The Puffin of Death (6 page)

The joint wasn't fancy. It wasn't even indoors. A red and white shack fronting the harbor, it attracted enough customers that we had to stand in line for ten minutes before giving our order. Since the one picnic table was already occupied by a group of Japanese tourists taking snapshots of each other as they ate (what did that remind me of?) we milled around the sidewalk with other tourists and native Icelanders until we heard our number called.

We ate while strolling down the harbor road. Gulls, gannets, and kittiwakes sailed over our heads, shrieking their sharp cries. Ahead of us, but miles distant, loomed Mount Esja, heralding the gateway to the Snaefellsnes Peninsula. Because the peninsula was reputed to be as mythic as it was picturesque, I felt a brief pang that I wouldn't be traveling there. However, in less than two weeks, there was a limit to what I could see and do. As we rounded a curve in the harbor, the sight of Sólfar—Sun Voyager—a sculpture that resembled an old Viking longboat, took me out of my gloom. It had been positioned to face the setting summer sun, and golden late afternoon light gleamed along its steel surface.

Very photogenic, as proved by the gaggle of tourists around it, all snapping pictures.

I started to take out my own camera, then froze. Something had nudged my memory back at the hot dog stand, and now here. But what? Surely that was impossible, since I'd never been in Iceland before.

Still…

“Teddy, why do you frown?” Bryndis' voice startled me.

“I don't know,” I confessed. “There seems to be something familiar about this.”

“An attack of déjà vu? Ah, reincarnation! Perhaps one of your ancestors was a Viking and his genes are urging you to hop on Sólfar and sail away to loot and pillage.”

Although the image of a red-headed Icelandic ancestor made me laugh, it wasn't impossible. The early Vikings had taken thousands of villagers as slaves during raids on the Irish coast, so who knew?

But I didn't think so. There was something about the scene before me that…

“Excuse me, miss, but do you mind getting out of the way so I can take a picture of that thing?” An expensively dressed American, from his accent, a New Yorker, sub genus Brooklyn.

“No problem.” As soon as I moved, the man stepped forward, hefted a Nikon D4, and began to shoot.

That's when I remembered.

Vik.

Dead man.

Nikon D4 lying on the moss.

Could Simon Parr have taken a photograph of his killer?

Chapter Seven

The next morning I returned to the Reykjavik City Zoo to help Bryndis with the animals we were readying for transport and learn the finer points of their daily routines. The temperature had climbed to sixty-five degrees, and a gentle breeze blew in from the North Atlantic, making the animals frisky. Cows lowed, chickens clucked, pigs squealed. Only occasional yelps from the seal pool reminded me this was no mere barnyard.

After tossing a few fish to the seals, Bryndis led me to the Icelandic foxes' temporary enclosure.

The six-pound foxes were little different in habit and diet than the Gunn Zoo's coyotes and wolves. Shy, as most wild animals are, they kept to the back of their enclosure while we worked around them. We checked on their automatic watering system, making certain it wasn't clogged, and at eleven-thirty on the dot—zoo animals are keenly aware of time—filled their bowls with a commercial dog food mixture. The only difference was that we added bits of chopped poultry, eggs, and a couple of frozen mice, which more accurately copied their diet in the wild.

Ten-month-olds Loki and Ilsa would accompany me back to the Gunn Zoo. Already separated from the rest of the zoo's foxes for standard quarantine protocol, they were housed in a large pen near Regina, the reindeer. Ilsa, the steel-gray female, sat near a rock and watched curiously as I helped Bryndis clean the area, but Loki, the slightly paler male, ran back and forth along the fence line as if panicked by our intrusion.

“He is more angry than scared,” Bryndis explained. “Monday, they received their shots for travel, and Ilsa didn't seem to mind. I distracted her with a piece of chicken. But Loki hates the vet and any disruption in his routine, no matter how minor, so when we get to California, I will instruct your canidae keeper to be careful around him. Loki may be small, but his teeth are sharp.”

Looking at the two foxes, it was hard to believe they would turn white in the winter, which in the northern wild, served as protective coloration against the deep snow. Although the commercial freezing units Aster Edwina had spent a fortune on would keep the temperature in our Northern Climes exhibit low, I wondered if they would fool Mother Nature. We'd find out in October, when the foxes were due to start morphing.

Once the foxes were taken care of, we moved into the small quarantine shack where the two-year-old puffins were housed. At first I couldn't see the injuries that Sigurd and Jodisi had received that insured an early death in the wild, but as Jodisi hopped toward me, hoping for a fishy treat, I saw that her injured wing drooped lower than the other.

“She can hardly flap it, let alone fly,” Bryndis said. “Same with Sigurd. They are lucky that the parents of the little girl who found them at Vik brought them to us or they would have wound up as dinner.”

The most dangerous time in a puffin's life, Bryndis explained, came during their maiden flight to sea, which took place at night, when the former nestling, called a
lundepisur,
was around six weeks old. “They can get confused, and turn back toward their burrows. Sometimes they injure themselves trying to land, and that's when birds of prey, or even foxes, get them. That's what happened to Sigurd and Jodisi. The injuries, I mean. But like I said, they were rescued before they became meals. They've acclimated well to captivity, and have already raised one chick. Since we already had enough puffins, I drove it down to Vik and released it in the middle of the night, as the other
lundepisur
were flying away. And off she flew, a big, strong girl!”

Neither puffin showed any fear as Bryndis leaned over and dropped several small fish into their enclosure. As Jodisi nudged Sigurd aside to get at the fish, I noticed something about her that startled me. Her head had the same white stripe as the puffin at Vik. I pointed it out to Bryndis.

“Genetic mutation breeding true, would be my guess,” she said. “Her daughter, the one I released at Vik, had the same unusual marking. A rare coloration, because except for their white chests and cheeks, the top of a puffin's body is usually solid black. I would appreciate it if over the years you let us know if the trait reappears on their other chicks so we can compare our records to yours.”

As birds go, puffins are relatively long-lived, sometimes more than twenty years, so as I watched Jodisi gobble up the lion's share of fish, I wondered if she was the daughter of the puffin who had pecked Simon Parr's face as he lay across her burrow. Aggression, as well as unusual markings, can be a genetic trait, and that puffin was no wuss.

I shook away the memory of Parr's ruined face. He might have acted badly at times, but no one deserved to die like that.

“And now for Magnus!” Bryndis announced, unaware of my sudden misery.

***

There's nothing easy about polar bear care. From food issues to safety issues, if care isn't correct down to the smallest detail, someone's going to die; you or the bear.

When first discovered abandoned on an ice floe in northern Iceland, the cub had been sickly, almost certain to die, and only the pleas of the hunter's young daughter had kept him from putting the little thing out of its misery. When Magnus arrived at the zoo, his age was estimated at four months, but he'd been severely underweight.

It had been touch and go for months, Bryndis said, requiring round-the-clock bottle feeding of a thirty percent fat-enriched formula. “He was too sick then to even think about sending him to another zoo. He would never have survived the trip.”

“Did you care for him all by yourself?” I asked, watching Magnus' body language as he stared at us across the kiddy pool he'd been given to splash around in. Small as he was, and surrounded by a child's toys, he was still a formidable presence. With time, he would become even more so.

“Yes, and you should have seen the bags under my eyes. I used to share my apartment with Ragnar, but he became jealous and said I loved Magnus more than I loved him.” A flashing grin. “He was right. Magnus was my baby. But Ragnar? He is a big boy and can take care of himself.”

Bryndis' personal sacrifice had proven fruitful, because her bouncing baby had achieved a now-healthy weight, and was eating a varied diet of eggs, rodents, fish, poultry, and seal and whale blubber. Since most polar bear cubs aren't weaned until they're over two years old, Magnus' heaping plate of solids were always washed down with big helpings of his high-fat formula.

“I suggest you continue the same diet for another year,” she added. “He is thriving, but with the big move to America, he will be set back for a while, so the less change in diet, the better. I will be there to help watch over him for a few days. Oh, and I have been meaning to ask, when we get to California, will you teach me to surf? Not all our coastline is as fierce as Vik's.”

The abrupt change of topic startled me for a moment. “I can try, but I'm not much of a surfer. In fact, I almost never do.”

“A California woman who does not surf?” She stared at me as if I'd grown two heads.

“Not all Californians are the same, Bryndis, but don't worry, I'll borrow a couple of boards and teach you the basics.”

She gave me a blinding smile. “Excellent! Now back to our baby bear. It is time for me to take some blood samples and make sure he is ready for his big trip to America.”

As soon as Magnus spotted Bryndis, he jumped out of his kiddie pool and made a beeline for the habitat's back gate.

“One of the good things about getting a bear this young is that you can start their training without being mauled to death in the process,” Bryndis said, showing me how she'd taught Magnus to press his side against the gate. “You see how easy it will be for his new keeper to take blood samples or administer medications? He is so focused on the big fish that will be his reward, he barely feels the needle.”

Once the blood sample was accomplished, she threw the cub a large fish. “Now watch while I get him to stand up so I can look for anything out of the way—lumps, wounds, whatever.”

Holding another fish high, she stood up. Magnus mimicked her action, raising his paws in a likewise manner, and caught his reward before it sailed over his head. Polar bears being the intelligent species they were, he would always remember these commands, thus keeping his caregivers, as well as himself, safe and healthy. But a polar bear's intelligence had its downside. They got bored quickly, and a bored polar bear is a dangerous polar bear.

“You will have to change his toys several times a day. Throw him new Boomer Balls on an irregular basis. Big and small ones, different colors. He likes to bat them around. Cardboard boxes, he loves those. Also, plastic garbage can lids, traffic cones, PVC pipes, beer kegs, burlap bags, old phone books, anything he can tear up and drag around. Yes, it will make a mess, and, yes, his new keeper will be busy cleaning up after him, but it is necessary. Another thing about keeping him occupied; it cuts down on stereotypic behavior, the pacing and head-wagging we see with so many poorly kept animals in bad zoos. I know his new enclosure is quite large, because Miss Aster Edwina was kind enough to email us pictures, and that it has hills for him to stand on and look around when he's out of his pool. But you might want to think about putting a picnic table in there on one of the flat spots so he can climb around. A child's jungle gym is nice, too. Variety, variety, variety. That is the recipe for a happy bear.”

As soon as Mangus had wolfed down his reward, Bryndis threw him a big red Boomer Ball, and he happily chased it around the pool. The expression on her face was that of a fond mother, pleased with her child. It surprised me until I remembered that she had hand-fed him from a bottle while he was still a cub.

“You'll miss him, won't you?” I said.

The besotted expression disappeared. “Zookeepers know better than to become attached to their charges. And we Icelanders are not emotional, anyway.”

I hid my smile, knowing from my own experience that she was lying. For a brief moment I allowed myself to remember the many animals I loved. Lucy the giant anteater. Wanchu the koala. Alejandro the llama. Carlos, the gift-giving jay. And my own pets, of course. But thinking about them made me homesick, so I turned my mind back to Magnus' antics.

I wasn't allowed to enjoy them for long. As Magnus executed a half-roll over his Boomer Ball, an unexpected zoo visitor approached us. Inspector Haraldsson, carrying a thick file folder.

He pasted a genial smile on his dour face. “How fortunate! Here are the two lovely ladies I was looking for.”

I'd trust a full-grown polar bear more than I trusted him, so I stepped back and allowed Bryndis to take the lead.

“Thor!” she enthused. “How nice to see you!” Icelanders were a lot less wary about police visits than were Americans. Maybe it was because Icelandic police didn't carry guns. “Any news on whoever killed that poor man?”

“We are getting close,” he said, the phony smile never leaving his face. “Just a few loose ends left to tie up, which is why I am here. I have photos our Mr. Simon Parr took before he met his untimely demise.” He opened the manila file and removed several color prints, which he thrust toward me. “Today our lab downloaded the pictures he took with his excellent camera, and I was hoping our American friend here might be able to identify certain people and places. And birds.”

“Oh, I can't…”

He waved away my demurral. “Some places I recognized, so I did not bring those along. But I know nothing about birds.”

“I'm not a true birder.”

His smile didn't go away, neither did the printouts. “You spend your days with many birds at the Gunn Zoo. I checked. You are said to be particularly fond of one named Carlos. A jay of some sort, I was told. Now, this strange bird, Miss Bentley. What in the world is it?”

Yellow bird, big black-tipped yellow crest, black-and-white bars on wings, white-barred black tail, long curved bill. Standing near the cliff edge at Vik. “Hoopoe. Native to Egypt.”

The phony smile widened. “See how much help you are? I have never seen a bird like that in my life!”

“They're rare hereabouts,” I muttered. “Blew in on a storm or hitched a ride on a freighter.”

He shoved another printout at me. “And what is this?”

Red bird, black mask around its beak, sitting next to a plain brown bird on a prickly pear cactus. “A cardinal and a cactus wren. He took that picture somewhere else, back in Arizona's my guess, which means you're showing the pictures out of order.”

His smile turned smug, rendering it even more alarming. “How astute. Despite your denials, you know your birds.” He handed me another printout.

Brownish-gray and black bird, black bars on its head, white edging on wings, gray-tipped tail, long straight bill. “Eurasian woodcock. Inspector, is this really necessary?”

“Call me Thor. And, oh, yes, it is. Now this one?”

Soft grayish-brown bird fading to a pinkish brown around crested head, black mask, brown wings with yellow-tipped black tail. “Bohemian waxwing.”

“This?”

Large gray and brown falcon, rounder wingtips and longer tail than a peregrine's. “Gyrefalcon.”

“This?”

Plump red bird, but no cardinal, black wings with two white bars, short beak, late juvenile. “Crossbill.”

“And this?”

Naked woman, not a natural redhead, plump, forty-ish. “Uh…uh…”

“Ever see her before?” No smile now.

I took a deep breath. “She, ah, she's the woman we saw drinking with Simon Parr at the Viking Tavern.”

Bryndis grabbed the printout from my hands, gave it a brief look. “Yes. I remember her purple nail polish. I was going to ask her what brand it was, because I have a blouse that color and it would be fun to match it. But then the man she was with started insulting her and she looked like she was about to cry. I was going to go over and tell him to shut up, but Ragnar got there first. After Ragnar got through with him, Mr. Potty Mouth with the Elvis sideburns was the one who cried, not her.”