on your pretty a…ah, sit there until I drive over from Reykjavik. It'll take about forty minutes. You
can
sit still for that long, can't you?”

I was so irritated by his bossy tone that my foot forgot to hurt. “Oh, I dunno, Inspector. I'm an active gal.”

“So I have noticed. In the meantime, whatever you do, do not—I repeat—do not allow yourself to be left alone with any member of the Wild Apaches, do you understand?”

Despite my aching heel, I had to snigger. “You mean the Geronimos.”

“The what?”

“The birding group calls themselves the Geronimos, Inspector. But I read you loud and clear.” I rang off. Haraldsson's warning had been unnecessary. Those tectonic plates would be a hundred miles apart by the time I trusted any of the birders again.

After returning the phone to Tab Cooper, I announced that I needed to visit the First Aid station, which further complicated my situation, because Tab immediately offered to help me get there. Ordinarily I would have accepted, because he was a strong-looking guy and I could lean on him as I limped along. However, when he'd loaned me his phone, I'd noticed that for such a perfectly groomed man, his hands were filthy.

So filthy that he could have been playing in the dirt.

Or throwing rocks.

The awkward moment was saved by a muscular Icelander who offered his own services. “The history of this place is quite interesting,” he said, “but this is my fourth time at Thingvellir and I already know everything our beautiful guide is telling us. I will help you to the First Aid station, Miss, and catch up with my group later.”

Before Tab could protest, I accepted the big Icelander's steadying arm, and off we went.

Along the way, we passed other Geronimos. With the exception of the Walshes, who were photographing a dowdy chaffinch together, each was alone. After professing dismay at my condition, they all denied hearing me scream “Scarlet tanager!” and explained that after Oddi finished his lecture on the area's history, they had each gone their own way. The only excuse that seemed suspect was Judy's. She had paused beneath a rocky overhang to use her inhaler. When the big Icelander paused to ask if she needed assistance, she waved us away.

But not before I noticed that her hands were as dirty as Tab's. And her face was as flushed as if she'd just finished running a four-minute-mile.

Time may fly when you're having fun, but it drags when you're limping along on a sore foot. Thanks to my Icelandic crutch, we eventually reached the First Aid station, where he handed me over to an equally compassionate attendant. After cutting what remained of my hiking boot and sock off my blood-soaked foot, the attendant cleaned the wound, salved it with a pain-easing ointment, and wrapped it in bandages to keep it clean.

My foot would heal, he said, but my boot was toast. “Unless you know a skilled cobbler, Miss?”

I shook my head. Like most Americans, I seldom repaired shoes or boots when they became old or damaged; I bought new ones. Since these old boots had been with me for years, I felt no pang of loss, and decided to simply buy a new pair when I got back to Reykjavik. While being helped through the visitors' center to the First Aid station, we'd passed through the clothing section, where I'd spied a backless pair of clogs with the Icelandic flag emblazoned on the vamp. I tried on a pair and discovered they were not only cute, but perfect for my wounded heel. Even better, when I limped up to the checkout counter with them, the solicitous clerk gave me a twenty-five percent discount.

God bless Icelanders.

Sporting my new pair of shoes, I went over to the book section and bought the new Yrsa Sigurdardóttir mystery. Book in hand, I settled onto a bench and waited for Inspector Haraldsson.

***

What with the traffic getting out of Reykjavik, the inspector had been somewhat optimistic about the time it would take to get to Thingvellir, and he and an accompanying officer didn't show up for almost an hour. By then I'd made it to page forty-seven and the discovery of a fourth murder victim, killed horribly in a machete attack. Iceland may have averaged less than a murder per year, but its authors loved wholesale slaughter.

When Haralsson saw the book I was reading, he frowned, but instead of playing literary critic, said, “The local police radioed they were unable to find your assailant.”

“That's what they told me, too.”

At the clip my assailant was running away, he—or she—probably made it back to the visitors' center or even the parking lot long before the local police had shown up. When the two officers had interviewed me, I was unable to even give them a description. It was a relief knowing they accepted my story without question, but it was also alarming. They, too, were convinced someone had tried to kill me.

For that reason I repeated my story again, adding a few details I hadn't been able to give Haraldsson over the phone. Neatness freak Tab Cooper's soiled hands, for instance, Judy's red face and inhaler for another, not to mention the fact that the birders had wandered along the pathway individually, not as a group, and that Oddi, their tour guide, said he had lost sight of them all.

“Each of them split off to photograph birds. Different birds. Perched on different rocks.”

Haraldsson's frown grew deeper. “I will interview them. Did you say they were in the restaurant?”

“Your officers told them not to leave until you'd talked to them, so they decided they might as well enjoy an early lunch. Elizabeth promised to bring me a sandwich.” She had, too. The ham and cheese was dry, but at least it kept my stomach from growling.

While customers milled around the store buying plush toy puffins, Icelandic flag key rings, and tee-shirts emblazoned with phrases in Old Norse, I continued my story, adding that when they found me in the gift shop, each of the birders, even crotchety Luncinda, had acted distressed over my injured foot.

“They took it for granted the rock fall was a natural occurrence,” I said. “At least that's what they said. Shifting tectonic plates and all that. The only one who differed was Elizabeth. She thought the rock fall was too much of a coincidence.”

I had seen alarm leap into the author's eyes. Tellingly, perhaps, she had directed a hard look at Tab Cooper and Judy Malone. She also had no trouble understanding why I preferred to wait for the inspector in the gift shop and not with the others in the restaurant.

“Writers are trained observers,” I told Haraldsson, “She might have noticed something I didn't.”

His grim expression became even grimmer. “I will interview them all. By the way, I spoke to the magistrate this morning, stressing the fact that this small group had already been involved with two murders and one murder attempt in only four days, and he has given me the authority to relieve you all of your passports. Do you have yours on you, Miss Bentley, or is it back in Reykjavik?”

“At Bryndis' apartment. But I'm supposed to fly back to the States on Saturday! And I think the Geronimos are leaving the day before.”

“Not any more. Considering everything that has happened, we would be remiss not to demand you all stay in Iceland until an arrest has been made.”

“You mean
another
arrest.” I wasn't about to let him forget he'd first arrested Ragnar. “What if you can't solve the crime?”

“That is unlikely.”

“But if you can't? What are we all supposed to do? Rent an apartment? Get jobs and hang out together until the killer finally confesses out of sheer frustration?”

Or commits more murders, as per the plot line of Agatha Christie's
Ten Little Indians
.

“I doubt it will come to that,” Haraldsson said.

Further argument proved futile. Giving up, I said, “Oh, all right. I'll go back to Reykjavik, get my passport, and drive it down to the police station.” I stood up and managed to totter a few steps away before he caught me by the arm.

“You cannot drive in your condition.”

“Sure I can. The Volvo I rented is an automatic, not a stick.”

“Your right heel is injured, and unless rental cars have changed their design in the past year, your right foot will be the one pressing the accelerator as well as the brake. Therefore I will drive you back to Reykjavik myself.”

“But my rental…”

He didn't let me finish, only nodded toward the young officer who had accompanied him. “Eymundur will return your car to the rental company. There will be no more driving for you.”

“But…”

“Give Eymundur your car keys, Miss Bentley.”

“You can't…”

“I certainly can. Hand them over or I will take them from you.”

Grumbling, I surrendered my keys. For his part, Officer Eymundur accepted them with a sheepish look. The two then headed toward the restaurant to interview the others, but before leaving, Haraldsson managed one final comment.

“Cute shoes,” he said. “The Icelandic flag looks good on you.”

Chapter Seventeen

The trip back to Reykjavik with Inspector Haraldsson wasn't as uncomfortable as I had feared. Instead of lecturing me, he pointed out sights that amused him. Smoking volcano; tourists snapping pictures. Ancient sheep farm buried by lava; tourists snapping pictures. Steaming hot springs; tourists snapping pictures. Film set on lava-strewn beach; tourists snapping pictures. Roadside horses begging for handouts; tourists snapping pictures.

Which reminded me. “My phone's ruined. Why are you keeping it?” We were passing yet another spectacular waterfall and the inevitable camera-snapping tourists.

“Because our crime lab can work wonders. There is a possibility that after you dropped it, it continued snapping pictures before breaking, maybe even taking a picture of your assailant.”

“Before breaking?
Squished
would be a more accurate term.”

“Squished? Good word. I will add it to my English vocabulary.” When he smiled, he looked almost handsome. “But you must stop poking your nose into places where it does not belong or your nose also might become squished.”

And here I'd thought I'd escaped another lecture. “I had to ‘poke my nose,' as you put it, because you arrested the wrong person. Ragnar didn't kill Simon Parr.”

“This I know.”

I looked at him in surprise. “When did that revelation strike you?”

“Our medical examiner discovered that Mrs. Talley—whom you told everyone was your old school friend, but was a lie—did not drown. She was killed by a blow to the head from that blunt instrument your American mystery writers are so fond of when they are not shooting their victims to death with big guns. There was no water in Mrs. Talley's lungs, none at all, the poor lady.”

So Inspector Haraldsson had a heart, even if he took pains to hide it. “Yes. Poor Dawn.”

We passed another volcano and more tourists taking pictures.

“As to your roommate's boyfriend, Ragnar,” Haraldsson continued, “when Mrs. Talley died, he was with a group of artist friends in Höfn, helping them set up a new art collective. He has many, many people who will swear to his presence. We believe them, although they are artists.” Was it my imagination or did that grim mouth twitch into a grin?

“Where's Höfn?”

“More than three hundred kilometers east of Reykjavik.” While I was still converting kilometers to miles in my head, he added, “That would be approximately two hundred U.S. miles. I also do not find it credible that one person killed Mr. Simon Parr and a different person killed Mrs. Talley, do you?” Not waiting for my answer, he continued, “Of course you don't. You can act foolishly, but you are no fool. Now, Miss Bentley, I do not want your head squished like Mrs. Talley's or shot like Mr. Parr's. Do you understand?”

Another hot spring, more tourists. “You've made that perfectly clear, Inspector.”

“Then give me your promise you will cease your snooping.”

“Promise,” I said, hiding my crossed fingers with the other hand.

A chuckle. “Now promise again, Miss Bentley, this time with both hands where I can see them.”

There's nothing more irritating than an observant cop. “Only if you promise to listen without arguing while I tell you everything I've found out.”

“I promise, and not with crossed fingers. So now it is your turn to promise. For real.”

After I complied, he listened intently while told him everything I'd discovered over the past few days. I'd expected him to look impressed, but he didn't.

He looked worried.

***

Bryndis hadn't returned home from the zoo by the time we drew up to her apartment, but since she had given me a key, it created no problem. After I unlocked the door, Haraldsson followed me to the desk in the living room where I'd stashed my passport.

“You may want to alert Icelandic Air to your possible cancellation,” he said, stashing the passport in his suit pocket. “I have said the same thing to the other members of your group.”

“They're not
my
group.”

He shrugged, made me renew my promise not to stick my nose in police business—both hands showing—then left. Annoyed, I limped toward the kitchen. I needed coffee.

Chamomile tea would have been a better choice, because after a few sips my hands, steady enough earlier, started trembling. After I sloshed away half the contents of my mug, I gave up and poured the rest down the sink. While wiping up the coffee I'd spilled on the table it occurred to me that I should have asked Haraldsson to drop me off at an electronics store—there was one on almost every block in Reykjavik—so I could replace the phone I'd lost. Well, not lost, exactly…

My hands shook so hard the dishrag I was holding fell to the floor.

That's when I realized the problem wasn't caffeine. I was having a delayed reaction to my near-death experience at Thingvellir. Haraldsson had been right. What was I thinking, playing detective in a strange country more than four thousand miles from home? Hunting for a two-time killer, no less!

I needed to talk to someone, and that someone was no frosty Icelandic police inspector. Fortunately, the clock on the stove read almost six, which meant it was around ten a.m. in California. Or eleven, since the state's switch to Daylight Savings Time, which never ceases to confuse me. Whichever, Joe would be be at his desk in the San Sebastian County sheriff's office. If I hurried, I could make it to the electronics store down the block before it closed.

Halfway there my foot reminded me how sore it was. Despite the pain and a warning trickle of blood, I soldiered on, reaching the store at the same time the proprietor was hanging up the CLOSED sign. Being a typical Icelander, he took pity on my frantic state and opened the door. A half hour later I was back at the apartment with a new phone and a newly throbbing foot. Five minutes later, after chugging two aspirins, I was on the line to Joe, who luckily, was finished with the morning briefing. He was usually even-tempered, but not today.

“Just what do you think you're doing, Teddy?”

Feigning innocence, I said, “Why, I'm talking to the handsomest county sheriff in California.”

I've known pit bulls with friendlier growls. “Don't play the innocence card with me.”

“You're worried about that text I sent you last night, aren't you?”

“Oh, gee. What makes you think that? Why should I be worried, finding out that the woman I love to distraction has gone and immersed herself in another murder case, this time in a place where I can't come galloping to the rescue? Why should I be upset about that? Huh? Huh?”

I winced. Joe seldom got mad, but he was boiling now. It was a good thing there were four thousand miles between us or he'd shoot me. In a manner of speaking, of course. Twenty years on the job and Joe had never shot anyone, although I knew there were times when he'd been tempted. Like now.

“You think it was my fault I was out horseback riding and stumbled across a dead guy?”

“Knowing you, yes!”

“Really?”

I could hear him draw a deep breath. “Well, you didn't have to get involved in the case.” The growl diminished to a soft rumble.

“Joe, I didn't have any choice. The police questioned me like they did everyone else.”

Another deep breath. “Teddy, did you know that the
Gunn Landing Reporter
ran an article this morning about that homicide and your name was mentioned? As a witness?”

“I was not a witness. He was dead when I got there.”

“Ha ha.” But he wasn't laughing. “I must have called you a dozen times and left a dozen messages! And nearly texted my fingers off! Why haven't you returned my calls?”

Because in the morning I was busy talking to murder suspects, and after that, whoever killed Simon and Dawn tried to kill me, and in the attempt, squashed my phone to smithereens. But I had better sense than to tell him that. “My phone went kablooey this morning when I was hiking out in Iceland's version of No Man's Land, and I've only now returned to the Land of All Things Electronic. Your number was the first one I dialed on my new phone, which is quite nice by the way.” I left out the fact that I was delivered back to Reykjavik via police escort.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,
oh
.” Now that he was on the defensive, it was time to make my move. “But I'll admit I'm curious about the people who knew Simon Parr, the dead guy, and I was wondering if you had any information on them. Reykjavik's a small place. In fact the whole country's kind of small, and it's hard to avoid anyone here, so it would be good to know if any of them are dangerous so I can stay far, far away.”

A suspicious silence. Then, “Are you playing me, Teddy?”

“No, no, I'm not, I swear.” Hoping to distract him, I said, “I'm just tired, Joe. I've been working with the bear cub, some Icelandic foxes, and a couple of puffins.”

“Puffins?” A native Californian, Joe had never seen a puffin in his life, except while watching
Wild Kingdom
with me.

“If you want, I'll give you a private tour as soon as they're settled in at the Gunn Zoo.”

For a minute I didn't think he was going to answer. When he did, it had nothing to do with animals, at least not the four-legged kind. “Teddy, listen to me carefully. I want you to stay far away from Benjamin Talley. He's done time.”

“For vehicular homicide, I know.”

“That, too.”

It took me aback. “What do you mean, ‘that, too?' Was there something else?”

“Your boy's been in more fights than Mike Tyson, but unlike Tyson, he loses most of his. He starts them, though. You know that Talley's Restaurants chain? Like the one here in San Sebastian?”

“And formerly one in Gunn Landing.”

“Soon-to-be-formerly here, too. The chain's filing for bankruptcy. But that's besides the point. A few years back, Talley worked as bouncer in the flagship restaurant's bar—they're Kansas City-based—and he was always getting in fights. His specialty was blowing trivial incidents into major ones, something a good bouncer never does, but from reading his sheet, I got the idea he liked the action. The biggie was the time he decked some guy from Topeka for mouthing off, and put him in a coma for a week. The guy sued, and the money the Talley family attorneys threw at the other attorneys couldn't make it go away. The guy eventually got a big cash settlement, and Talley wound up doing six months. After he was released, the family gave him the title of VP, along with a monthly stipend, but that's it. He's officially persona non grata as far as they're concerned. You stay away from that man, hear me?”

So much for the accuracy of Cowgirl Spencer's gossip-mongering. Not that I could blame her. She could only tap into the scandals around Geronimo County, not events halfway across the country. This new information make me look at Ben in a new light. Dawn, too. Had he ever gotten physical with her? And that so-called “shoving match” at Sky Harbor International Airport before the birders departed for Iceland? From the information Joe had given me, Ben might have been the aggressor there, not Simon Parr.

“Agreed. I won't go near him.” Good thing he couldn't see my crossed fingers.

“Now, as to the rest of your buddies…”

“I told you, they're not my buddies.”

“The rest of your
buddies
don't smell like roses, either! Perry and Enid Walsh are under investigation for…”

“I know all about that,” I interrupted. “The charges were dropped.”

“First time around, yeah. But my information is that they're back at it, fobbing off fake jewelry as real.”

“They're nice people!” I protested.

He actually laughed. “The best con artists always are. Don't buy anything from them.” He laughed again.

Since I liked her, I was almost afraid to ask about burgundy-haired Adele Cobb, Simon's ex-mistress, but I did anyway, adding, “Please don't tell me she's an ax murderess.”

His voice turned serious. “No, she used a Colt .38.”

“What!?”

“Teddy, one of these days you're going to learn not to place your trust in people because they seem ‘nice.' Point in fact, for a few years there was a string of domestic violence calls from the Cobb residence…” He paused. “You do know she'd been married, right?”

“Uh, no.” I was so focused on Adele's relationship with Simon Parr that I hadn't thought to ask.

“Reece Cobb was a bad actor, no doubt about it. He put Adele in the hospital twice, but she would never testify against him, so the case always went away. Then one night he broke her jaw, and I guess she'd had enough, because she popped him one with his own handgun. But she was a lousy shot and got him high in the forearm. Flesh wound. Went right through, so he's fine. Re-married and from what I could find out, is busy battering the second Mrs. Cobb. Nothing happened to Adele, because it was an obvious case of self-defense.”

Why hadn't Cowgirl told me? I asked the obvious question. “This didn't happen in Geronimo County, did it?”

“Florida. She moved to Arizona twelve years ago. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering. Other than her shooting her husband, who as far as I'm concerned deserved it, was there anything else?”

“Well, there was this one time she played detective over a theft at her house and maybe went a little too far in pursuit of justice, but what the hell. As far as I'm concerned, she saved the local law trouble and money. Crime-fighting doesn't come cheap, you know. Another thing. She volunteers at a shelter for battered women, and every now and then feeds the folks at a homeless shelter. Can't help liking a woman like that.” He paused, then added, “Or wondering, maybe, if she's too good to be true.”

The article I'd found on the Internet said that when Simon won the Powerball, he had donated a large amount to a battered women's shelter. The one Adele volunteered for, I bet. Their pillow talk must have entailed something more substantial than the standard billing and cooing.