by Betty Webb
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 t
rue 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.”
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.
