by Betty Webb
“What, Dawn? What do ‘they’ say?”
“That anything’s possible.”
Before I could renege on my promise to Bryndis and get the hell out of Stykkishólmur, the other birders arrived at our side, making appreciative noises about the island’s abundant bird life. When they wound down, Dawn introduced me to them, proclaiming that her dear friend Teddy had promised to find out who murdered their wonderful benefactor. To hear her tell it, her old school chum was a private detective who possessed the combined investigative powers of Hercule Poirot and James Rockford. All I could do was stand there on that windblown rock, wishing I were somewhere else.
I did notice something interesting, though. When I’d seen Dawn’s husband across the room in the Vik hotel, I’d been impressed by his movie star looks. His features were so impossibly perfect that I’d put them down to the work of a skilled cosmetic surgeon. But now the bright sunlight revealed the truth. His cheekbones, nose, and chin were indeed surgeon-sculpted, but for reconstruction purposes, not vanity. Tiny scars crisscrossed the left side of his face, and his left ear didn’t match the right because it had also been rebuilt.
When he smiled, his teeth proved as falsely perfect as the rest of the face. “Wonderful to meet you, Teddy. Dawn’s told me a lot about her childhood in San Francisco and how much she loved it there. But I’d been under the impression she didn’t have many friends.”
Dawn jumped in, her voice anxious. “Quality, not quantity, is what counts. Isn’t that what you’ve always told me, Honey?”
His smile dimmed. “I remember saying something like that, yes. You didn’t appear to be listening at the time.”
She hooked her arm around his and looked up at him with fake adoration. “Oh, you know me, Ben. Regardless of what else is going on, I hear everything.”
“I’m sure you do,” burgundy-haired Adele said. There was no love in her voice, either.
The sixty-something man who had been introduced to me as Perry Walsh, the group’s new president, cleared his throat. “Dawn, Adele, you both missed Oddi’s great talk about that island out there.” He pointed out to sea to a bump on the horizon. “That’s Flatley. He says it’s pretty much deserted now, but it still houses Iceland’s oldest library. I was thinking we might take the ferry over. Anyone else interested?”
A discussion ensued about the virtues of Flatley as opposed to a visit to something called Helgafell. In the middle of it, Adele, who had already cast her vote for Helgafell, sidled up next to me.
“Are you really a detective? Or is that another of Dawn’s tall tales?”
So Dawn was known for her lies. “A bit of a tall tale, I’m afraid. I’m only a zookeeper. My boss sent me to Iceland to take possession of a polar bear cub, and I decided to get in a little birding while I was here.”
“But you knew Dawn when she lived in San Francisco, right? You were friends?”
Hating the false position I’d put myself in, I answered, “Yes, I’ve known her for years.”
Adele gave me a pitying smile. “Poor you.”
I couldn’t agree more.
Chapter Ten
Continuing to play up my fake friendship with Dawn, I spent the rest of the morning tromping with the birders around the gentle hills near Stykkishólmur, making approving noises about this bird and that. Accompanied by two friendly border collies from a nearby farm, we climbed Helgafell—translation, Holy Mountain. Oddi, who like all the other Icelanders I’d met, spoke flawless English, told us that in Viking times the mountain was considered an entrance to Valhalla. In the thirteenth century, it became the site of a small chapel, which now lay in ruins at the summit. In accordance with local legend, we ascended silently, and once at the summit, turned east and, still in silence, made three wishes. Supposedly, wishes made in this manner were always granted if they were made with a pure heart. But whose heart was truly pure?
Still, after I’d finished three quick certain never-to-be-granted wishes, I looked around at the Geronimos, as they insisted I call them, and saw eyes shut and lips moving, with only two exceptions: Adele Cobb and Lucinda Greaves, a thin, fiftyish woman with a perpetual sour expression. Instead of wishing, she surveyed the extraordinary scenery. In one direction a string of bright green islands dotted Breithavik Bay, while in the other direction, glacier-topped mountains provided passage to Iceland’s fjords. Above, more eagles sailed the flawless sky.
“I’ve seen better,” Lucinda said, breaking the awed silence. Her eyes were narrowed against the bright day, and hastily applied lipstick bled along the lines radiating from her mouth.
The comment elicited mass scowls from the others, even the good-natured Oddi.
“Where?” Adele challenged.
“San Diego, for instance. Or any place with a beautiful shoreline. If you ask me, this place isn’t even second-rate.”
Adele looked at her with disgust. “Why don’t you let yourself enjoy something for a change instead of trying to ruin everyone else’s good time?”
Lucinda gave her a withering smile. “Unlike some people I could mention, I prefer to look at life without blinders on.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you, for instance. You knew what Simon was like before you started up with him, but you kept kidding yourself that he’d make an exception in your case. But that didn’t happen, did it?”
I never found out what Adele was going to answer because Oddi shouted, “Ptarmigan! They’re all over the place!”
In other words, grouse.
Now, grouse aren’t rare—not even the white Icelandic type—so from the lack of shushing that followed the noisy pronouncement, it was obvious the “discovery” was no more than a ruse to break up the imminent brawl between Adele and Lucinda. For my part in the peacekeeping process, I grabbed Adele by the arm and said, “How exciting! I haven’t seen ptarmigans since…since…”
“Yesterday?” But she smiled and allowed me to lead her to the closest ptarmigan hangout, while Lucinda remained behind looking at the “not even second-rate” scenery.
I’d left the grouse and had spotted a black-tailed godwit perched on an outcropping when a woman’s voice behind me said, “Sorry about that. I’d like to say Lucinda means well, but she doesn’t.”
Turning, I recognized Enid Walsh, wife of the Geronimos’ new president. Like her elderly husband, she had that too-lean, dried-prune look of people who’d spent too much time out in the desert sun. But it hadn’t dimmed the warmth in her eyes. Somewhere in her late sixties, she looked as kindly as Lucinda looked sour. “This trip has been rough on her.”
“Oh?”
“She’s worried about her daughter.” Enid gestured toward a waifish young woman who looked nothing like her mother. “Judy’s had so many health problems of late that I was surprised Lucinda encouraged her to come along on this trip.”
I studied Judy more carefully. She was thin, but her cheeks were pink, and she was talking animatedly with a beautifully groomed young man who had the bland good looks of a male model. His pants were perfectly creased and his Ivy League shirt was pressed within an inch of its one-hundred-percent cotton life. Even his fingernails were manicured.
“Nothing serious, I hope,” I said in response to Enid’s statement.
“Asthma, for starters. On top of that, she always catches whatever bug’s going around. A few years back she took up yoga and even began teaching a few classes, but it only helped a little. Perry, that’s my husband, thinks her problem’s psychosomatic, and who knows, he could even be right. Twenty-two years old and still living at home. Heck, living with Lucinda would make anyone sick.” She paused for a moment, watching an Arctic tern and a golden plover join the black-tailed godwit. Then she asked me a question I wasn’t prepared for. “So tell me, Teddy, speaking of youth, what was Dawn was like as a little girl? It’s hard to envision her as young and innocent.”
/> I thought fast. “Dawn as a little girl? Hmmm. Not that different than the rest of us, I guess. Prettier, of course.”
“Perry and I lived in San Francisco years ago.” Enid sounded sad.
“Really? Which district?”
“Sunset.”
“Nice area. I lived, uh, Dawn and I, we lived in Noe Valley.”
“Lots of nice families there.”
“Yep.”
“What were Dawn’s parents like?” Enid’s eyes were as sharp as a bird of prey’s, making me realize that what had appeared to be a friendly conversation was a fact-finding mission. I needed to be careful.
“Dawn’s parents? I hardly knew them.” I figured it was the safest thing to say. “You know what girls are like at that age, we both avoided our parents as much as possible.”
“Myself, I suspect there was something off there, what with them dropping everything to concentrate on her modeling career. Adults generally have lives of their own, don’t they? It’s not like all that moving around from San Francisco to Los Angeles to New York and then to Europe was in her best interest in the long run. The girl received no education to speak of, not even financial counseling. God only knows what happened to the money she supposedly made. And now that she’s showing her age, well…” Enid raised her eyebrows, as if expecting me to join in her forecast for Dawn’s bleak future.
Instead, I excused myself and hurried to join the others as they oohed and ahhed at the ptarmigans.
***
Lunch was more enjoyable. For a while, anyway.
We ate at the restaurant across the street from the hotel, where I enjoyed a superb, caught-this-morning cod filet in a dill-sprinkled white wine sauce. Most of the other Geronimos welcomed me at their long table without hesitation, and although they knew more about birds than I, allowed me to join the conversation about terns, redshanks, and snipe. The only awkward moment came when Lucinda said, “You say that you’re interested in birding, but you admit you don’t belong to any birding clubs, not even the Audubon Society. Why not?”
Another person to watch out for. “I’m on the membership committee of the American Association of Zookeepers, and my volunteer work with that and the various animal rescue organizations I belong to, keep me busy. Not to mention my full-time job at the Gunn Zoo.” Uncomfortable with her cross-examination, I added, “As you can see, I’m making time for birding now.”
“Then what about that polar bear cub you’re here to pick up?” Lucinda asked. “Why’d you leave him?”
Good question, but I couldn’t give a truthful answer, so I waffled. “Magnus is in quarantine and is being well taken care of by another zookeeper. I’ll have plenty of time to spend with him when we get to the Gunn Zoo.”
“I don’t approve of zoos,” She stared at me with cold, hooded eyes. “Imprisoning wild creatures in small cages is cruel.”
Stung, I said, “Good zoos don’t do that.” I went on to describe the large, natural habitats at the Gunn Zoo and others, such as the San Diego, San Francisco, and even the zoo closest to Apache Crossing, the Phoenix. I finished with, “Modern zoos are the Noah’s Ark for the animal world. Because of over-building and poaching, without zoos and their careful breeding programs, many more species would be extinct today than already are. Besides, most of the animals you see in zoos today were never ‘wild,’ as the term is commonly understood. They were born in zoos.”
“Disgraceful!” she snapped.
“Not as disgraceful as extinction.” Recognizing from her expression that nothing I said would make any difference, I turned to Adele Cobb. “This cod’s delicious, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I seem to have lost my appetite. What with everything, it’s been a stressful few days and I guess it’s catching up with me.”
“You’re talking about what happened to Simon?”
She nodded.
“Losing a good friend is always hard.”
“Friend? I guess you could call him that.” Her shoulders slumped as she put down her fork and stared at her plate.
To my surprise, Lucinda reached across the table and patted Adele’s hand. “Maybe you should go back to the hotel and rest for a while. You can catch up with us at the Library of Water.” To me, she said, “We’ve all agreed not to talk about what happened at Vik and to carry on as if this were merely another birding outing. Simon would have wanted it that way.”
I’ve always been baffled by people who claim to know the wishes of the dead, but I kept my mouth shut. My mention of the murdered man had cast a pall around the table, and everyone sat in silence as Adele murmured her goodbyes and left. Through the restaurant’s large picture window, I could see her wiping at her face as she crossed the street.
“She seemed okay when we talked up by the lighthouse,” I said, by way of apology.
Lucinda’s moment of compassion vanished and she returned to her usual sour self. “Take my advice, Miss Zookeeper, and confine your conversation to birds.” With that, she and Enid Walsh began discussing a recent sighting of a Eurasian woodcock.
***
After lunch, Dawn, who had been seated at the other end of the table, hooked her arm around mine. “Let’s not go to some stuffy old library. Why don’t you and me and Ben go over to the gift shop and check out the goodies?”
Eager to talk to the other Geronimos, I was about to decline when Ben saved me the trouble.
“Dawn, we’re going with the others. And it’s not ‘some stuffy old library.’ It’s a modern art museum featuring Roni Horn’s installation of Icelandic glacier water. When you’re through buying trinkets, go back to the hotel and wait for us or you’ll miss the trip to see the Snaefellsjökull glacier.”
With that, he turned on his heel and left her standing there.
As Churchill once said about Russia, Ben Talley was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. He appreciated birds and art, yet had pimped out his wife to Simon Parr in hopes of salvaging a failing restaurant chain. What kind of man did that?
I got my answer a few minutes later, when Oddi drove us, sans Dawn, to a sleek modern building perched on the top of a hill overlooking the town’s stunning harbor. As the tour guide explained the art installation of immense floor-to-ceiling tubes of water, Ben wandered among them, seemingly lost in contemplation. I followed.
Ben didn’t mind my company, and seemed happy to show off his knowledge of the exhibit. “Did you know the artist is a woman, an American woman?” he asked, as I gazed at one of the tubes. “Horn’s instillations are exhibited throughout the world, MOMA, the Whitney, the Tate…One of the reasons I like her so much is because her work is profoundly ecology-oriented. This particular exhibit, for instance, is set up to reflect climate change. As an Icelandic glacier melts, its tube here is drained in the same proportion as the actual melt.” He pointed across the room. “See that one there? It represents the Solheimajokull glacier. It’s disappearing so fast, the tube will be emptied out in a few years, like the glacier itself.”
“Fascinating. And depressing.”
He turned his too-perfect smile on me. “Dawn tells me you’re a zookeeper. That you went to school together when she and her family lived in San Francisco.”
Since I was on shaky ground here, I steered the conversation away from my childhood. “I’m a zookeeper, all right. I always loved animals, even then. At one time, we had three dogs, four cats, and two horses.”
He frowned. “Horses? In San Francisco?”
Boy, was I a bad liar. “There are stables, but we, ah, we had some property further south, in San Sebastian County. Pasturage. The horses stayed there, and we’d drive down on the weekends.”
The frown didn’t lift. “Dawn told me you two went to the movies every weekend.”
I gave him a feeble smile. “She might be exaggerating a bit.”
“Yeah, she does that from time t
o time.” With that, he turned his back to me and resumed his study of the water-filled columns.
Thus dismissed, I rejoined the others, deciding that as soon as we returned to the hotel, I’d have a talk with Dawn about how much to say about our fictional childhood outings. If she kept making up stories, we’d be uncovered as the liars we were and my usefulness to Bryndis and Ragnar would be over.
Chapter Eleven
The rest of the birders were almost as interested in the exhibit as Ben, which gave me a chance to make a hurried phone call. Muttering something about needing fresh air, I left them with the vanishing tubes of water and went outside. Earlier, I had put Bryndis on speed-dial, so within seconds I was telling her I’d managed to hook up with the birders who had been at Vik at the time of Simon Parr’s murder. I also told her about my fabricated friendship with Dawn.
“You work fast,” Bryndis said, admiration in her voice.
“I try. How’s Ragnar? Have you been able to speak with him since his arrest?”
Trying hard to control the hitch in her voice, Bryndis said, “Yes, and he is doing as well as can be expected, considering he is under suspicion of murder. Regardless of that rough-tough persona, he is a sensitive man.” Were those sniffles I heard? “You have to help him!”
“I’m doing the best I can, Bryndis. I plan on talking to as many of the other birders as I can this afternoon, but this evening I should drive back to Reykjavik.”
“Why? You need to stay with those people and…”
“Remember, Simon Parr’s widow has a signing at your friend’s bookstore tomorrow, and that may be my one and only chance to talk to her. That is, if Elizabeth St. John isn’t mobbed by too many fans, and if she’ll actually consent to having a conversation with me. I can rejoin the birders on their next stop tomorrow, which is…” I searched my memory. “Gull…Gulls something.”
“Gullfoss? The waterfall?”
“Yeah, that’s it. I looked it up and it’s not that far from Reykjavik, so depending on how long St. John will talk to me—if she does at all—I can meet them at the waterfall after the signing since it doesn’t get dark until almost ten.”
