The Puffin of Death
Page 1
The Puffin of Death
A Gunn Zoo Mystery
Betty Webb
www.BettyWebb-Mystery.com
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2015 by Betty WEbb
First E-book Edition 2015
ISBN: 9781464204173 ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
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Contents
The Puffin of Death
Copyright
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Cast of Characters
Icelandic for Beginners
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Epilogue
More from this Author
Contact Us
Dedication
This book is dedicated to Barbara Peters and
Robert Rosenwald of Poisoned Pen Press, for their unfailing courage in giving their authors a voice—
no matter how eccentric that voice may be.
Acknowledgments
As usual, many people helped in the preparation of this book.
In Iceland, a thousand thanks are due to ever-patient Police Superintendent Árni E. Albertsson, at the National Commission of the Icelandic Police, who aided me in so many ways that cataloguing them all would require a book in itself. I owe you, Árni! My gratitude also goes out to Birgir Saemundsson for giving me details on the Finnish SAKO rifle. Mr. Saemundsson, a 1988 world record-holder marksman and marine engineer, is the founder of BRS Custom Rifles. Thanks and hugs to my kind hosts at Guesthouse Baldursbrá, in Reykjavik, and the lovely people at Hótel Egilsen, in exquisite Stykkishólmur. I also want to thank the everyday people of Iceland who were unfailingly patient and helpful, and who all spoke better English than I do. But my most ardent thanks and kisses go out to valiant Freya, the Icelandic horse who carried me safely across glacial rivers and lava-strewn valleys. Oh, and one more thing: my apologies to the residents of Vik for slightly altering the geography of their beautiful seaside community.
Back in the U.S., thanks again to the loyal Sheridan Street Irregulars, who always let me know when I’m barking up the wrong tree. The same goes for my faithful friends Marge Purcell, Debra McCarthy, and Louise Signorelli. Special thanks go out to Deborah Holt, who–in return for her donations to Friends of Wetumpka Library (FOWL), an Alabama literacy project–continues to let me use her name for a boat-owning character; and to Cathie Kindler, of Moose Hill Llamas, in Alabama, who made a donation to SSLA Youth Scholarship so she could take care of one of Teddy’s cats on a houseboat named S’Moose Sailing.
Any mistakes in The Puffin of Death are due to my own errors, not the intelligent and big-hearted folks who helped me!
Cast of Characters
Icelanders
Bryndis Sigurdsdottir—zookeeper at the Reykjavik Zoo and lead singer in the rock band The Valkyries. Teddy stays with her while in Iceland.
Ragnar Eriksson—Bryndis’ ex-boyfriend, an artist and bit player in the film Berserker!
Inspector Thorvaald Haraldsson—inspector with the National Commission of the Icelandic Police. He prefers to be called “Thor,” and thinks Teddy is cute.
Kristin Olafsdottir—bookstore manager in downtown Reykjavik
Oddi Palsson—very patient tour guide
Ulfur Narfasson—Vik hotelier plagued by a chicken-eating fox
NOTE: A man’s last name is taken from his father’s FIRST name, with “son” attached, thus Ragnar Eriksson’s name means, “Ragnar, Erik’s son.” A woman’s last name is also taken from her father’s first name, with “dottir” (daughter) attached, thus Bryndis’ name means “Bryndis, Sigurd’s daughter.” Because so many Icelanders share the same last names, Icelandic phone books have to list people by their first names!
Americans
Theodora “Teddy” Esmeralda Iona Bentley—zookeeper from Gunn Landing, California. While not tending to her animals, she solves crimes.
Simon Parr—founder of the Arizona-based Geronimo County Birding Association (the Geronimos) and winner of the largest Powerball in history. The money has made this birder highly attractive to women despite his Elvis Presley sideburns.
Elizabeth St. John—Simon’s broad-minded wife, a birder and world-renowned romantic suspense author. She likes birds just fine, but in reality she lives her life through her books’ archaeologist heroine, Jade L’Amour.
Adele Cobb—another birder, and Simon’s seemingly heartbroken ex-mistress
Dawn Talley—former model, and another of Simon’s ex-mistresses (he had a collection). The only bird she likes is Duck l’Orange.
Benjamin Talley—Dawn’s put-upon husband, a birder and ecology-minded traveler. Although from a wealthy restaurateur family, he has a dark past.
Lucinda Greaves—acid-tongued, often-married birder who drinks too much
Judy Malone—Lucinda’s timid yoga-instructor daughter, who might be less timid than she acts
Tab Cooper—birder, aspiring actor, deceptively clean-cut
Perry and Enid Walsh—the newly elected president of the birding association, and his birder wife and business partner. Unfailingly kind, patient, and helpful, the couple may be too good to be true.
Icelandic Animals
Magnus—adorable orphaned polar bear cub going to the Gunn Zoo
Freya—Bryndis’ Icelandic horse, a sorrel mare
Einnar—Ragnar’s Icelandic horse, a black gelding
Loki—Icelandic fox, a male going to the Gunn Zoo
Ilsa—Loki’s wife (Icelandic foxes mate for life), going to the Gunn Zoo
Sigurd—male puffin going to the Gunn Zoo
Jodisi—oddly marked female puffin, Sigurd’s wife (puffins mate for life, too) going to the Gunn Zoo
Icelandic for Beginners
But first—more helpful tips on the Icelandic language
Because of Iceland’s remote location, modern Icelandic is little changed from the Old Norse of the ninth century, and for non-Icelanders, this ancient language—spoken by the legendary hero Leif Eriksson and modern hoteliers alike—is difficult to learn. Fortunately, all Icelanders speak fluent English, and they’re all eager to help you. In fact, they’ll help you so much the only
Icelandic word you’ll ever need is Takk! which means “Thanks!”
And don’t let those long, tongue-twisting Icelandic place names throw you. If the name ends in vik, you’re near a bay or harbor; if it ends in foss, you’re by a waterfall; if it ends with eldfjall, you’re passing a volcano; if it ends in kirk, dress up, you’re going to church; if it ends in kull, you’re headed for a glacier, so make sure you’re wearing crampons.
Why is the Icelandic language so difficult? Well, Icelanders seem to like consonants more than they do vowels, and this can be especially daunting when you want to ask directions to Skútustathagígar or þingvallakirkja. By the way, that odd letter which looks like a combination of a “b” and a “p” in þingvallakirkja is called a thorn and it is pronounced “th.” I have used its phonetic spelling throughout this book, especially with Thingvellir (which would correctly be spelled “þingvellir”).
Another reason Icelandic is so difficult is that in an attempt to keep the ancient language pure, Icelanders have devised a creative way to refer to modern inventions such as electricity, television, computers, and telephones. In some cases, they simply add several words together in a string to make up one hyper-long word, thus the terrifying: vaðlaheiðarvegavinnuverkfærageyms
luskúraútidyralyklakippuhringur,
Which (strung together) means hip-wader-moor’s-roadwork’s-tools’-storage-shed’s-front-door’s-keychain’s-ring; in other words, a key ring holding a key to a highway storage facility located on marshy ground. See? In a weird sort of way, stringing all those words together actually does make sense.
Then again, Icelandic doesn’t always work that way. Sometimes these descendants of the fierce Vikings use poetic combinations of ancient ideas to create a new word entirely. Thus, the Icelandic word for “meteorology” is vethurfroethi, which literally means “weather science”; “telephone” is simi, which means “long thread”; the word for “television” is sjónvarp, which means “vision-caster”; the word for “electricity” is rafmagn, which means “amber power”; and the word for “computer” is tölva, which means something like “a woman seer who uses numbers to tell fortunes.” Cool, huh?
The only Icelandic besides “Takk!” that you need to know:
snyrting—toilet
karlar—men’s room
konur—ladies’ room
bilastaeði—parking
heatta—danger
sjúkrahus—hospital
Prologue
Vik, Iceland: August 7
As he snapped yet another photograph of the black, yellow, and white bird, Simon Parr congratulated himself. God only knew why the bird had flown all the way from Egypt to this rough Icelandic clifftop overlooking the North Atlantic, but there it was, pecking its way toward the puffin burrow. Although the morning was chilly, what with that damp wind freezing the tops of his uncovered ears, he had to smile. By sneaking away at four-thirty—the sun was almost up, for God’s sake!—and leaving the rest of the group back at the hotel, he would be the first, and perhaps only, person on the tour to snag the hoopoe. So what if he’d forgotten his hat.
Note to self: even in August, mornings in Iceland were frigging cold.
But this trip was working out in more ways than one. First, the conversation back at the airport, where he’d told a certain someone exactly how things were, now the hoopoe. And afterwards…Well, better things were yet to come.
The morning hadn’t begun well, what with that stupid hotel clerk blasting away with a rifle at some fox. Simon had been afraid the noise would scare away every bird in the vicinity, but no, after a brief flutter, they all came back. Now all he had to do was wait.
He heard a squawk.
The puffin, another visual weirdo with its oversized red, yellow, and blue-black beak, had stuck its head out of its burrow and was sounding a warning. It wasn’t happy with the hoopoe’s incursion, but who cared what a puffin thought? Especially that particular one. Instead of the standard, unblemished black crowning its head, this one sported a white streak down the middle of the black. Ugh. Besides, there were millions of the nasty things up here, so if the hoopoe fouled some freak puffin’s living room, well, too bad. Parr didn’t like puffins, never had. Rats with wings, he’d once called them, bringing down the wrath of the other birders at last month’s disastrous meeting of the Geronimo County Birding Association. But had they ever smelled a puffin rookery? It was enough to make a person gag.
The stench was worth it. Same for the damp north wind numbing his fingers. He’d have gone through all kinds of hell to get those shots of the directionally challenged hoopoe.
All things considered, the hoopoe was a gorgeous bird. Not stubby and ungainly, like the poorly marked puffin, but sleek, built for flight and speed. Black-tipped yellow crown. Long, narrow black bill. Dramatic black-and-white-striped wings and tail. Bright yellow body. Given its extraordinary plumage, he could understand why there’d been such excitement when word of its arrival reached them. But in the end, a bird was just a bird. Another notch on his belt, nothing more.
Speaking of belts, another note to self: hire a private trainer and get rid of that incipient pot belly. He had the money now, didn’t he? Money to do a lot of things he couldn’t do before—dress the way he wanted, smoke what he wanted, wear his hair how he wanted. Don’t like my Cubano Cohiba Esplendido cigar? Hold your breath, wimp. Don’t like my sideburns? Babe, if they were good enough for the King, they’re good enough for me. Maybe I’ll even buy a gold lamé sports coat, a big purple Cadillac, go the Full Elvis.
Money meant freedom. Money meant no limits.
Simon Parr was so busy gloating over his glorious future that he forgot about the hoopoe. He also didn’t hear the footsteps approaching behind him. He didn’t even hear the gunshot, because by the time the sound reached his ears, he was already falling toward the puffin’s burrow, unaware of sound, sight, or any other sense.
He would never hear another thing.
Or see another hoopoe.
Chapter One
Gunn Landing, California: Four days earlier
When Zorah radioed me that Aster Edwina wanted to see me in the zoo office immediately, I was knee-deep in giraffe droppings. Not that I minded, since that’s my job. Most people think being a zookeeper is glamorous work, but the truth is that seventy-five percent of my time is spent shoveling a pile of fecal matter from one place to another. The animals enjoy watching, though.
Being summoned by Aster Edwina Gunn, head of the Gunn Zoo Trust, seldom meant good news, so it was with a certain amount of reluctance that I put my poop-scooping duties aside, climbed the long hill from African Trail, took the long way around Tropics Trail, then cut in front of the new Northern Climes exhibit and joined the crowd by the penguin enclosure. Anything to put off the inevitable. Rory, one of the Emperor penguins, was in the midst of another altercation with Ebenezer, a crested northern rockhopper. The two didn’t like each other much, but this was the first time I’d seen them actually go at it. The smaller Ebenezer pecked Rory on the chest. Rory squawked and bopped Ebenezer on the head. Ebenezer bopped back.
I was thinking about breaking it up when my radio hissed at me again. “Keeper Number Four,” I answered. “Over.”
“Leave those penguins alone and get your butt in here, Teddy,” Zora snapped.
“What makes you think I’m watching the penguins?”
“Because that’s all you’ve done since they arrived.”
Got me there. It would take a more jaded zookeeper not to be fascinated by the little cuties. They were so people-like. Yet so not.
“Well, Zorah, I’m…”
“Theodora Esmeralda Iona Bentley, do I have to tell you again?”
“Oh, all right,” I grumbled. “I’ll be there in a minute. But stop calling me by my full name. You know I hate it.”
“And I hate being the go-between you and
Aster Edwina. She’s on a tear today, so make it half a minute. Zoo One, over and out.”
While I was clipping the radio back onto my belt, Ebenezer’s and Rory’s spat morphed into a full-tilt brawl, and the two penguins tumbled butt-over-flipper until they fell off their rocky slope and splashed into the pool. Avian tempers duly doused, they swam to opposite sides of the pool, where they reduced their former physicality to mere glares.
Action over, the crowd left. So did I.
“Well, hi, Aster Edwina,” I said, walking into the Administration Building. “What brings you here on this sunny California morning?”
The owner of the Gunn Zoo had to be well into her eighties by now, but age hadn’t dimmed her. Hints of her former beauty remained on her face, and her spine was still as straight as a West Point graduate’s. Age hadn’t tempered her irascibility, either. Glancing at her watch, she said, “It does not take eight minutes to walk from African Trail to Admin.”
“It’s hot today, so I was reserving my strength. It’s August. Happens every year. Plus I’m pulling a double shift, and I…”
“No, you’re not.”
“That comes as a surprise to me,” I said, “especially since you’re the one who arranged it.”
Keisha, one of the Gunn Zoo’s most popular bonobo apes, was about to give birth, and Aster Edwina had ordered that she be observed around the clock. Due to so many keepers on vacation or ill, Zorah, the zoo’s director, had pulled a double shift herself the day before yesterday, which meant that today was my turn.
Aster Edwina inclined her regal head. “Zorah has already made arrangements. You’re needed elsewhere.”
“And that would be?” With Lucy, the giant anteater, who was also about to give birth? Or Wanchu, the koala, whose joey should be emerging from her pouch any day?
Aster Edwina mumbled something I was certain I hadn’t heard correctly. “Pardon? Could you repeat that? Where did you say I’m needed?”