The Puffin of Death (8 page)

“Here is how this will work, Teddy. Tomorrow morning you will drop me off at the zoo, then you will take my Volvo. Oh, and be sure and take your laptop along, too. I can catch a ride home from one of the other keepers. A couple of them live nearby.”

“You want me to take your car? Where? And why?”

“Because you are going to find out who really killed Simon Parr, that is why!”

Chapter Nine

You can't argue with an Icelander.

Bryndis refused to listen to my refusals and little by little she wore me down. Against my earlier resolve, I agreed to look into the case. Mission accomplished, she tottered off to bed, leaving me alone in the kitchen, drinking more coffee than was good for me.

I knew I was unequipped for the task, being in a foreign country and having already been warned by Inspector Haraldsson to mind my own business, but as the silence of the apartment closed in, I began to wonder. What had led the inspector to arrest Ragnar in the first place? Despite my ignorance of the parties involved, I could already see three possible explanations.

One: Ragnar's slap-fest with Simon Parr at the Viking Tavern proved he had a temper and wasn't loath to act on it. Two: judging from his paintings, he had more than a passing interest in birds, and the unfinished oil of a hoopoe made me suspect he might have traveled to Vik on the day of the murder in hopes of seeing one of the birds in the flesh. Three: most damning of all—Simon Parr might conceivably have photographed Ragnar on the cliff top.

This led me back to Inspector Haraldsson's odd visit to the Reykjavik City Zoo, where he'd shown me the printouts of Parr's pictures of birds and one naked woman. Yet he'd shown me no photograph of Ragnar at Vik. Because no such photograph existed? Or had he withheld the photo because Bryndis was standing next to me? But then why show me any pictures at all, especially given the fact that he'd already warned me not to get involved in the case? Could he have been checking out Bryndis' reaction, and not mine? Surely he didn't suspect the zookeeper of also being involved in Parr's death!

The more I thought about it, the more troubled I felt. To give the devil his due, Haraldsson probably had good reason to arrest Ragnar, but to me, it didn't feel right. Given Icelanders' lack of enthusiasm for murder-by-firearm, touring members of the Geronimo County Birding Association could more rightly top the suspect list, not him. The snag was that other than the tearful Dawn, I didn't know them.

A glance at the kitchen clock showed that it was nearing one, but I wasn't at all sleepy, so instead of turning in, I went into the small living room and sat down at the desk. Upon firing up my laptop, I Googled the Geronimo County Birding Association. It took me a while to land on the right website because I spent the first few minutes stumbling through several Native American sites devoted to the old Apache warrior. I finally landed on the Geronimo County Birding Association website, illustrated by dozens of pictures of birds. When you clicked one, you could even hear its call. After listening to a few tweets and warbles, I moved onto the MEMBERS link, where I found a list of the organization's twenty-seven members. By themselves, the names would have meant nothing to me, but fortunately, the site also featured a MEDIA link. I clicked on that, and found several articles from various Arizona newspapers about the club. The article that interested me most appeared on July 10 in the
Geronimo County Ledger-Dispatch.

POWERBALL WINNER TREATS
BIRDERS TO ICELAND

by Max Avery

Bird-watcher Simon Parr's motto must be “My luck is your luck” because the winner of the largest Powerball payout in history—$610.3 million—is treating eight of his bird-watching friends to an all-expense-paid trip to Iceland.

“The coastal towns in Iceland see large groupings of varietals every August,” said Parr, in an interview at his Apache Crossing home. “There are the native birds, of course, like the whooping swan, razorbills, and puffins, but because the summer weather is so balmy and the winds so warm, birds from all over Europe and even the Middle East have been known to drop by.”

When asked how he chose the lucky people who would be traveling to Iceland with him to see the varietals, Parr answered, “That was easy! I've been a member of the Geronimo County Birding Association for twenty-two years, and these are the members I've traveled with before to various birding sites—Cape May, New Jersey, the Florida Everglades, and once even to Patagonia, which is all the way down at the farthest tip of South America. Everyone paid their own way then, of course, but now that I have the money, why not treat my friends?”

Those lucky people are Geronimo County residents Adele Cobb, Perry and Enid Walsh (Perry Walsh is the newly elected president of the Geronimos, as they are known), Benjamin and Dawn Talley, Lucinda Greaves, Judy Malone, and actor Tab Cooper. All, with the exception of Mrs. Talley, who only recently began accompanying the group on their bird-watching adventures, are longtime members of the Geronimos.

Also accompanying the group to Iceland is Parr's wife, the famed romantic suspense novelist, Elizabeth St. John. She and Parr have been married for 26 years, but because of her career demands, she hasn't always been able to join her husband on his birding adventures.

Both Parrs have already displayed a strong bent toward charity. In addition to treating his friends to the trip of a lifetime, Parr has donated $500,000 to the Apache Crossing Girls & Boys Club and a battered women's shelter. Ms. St. John, whose books feature an archaeologist likened to “a female Indiana Jones,” long ago set up an archaeology scholarship at Arizona State University, but with her 50% share of the Powerball payout, is she has begun funding a sanctuary for abused circus animals.

Included with the article was a group shot of the club. Although their faces were too small to be of much use for identification purposes, they all wore bright red windbreakers and matching baseball caps emblazoned with the initials “GCBA.” That wasn't all. A sidebar listed the group's touring itinerary—if indeed they decided to continue on their adventure. In light of the tragedy, they might return to Arizona, but given the fact that this was a paid-for trip of a lifetime, I didn't see that happening, murder or no murder.

In reading the birders' itinerary, I saw nothing but Old Norse town names. They were unpronounceable—mainly consonants with only few vowels—but a quick scan of the map in my tour book gave me their locations. The Geronimos were based at Hótel Keldur, in downtown Reykjavik, but for the most part, stayed within the southwestern side of the country, along what was known as the Golden Circle. None were in the Icelandic interior, an impenetrable wilderness of glaciers and volcanoes. Tomorrow the birders would visit something called the Snaefellsnes Peninsula, where they would spend the night in a small fishing village named—Heaven help my poor twisting tongue—Stykkishólmur. I checked the map in the tour book again and discovered that the unpronounceable village was less than two hours away from Reykjavik, all on what appeared to be decent roads. Maybe after I dropped Bryndis off at the zoo, I'd take a little drive.

***

The next day I arrived in Stykkishólmur—pronounced STICH-ish-HOL-meh, Bryndis had explained—shortly before nine. With a population of less than fifteen hundred, it should have been easy to find eight people wearing red blazers and matching baseball caps, but that wasn't the case. The village was made up of one main street leading to a picturesque harbor, and a few side streets winding to the top of a bluff that overlooked the North Atlantic. The bluff appeared to be perfect bird-watching territory, so I headed straight there, only to be disappointed. Ten minutes later, having driven every one of its narrow lanes, I gave up. After checking my guidebook, I learned that birding was also popular on the rocky island further out in the bay.

Rather than waste more time driving around aimlessly, I pulled into the parking lot of Hótel Egilsen, where they would spend the night. That's when I spotted a large blue van with ODDI'S ICELANDIC TOURS emblazoned on its side.

The hotel, painted bright red with sparkling white shutters, was as charming inside as out. Its small lobby was furnished with comfortable seating, desks, and bookshelves loaded with magazines and books in both English and Icelandic.

The counterman, another tall, blond Viking type who'd been reading a book, looked up with a smile. His name tag said, LEIFUR.

“
Hvad segerōú
?” Leifur asked.

Noticing the panic on my face, he switched to English. “That is Icelandic for ‘How are you?'”

“Fine, thanks.” I don't like lying, but sometimes it's necessary. “I'm looking for some friends from the Geronimo County…” I trailed off, not knowing under which name the reservations may have been made. “Ah, the friends of Mr. Simon Parr.”

Leifur's smile broadened. “The birding group from Arizona! I plan to go there someday to see the cowboys and ride the broncs. Yes, your friends, such nice people, arrived a couple of hours ago, but after leaving luggage in their rooms, they left with their binoculars and cameras.”

“Oh.”

I was either transparent or Leifur was good at face-reading, because he added, “Do not feel sad. They may have gone to Helgafell, which is popular with birding groups because many birds nest in the ruins of the old church. Or they might be up by the lighthouse on Súgandisey, that little island across the bay. I am no birder myself, but I hear you can see many puffins, guillemots, and eagles near the lighthouse. So perhaps you should try that first, since it's closest. You can climb to the top in a few minutes.”

I could see the island's sheer cliff wall from the hotel's lobby window. It looked like a climb fit only for a mountaineer or nerveless Icelandic horse.

“There is a nice, safe staircase up the side of the mountain,” he said, reading me again. “You will be fine.”

“
Takk fyrir
,” I said, using my only two words of Icelandic. Thank you.

With that, I headed out the door.

Leifur was right. A wide causeway led across the scenic harbor to the bottom of the looming cliff. The staircase was steep but, except for sneak attacks by a flock of shrieking Arctic terns determined to knock me off the stairs, I felt safe. Upon reaching the top, I followed the path toward the reddish-orange lighthouse. There I found the Geronimo County Birding Association. Those who weren't taking pictures were listening to a talk being given by a tall, burly man whom I took to be Oddi, their tour guide. Most of the birders dressed in the club's bright red windbreakers, which provided some defense from the brisk wind that blew in from the North Atlantic. It may have been July, but up here it felt more like November.

Several yards away, I recognized the woman Simon Parr verbally abused at the Viking Tavern, and who in what had to be happier times, posed naked for his camera. She was snapping pictures of a guillemot perched on a large outcropping while the other birders concentrated on an eagle preening its feathers on a metal rail crowning the lighthouse. A member of the auk family, the guillemot was fairly large, at least sixteen inches, with striking black and white coloration. But rare? The island was covered with the things, whereas I only saw the one eagle. Why was the woman so intrigued by a more common bird?

Grasping my own camera, I approached her slowly, not wanting to startle the guillemot. For form's sake, I snapped some pictures. In between frames I snuck a glance at Simon's nude model. Her face was pale, and her eyes were swollen. It could have been in reaction to the wind, but I didn't think so. She'd separated herself from the others so she could mourn alone.

A couple of minutes later, the guillemot headed back out to sea. The woman watched until it was a mere dot on the horizon.

“Don't you love watching them?” I said, hoping to start a conversation.

“They're lovely birds,” she answered, a polite smile on her face. More prepared for the weather than I, a thick purple turtleneck sweater peeked out of her red windbreaker. Both clashed with her burgundy-colored hair.

“Say, you sound American! I'm Teddy. Theodora, actually, but all my friends call me Teddy. I'm from Gunn Landing, California, in the Monterey Bay area. And you?”

“Adele Cobb, Apache Crossing, Arizona.” Her eyes drifted toward the other birders, still enraptured by the eagle.

All except one. Dawn Talley, wearing an Icelandic-patterned wool sweater instead of the official club gear, had drifted away from the lighthouse to the cliff edge, and was staring across the harbor toward Stykkishólmur. A slight frown marred her beautiful face, but other than that, she appeared to have recovered from her concern for her husband. I wondered how genuine that concern had actually been. Maybe she was merely one of those people who enjoyed drama and wasn't averse to creating her own whenever the opportunity arose.

Adele's voice interrupted my uncharitable suspicions. “…and when a friend ponies up for an all-expense paid trip to Iceland, you can hardly say no, can you?”

I returned my attention to her. “No, you can't. But gosh, what a wonderful gift!”

“Yes, it was. Except…” She trailed off, then looked me hard in the face. “Wait a minute. I've seen you before. You were at Vik, weren't you?”

No point in lying. “Yes, I was down there horseback riding with a friend.” After a slight pause, I cut to the chase. “We were up on the cliff where, you know…” I let the sentence trail off.

“Oh.” The polite smile vanished and her pale face grew even paler. “Are you the woman who discovered his body?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Was he…was he still alive? Did he…did say anything, anything at all?”

“He was dead, Adele, and had been for a while.”

“Oh.” She took a deep breath. “Then did he…did he…?”

Her words were snatched away by the rising wind, but it didn't take a mind reader to guess what she wanted to know. I crossed my fingers behind my back and told a whopper. “He didn't suffer. In fact, he looked quite peaceful.” Other than the hole in his head. And his chewed-up nose.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, whispered, “Thank you.”