The Puffin of Death (7 page)

The inspector ignored her and directed his next question to me. “I understand Mr. Parr's wife is a famous writer. Is Mrs. Parr the woman in the picture?”

I corrected him. “His wife goes by the name of Elizabeth St. John. And, no, that's not her. She's a brunette.”

As if deeply disappointed, Haraldsson heaved a great sigh, but it sounded a bit theatrical to me. “A rejected mistress could be our killer, then. Or maybe, given the circumstances, a jealous wife. What a disappointingly easy case this may turn out to be. And here I had such high hopes…” Another sigh, this one even more theatrical than the first. “Well, thank you, Miss Bentley. You have been of immense help.”

He took his printouts and left.

Chapter Eight

That evening, after our shift was over and we returned to Bryndis' apartment, I finally had a chance to sit down at the kitchen table and read the newspaper.

U.S. LOTTERY WINNER MURDERED AT VIK! screamed
The Reykjavik News
headline. One of several English-language newspapers in Iceland, it went on to describe the crime scene and the ill-fated tour of the Geronimo County Birding Association. It featured several quotes from Inspector Thorvaald Haraldsson, who had the temerity to compare the U.S. murder rate to Iceland's.

Not that there was much of a comparison.

“We are a nation of gun-owners, but the only thing my countrymen shoot is dinner,” Haraldsson said in the article.

Yes, he went on to explain, there had been two murders the year before, but neither of them committed by native Icelanders. In a sudden fit of political correctness, he added that Icelanders did occasionally kill each other. Three years earlier, there had been a stabbing over a woman in one of the western fishing villages. One man died, the other survived, and he was still getting intensive psychiatric care to help him deal with his guilt. The year before that, a drunken hired hand beat a farmer to death on a sheep farm somewhere in the country's interior, then hanged himself in the barn during a fit of remorse.

But murder by firearm?

Nada. Zip. Zero.

I looked at the article again. The name of the birding group struck a chord, which seemed rather unlikely since I'd only been in Arizona once in my life.

The Geronimo County Birding Association.

Geronimo County.

Then I remembered. Irene Spencer, more commonly known as “Cowgirl Spencer.” She had been a good friend of mine during my teen years at Miss Pridewell's Academy in Virginia. Her parents owned a horse ranch in Geronimo County, and for years afterwards, she nagged me to visit. Time got away from me, as it so frequently does, and the visit never happened. Still, I wondered if she by any chance knew…

No, I refused to have anything to do with the case.

I was about to turn to another page when Bryndis emerged from the bedroom. She looked stunning in a black dress and black stiletto pumps, her blond hair flowing around her shoulders like a sunlit river. She even wore makeup. “Hey, Teddy. Better get ready for the party.”

I rattled the newspaper at her. “Inspector Haraldsson says here that the police are following up leads.”

“Of course they are. It is their job.”

A buttery ray of afternoon sunlight streamed through the kitchen window. Although low and gold on the horizon, the sun wouldn't fully set until almost ten. Ragnar's party had started at nine, but we took time to eat a quick meal before heading out, in case there was no food.

“I didn't know you were into the nightlife,” I told her, after wolfing down some spaghetti in a marinara sauce, “so I only packed jeans and tee-shirts. This is the best I've got.” Actually, I was rather proud of my HONEY BADGER DON'T CARE tee and the hand-embroidered panda on the rear pocket of my jeans, courtesy of one of my fellow zookeepers.

Bryndis frowned. “You look like you are ready to clean out an enclosure.”

“I'd never do that in clothes this elegant.”

Despite her obvious disapproval, she grinned. “I have an idea.” She disappeared into the bedroom, and emerged a few minutes later with a mint green silk blouse that must have cost her a week's salary. “Try this on.”

After slipping into the blouse, I realized that given Bryndis' great height, it reached almost to my knees.

“Not bad.” She unbuttoned the top two buttons, which brought the neckline down to such a daring degree you could almost see my minuscule breasts.

“Are you sure…?”

“Oh, live a little, Teddy. There will be many handsome men at the party, and no, you do not have to run off into the hinterlands with them, but flirting is fun and we Icelanders are good at it. Besides, I am not done with you yet.” She took another trip into the bedroom, this time bringing back a large, multicolored scarf that picked up the shirt's pale green, and wrapped it across my hips, tying it in a sash at the side. For a finishing touch, she fastened a sparkling crystal necklace around my neck. “Now for some makeup.”

Not giving me a chance to protest, she went to work on my face, and a few minutes later, said, “There! Go look in the mirror.”

I did, and the transformation astounded me. Despite my resemblance to a giant-sized pistachio ice cream cone, green looked good on me. But there remained one problem—the Timberland boots on my feet. I'd packed a pair of Nikes, but they wouldn't work, either.

“What size do you wear?” Bryndis asked, staring at them.

“An American eight.”

“My shoes would flap around on your feet regardless of the style. Maybe…” She paused for a moment, then said, “I have an idea.” She headed for the door, calling over her shoulder, “I will be right back!”

A few minutes she returned, bearing a pair of strappy silver sandals. “On loan from Esja, next door. Like you, she is tiny. She said to kiss the boys for her!'”

Once I slipped them on, I was ready. At least that's what I thought.

“One more thing, Teddy.”

Before I could protest, she whipped out a flagon of cologne and gave me a spritz. It smelled like roses on fire.

“Nice,” I said. “What's it called?”

“
Heitt
. That is Old Norse for ‘hot.'”

***

Bryndis had told me that Ragnar sometimes worked as a film extra, but hadn't mentioned what he actually did for a living. The minute I walked into Ragnar's crowded apartment, his profession became apparent. Ethereal music by Sigur Rós blasted forth from a series of well-placed loudspeakers, providing counterpoint to the vivid paintings of birds covering the walls. No matter how monochromatic the living birds' plumages had been, Ragnar had transformed their coloration into kaleidoscopean hues. In the living room, a depiction of a six-foot by six-foot red, green, and blue puffin with a white stripe on top of its head hung next to a painting of a purple, orange, and yellow eider duck. Across from them, a seven-foot painting of a red and chartreuse eagle reached out with lavender claws, making the five-foot-high blue and orange chaffinch nearby appear tepid by comparison.

“Wow,” was all I could say, awed by all that color.

“Last year Ragnar had a one-man show at Harpa,” Bryndis said proudly, “and now he has been invited to present at the ARKEN Museum of Modern Art, in Copenhagen. His work is well-respected.”

“An artist who's into birds, what are the chances of that?” Now I could identify the faint odor that had puzzled me upon entering to the apartment: the scent of fresh varnish.

“You did not know? Ragnar is not only a birder, but a member of Fuglavernd, BirdLive Iceland, the conservation group. When we were on the phone he told me that is why he was at the Viking Tavern the other night. He was there with the president of BirdLive when…Oh.” Her eyes grew round. “That is when he had that run-in with Simon what's-his-name.”

“Simon Parr.” I tried and failed to keep the frown off my face.

Bryndis noticed. “Do not worry, Teddy. Ragnar did not know the dead man, other than to take exception to the way he was treating that woman.”

“But Ragnar got physical with him.”

She shrugged. “Someone had to.”

“Maybe.”

“You don't think Inspector Haraldsson would…would…?”

“Nah.”

Not my business. Not my business.

Refusing to think any more about the case, I wandered over to the drinks table, around which numerous partygoers had gathered. Above the ambient strains of Sigur Rós, I heard snatches of Icelandic, English, Italian, and Russian. Ragnar sure got around. After availing myself of a beer labeled
Ölvisholt Lava
, I toured the rest of the apartment.

It was larger than Bryndis', with two bedrooms, one of them acting as an artist's studio, where more paintings of birds crowded the walls. Propped on an easel in the studio was an unfinished oil of a hoopoe, only instead of being yellow, black, and white, the Egyptian bird was well on its way to resembling a red, green, and amber traffic light. Instead of becoming outraged at Ragnar's liberties with nature, the painting made me smile. I had plenty of company, mostly male, while I checked out the other paintings in the studio. Apparently my green “dress” was working, and several Viking types hit on me, albeit politely. In each case I flashed my engagement ring and told my admirer how much I missed my fiancé. To my chagrin, no hearts were broken. My admirers simply moved on to the next unattached female.

The paintings in the back hallway weren't quite as large as those in the studio, but there were twice as many. I sipped at my
Ölvisholt Lava
while studying another unlikely-colored puffin, this one lavender, scarlet, and pink.

Back in the living room, someone switched the music of Sigur Rós to that of singer/songwriter Brostinn Strengur, and although she sang in Icelandic, the sadness in her voice made me suspect she sang about loneliness. It made me miss Joe. Then I had an inspiration. Why shouldn't we come to Iceland on our honeymoon instead of Italy? I was already in love with the country, and I knew enough about Joe to bet that he'd love its wildness, too. During the day we could ride horses through glacial valleys, and at night we could…

“Here, try some
hákarl
,” Bryndis asked, handing me a dish of something evil-smelling. Her sudden appearance, blended with that awful stench, pulled me right out of my X-rated fantasy.

“
Hákarl
? What's that?”

“Rotten shark. Traditional dish. Very expensive, almost as much as the finest caviar. Ragnar bought two pounds!”

“Purple puffins must sell well, then. But, no thanks, I'll pass on the shark.”

“You sure?” She looked disappointed. “I do not want to hog it all.”

“Knock your socks off.”

She appeared puzzled.

“That's American slang for ‘be my guest.'”

A big smile. “Your loss.” With that, she took a big bite of dead and long-buried shark. “Yum!”

“I don't see how…”

From the living room, a male's voice rose above the usual party noise. Ragnar. Shouting in Icelandic. He sounded furious.

Wondering if someone had been foolish enough to insult a woman in his presence, I turned a questioning face to Bryndis. “Who's Ragnar mad at now?”

The impish look on her face disappeared, replaced by one of alarm. Without answering, she rushed toward the living room. Curious, I followed.

At first I couldn't make sense of what I saw and heard. Bryndis' ex-boyfriend was surrounded by a group of serious-looking men wearing black. Even more oddly, he was holding his arms behind him. But when I spotted Inspector Thorvaald Haraldsson standing among the black-clad men, I realized they were police officers, and the reason Ragnar's arms were behind him was because he'd been handcuffed.

Whatever he'd done to bring the ire of the police down on him, Ragnar wasn't going quietly. As he struggled against the cuffs, he aimed what sounded like Old Norse curses at the inspector. That made everyone else begin to shout in their native tongue, creating a cacophony of babble.

One clear voice rose against them all.

After reeling off a formal-sounding declaration in Icelandic, Inspector Haraldsson added in English, “Ragnar Eriksson, I am arresting you for the murder of Mr. Simon Parr, a citizen of the United States of America. I am also arresting you for the theft of Ulfur Johansson's Finnish Sako, the rifle with which you shot Mr. Parr to death.”

***

So much for Nordic stoicism.

Bryndis' steely reserve crumbled the minute we exited Ragnar's apartment. She didn't quite burst into tears, but her lower lip trembled enough I could tell she was on the verge.

Trying to be helpful, I said, “Maybe I should drive.”

She turned her head away for a moment. When she faced me again, her lip had stopped trembling. “Do not be ridiculous.”

“Just trying to help.”

Sniff. “Not needed.” Sniff.

It being after eleven, the summer sun had finally set, and we drove in silence through the dark streets of Reykjavik. Bryndis didn't speak again until she unlocked the door to her apartment.

“I do not love him anymore.”

“Of course not.”

“I never did.”

“Emotions can be confusing, can't they?”

Sniff. “We Icelanders are not like you Americans.”

“Oh?”

“We are not run by our emotions.” Sniff.

“Commendable, I'm sure.”

Once inside the apartment, Bryndis flicked on the kitchen light. “How about some coffee?”

“Sounds good.”

As I sat down at the table, she busied herself at the Mr. Coffee, imported, like almost everything else in Iceland, from the U.S., Denmark, or China.

“Strong or weak?” she asked.

“Weak. I don't want to lie awake all night. We have a full day at the zoo tomorrow.”

“I have a full day at the zoo,” she said. “Not you.”

Mr. Coffee gurgled and a thin brew trickled out.

“What do you mean, not me? I thought I was going to the zoo with you, and working some more with Magnus.”

She handed me a half-filled cup of coffee. “Sugar? Cream?”

“Neither. You didn't answer my question. Am I or am I not going with you to the zoo tomorrow?”

“You are not.” She poured herself a cup then joined me at the table, her formerly vulnerable face set in hard lines. “You go wherever you need to go, but call me every now and then and tell me of your progress.”

I frowned in puzzlement. “I don't understand.”

Her jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed, making her look like one of her ruthless Viking ancestors ready to lay waste to some sleepy English village. Even her tone scared me.