The Puffin of Death (21 page)

I fell asleep just as the good doctor unhooked her scarlet Faire Frou Frou bra.

Chapter Twenty-one

So far during my stay, Iceland had been blessed with perfect weather, and as Bryndis and I drove southeast toward Vik two days later, nothing had changed. The sky remained cloudless and blue, the moss-covered lava fields an eye-dazzling green. The only unsettling element was the sea, a blue so dark it almost looked black. Bryndis told me it meant the weather would turn by the next morning.

“A storm brought Mr. Hoopoe in and a storm will see him out,” she said, as she pulled into the crowded car park near the beach. “Let us hope that pretty bird can at least hang on through today. By the way, did I tell you I like the tee-shirt you're wearing today? It's even cuter than your HONEY BADGER DON'T CARE one.”

I looked down at the bright red shirt Joe had given me for my birthday. The black lettering across the front said, I BRAKE FOR REDHEADS.

“A gift,” I explained. “Uh, why are all these trucks and trailers here?” I asked, looking around. “It's not even six yet.”

“Film crews. Cinematographers like the early morning light. They pretend it to be a dramatic sunset, although with no clouds, they must feel disappointed. But the clouds will come, then everyone will be happy. Except for people who do not like wind and rain.”

When we stepped out of the Volvo, I remarked on how much the wind had risen since we left her apartment, so we both reached back into the car for the windbreakers we'd brought along in case the weather turned.

“I feel like I'm being hit in the face with a wet dish rag,” I said, shrugging into my jacket. In contrast to Bryndis' light blue jacket, which matched her eyes, mine was more the khaki color of my freckles.

Bryndis looked up at the sky. “The wind announces the storm will be here by sunset.”

By which time, I hoped, we would be back in balmy Reykjavik. My heel had almost returned to normal, but given my near-sleepless night, I wasn't looking forward to the steep climb ahead of us. Since the farrier was visiting the horse farm today, a comparatively easy horseback ride to the puffin rookery via horseback had been ruled out. We could have taken the land bridge route, but that would have added another mile to our hike, so the serpentine route up the side of the cliff face remained the best solution. When an African bird rare to Iceland is in the offing, you do what you have to do.

When we rounded the base of the cliff and stepped onto Vik's famous black sand beach, an unusual sight came into view. A large crowd was watching several space-suited astronauts crawl out of a landing craft that had crashed in the waves just off shore. One astronaut was dragging another, who—judging from the amount of blood on his space suit—had suffered fatal injuries.

Was I, in my exhausted state, having what is referred to as a waking dream?

“Cut!” someone screamed. “What the hell, Jeff? You look like you're dragging a sack of potatoes!”

Oh. Just another film set.

The astronauts, including the dead one, duly sloshed their way back into the space craft, only to reemerge a few moments later with astronaut Jeff carrying the “corpse” like a groom his bride. No one yelled “Cut!” although the scene looked unintentionally humorous. But what did I know?

“Those aren't berserkers,” I said to Bryndis.

“This is the set of
Death on Orion 12
. The
Berserker!
set is further down the beach, on the other side of the village, so we may yet get a glimpse of Ragnar in his costume. Or lack of one.” She grinned. “But first, we find our hoopoe!”

With that, we turned our backs on the struggling astronauts and began the long trek up the side of the cliff to the puffin rookery. The trail's switchbacks had been terrifying enough on horseback, but without a sure-footed Icelandic horse under me, the climb seemed doubly so now. The increasing North Atlantic wind didn't help. The wind howled around us, tugging at our jackets and at one point, almost swept the hood back off my head. I re-secured it with trembling fingers, and as we wound our way upwards, tried not to look down. If only I had Jade L'Amour's courage!

“I see you back there, hugging the cliff wall!” Bryndis shouted, her words almost carried away by the wind. “You did not tell me you worry about falling from heights!”

“It's not the fall that worries me, it's the sudden stop!” I yelled back. An old joke, but given the circumstances, an apt one.

Once during the climb, a puffin flew by carrying several small fish in her beak. I thought I saw a white stripe running across her head, but she vanished so quickly I couldn't be certain. Flashing back to the similarly striped puffin in the Reykjavik Zoo, I wondered how long the mutation would carry down through the line. For a couple more generations, then die out? Or would the stripe remain permanent to the genetic line? It would be interesting to find out, so I made a mental note to keep track of the phenomenon. Maybe Mama Puffin would poke her beak far enough outside her burrow for me to snap a few pictures, something I had been too shocked to do when I first saw her pecking at…

Better not think about that. I returned my attention to the winding trail, finding its terrors preferable to memory. My sore foot helped provide a distraction, although my limp had disappeared. The heel was scabbed over nicely, and yesterday I'd managed a full shift at the zoo with no trouble. And what was a slight soreness compared to a seeing a real, live hoopoe?

After what seemed like hours but by my watch were mere minutes, Bryndis and I reached the top of the cliff, spooking several puffins as we stepped onto the level grassland. Unfortunately, the puffins weren't the only creatures annoyed by our sudden presence.

The Geronimo County Birding Association wasn't happy to see us, either. I should have known someone would give them the news about the reappearance of the hoopoe.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” sniped Lucinda.

Enid Walsh merely frowned.

Perry Walsh proved his talent for diplomacy by stepping forward with a twinkle in his eye and an outstretched hand. “What a delight, Teddy!”

Shaking his hand, I smiled back. “You don't see a hoopoe every day, especially in Iceland.”

“You missed him by seconds,” said Tab Cooper, looking slightly cranky himself. “When he heard you two coming up the cliff—and you made a lot of damn noise—he flew off.”

Before I could apologize, Perry said, “I'm sure he'll be back. All we have to do is wait.”

Tab's scowl was eased by Judy Malone, who rubbed his arm in sympathy.

Lucinda, who had always hated seeing any display of affection between them, snapped, “If you two would just keep your minds on the birds…” The wind blew the rest of her words away. Just as well, I figured. They wouldn't have been nice.

“I took pictures of the hoopoe,” Enid Walsh said, thrusting her camera at me. “Although it is too bad you…”

“Great shot!” I exclaimed, cutting off what was certain to be another comment about Bryndis' and my noisy trip up the side of the cliff. “Oh, look, in this one he's sharpening his beak on a piece of lava! And yellow? Such a bright, beautiful yellow! I didn't know you were such a good photographer, Enid.”

Mollified, she took the camera back. “One of my prints, a close-up of a road runner eating a gecko, won Silver at the Geronimo County Fair.”

“She should have taken the Gold,” her husband said. “The winner was a shot of a toddler picking his nose. It was taken from a distance, but that's just another reason she should have won the Gold. The judges should have exercised some taste.”

“You have to admit the toddler was cute.” Enid said.

“Cute toddlers are a dime a dozen. You were robbed. You should have…”

Forestalling a litany of should-haves, I interrupted. “Actually, I'm surprised, ah, happily surprised, of course, to see you guys here. After everything that's happened, I would have thought you'd stay in the Reykjavik area.” Where the police were just a short phone call away.

Perry harrumphed. “That's what Inspector Haraldsson suggested, too, but we weren't about to miss seeing that hoopoe.”

I could see his point. Why stay holed up in Reykjavik when the spectacular countryside of Iceland beckoned? But the Geronimos' presence made me uncomfortable. After all, one of them had tried to kill me. Maybe even twice. I still remembered that near-tumble into the waterfalls at Gullfoss. Good thing Elizabeth had pulled me back.

Speaking of Elizabeth, she stood at the back of the group talking to a wan-looking Ben Talley. Apparently her ministrations the other day had worked, and although stress, grief, and booze had left their mark, he was at least upright and fairly focused.

“People, let's move further back!” Perry said. “The hoopoe won't return if we keep standing around in his favorite spot. And for God's sake, everybody stop talking!” This last was directed at Bryndis and me.

Obediently we all moved about twenty yards further inland, stopping just past the point where remnants of yellow police tape fluttered from the moss-covered lava. As we settled ourselves on the ground, I tried to forget what had happened there, but was unsuccessful. The only thing that halfway cheered me was the sight of Mama Puffin stuffing fish into her chick's craw. She was so intent on feeding her baby that she paid no attention to any of us.

I hauled my iPhone out of my pocket and snapped off a couple of shots. Bryndis, who had taken care to bring along her Panasonic Lumix, did the same. I heard a few clicks from the Geronimos' fleet of cameras, but the group was otherwise silent, waiting for the hoopoe.

The hoopoe didn't disappoint. Only a few minutes later he appeared in a shimmer of yellow, black, and white, alighting on a bare lava outcropping. After a few low calls of
poo-poo-poo
, he preened his feathers for a minute, then hopped off the outcropping and began to hunt. For an appetizer, he pecked up a crane-fly. A fat yellow dung fly became his entrée, and a wasp—caught on the wing—his dessert. During this buggy meal, camera clicks from the Geronimos continued without stop.

Maybe at some point the hoopoe had developed a taste for fish, because he then hopped toward the head-striped puffin, only to be growled away. Yes, puffins can growl.

Good Mama.

I could have stayed there the rest of the day watching Mama Puffin feed and protect her chick, but once the hoopoe flew away, the Geronimos rose as one and high-fived one another. The racket sent Mama Puffin scrambling further down into her burrow, where she was no longer visible.

“Well, we finally saw the impossible,” Bryndis said. “Now it is back down the cliff to look up Ragnar. I am certain he will look handsome in his berserker costume. Is your foot still okay, Teddy?”

“It's good to go.” God bless Nike and a layer of moleskin.

With relief I watched the Geronimos start over the gently sloped land bridge toward the distant hotel, then I dutifully followed Bryndis to the cliff-side path. At least the trip down would be less onerous than the climb up.

***

A few minutes later we found the
Berserker!
set on the expanse of flat marshland that separated the peaceful village of Vik from the rowdy North Atlantic. Clad in a variety of costumes, and up to their knees in mud, scores of film extras battled to the death. Historical accuracy was hardly the film's forte, because up against the Viking warriors raged a stew of ninjas, Mongols, Huns, and Visigoths. Maybe the production company was just trying to save money by using whatever costumes that just happened to be lying around, regardless of the era they represented. It wasn't hard to spot the six-foot-four Ragnar, who was going toe-to-toe with a black-clad ninja. Eye makeup intensified Ragnar's blue eyes, and the Runic symbols “tattooed” on his chest emphasized his manly pecs. His pseudo animal skin loincloth didn't leave much to the imagination, either.

While Bryndis and I stood in open-mouthed awe, Ragnar's double-headed ax made short work of the ninja, but judging from the nasty gash the berserker had received across his throat and the amount of fake blood flowing freely down his naked chest, his part in the film was over. With a mighty roar, the big berserker spit up a fountain of blood, then collapsed twitching, into the marsh.

“Ragnar is known for dying well,” Bryndis said, as he delivered a final twitch. She had to raise her voice over the roar of the surf. The shoreline was less than a hundred yards away.

“That was a spectacular performance, all right.”

The battle raged on for another couple of minutes—it looked like the berserkers were winning—when the director, who wore a New Orleans Saints cap, yelled, “Cut! Y'all take five!”

As one, the corpses rose from the dead and made their bloody way to the catering trucks parked on higher ground.

“Ragnar says that with this director, ‘take five' can mean an hour,” Bryndis commented, so he may come over to talk to us.”

Spotting us, Ragnar bypassed the catering trucks and trotted over. For a dead man, he looked great.

“Ah, I am fortunate to be visited by the two most beautiful women in the world!” Close up, Ragnar's double-headed ax was an obvious fake.

Bryndis tittered, but I just smiled. Experience had taught me to never trust silver-tongued devils. Or berserkers.

“Did you see the way I twitched, Bryndis?”

Her eyes went limpid with admiration. “You twitched magnificently.”

“Yep, those were some pretty good twitches,” I said. “Very realistic. Just like that slash across your throat. That ninja got you pretty good, didn't he?”

“In real life Stefán is a fencing instructor, but you will notice I almost beheaded him. He died well, too, although not as well as me.”

“No one dies as well as you, Ragnar.” More limpidity. Bryndis leaned toward him. He leaned toward her.

If the canoodling lasted any longer, I'd have to tell them to get a room, so I threw some verbal cold water into the conversation. “Say, Ragnar, did you know that the Geronimo County Birding Association is back here in Vik?”