by Betty Webb
Here Elizabeth looked across the table at the young man, who up to that point hadn’t been paying much attention to the conversation. Tab, wearing yet another perfectly ironed ensemble, beamed.
“Tell Teddy about the name thing, too,” Judy urged.
Elizabeth’s smile held a hint of wistfulness. “A romantic suspense writer can’t use a name that sounds golf-related—Parr, get it?—so when we married, I kept my maiden name. I’d discussed it with Simon, and he didn’t mind. Why, at parties he always introduced me by my still-legal maiden name, by saying, ‘And my wife, here, is Elizabeth St. John. The famous Elizabeth St. John.”
“Reflected glory,” Lucinda sniffed.
Irritated, Judy turned to her mother. “Women don’t have to take their husband’s last names. Think of all the trouble keeping your maiden name would have saved you.”
The ensuing silence gave me time to wonder: was it my imagination, or had Judy become bolder recently? When I’d first met her, she’d seemed shy and deferential, especially around her bullying mother. Maybe her behavior had been camouflage for a more independent mind.
Tab saved the awkward moment. “Anyone want to join us for yoga before we leave for Thingvellir? Judy’s giving a beginner’s class this morning at her cottage. Oddi, Adele, and Enid Walsh are coming. How about you, Teddy? And Lucinda?”
“Count me out,” I said. After last night’s conversation with Cowgirl Spencer, I needed time to think. Contorting myself into Downward Dog would be distracting.
“No yoga for me, either,” Lucinda snapped at her daughter. “Since you’ve taken it upon yourself to ask everyone over to our cottage without my approval, I’m going to take a walk. Birds make more sense than that om-om gibberish.” She pushed her chair away and left the restaurant in a huff.
Her outburst signaled the end of breakfast, and we filed outside, where Oddi and others headed for yoga class, leaving me standing in front of Geysir with Elizabeth. Lucinda had already disappeared down the marked trail.
After a long silence, Elizabeth said. “Mother-daughter relationships can be stressful, can’t they?”
“So I’ve noticed.”
Lucinda might have caused considerable familial disruption by marrying three times, but my own mother, with her five marriages, had her beat by two. The constant changing of the guard at home hadn’t always been easy.
Elizabeth’s voice broke into my trip down Memory Lane. “Penny for your thoughts.”
Here was my chance to find the truth about something that had been puzzling me. “I was thinking about Judy. A sweet person, but someone told me—sorry, I can’t remember who—that she once broke someone’s car window with a rock. Some kind of road rage incident?”
Elizabeth shrugged her bony shoulders. “That sounds like something Dawn would say. Pay no attention to anything that poor girl ever told you, Teddy. I was fond of her, but she and truth were not exactly close friends. There was no road rage incident. Judy has always been a considerate driver, and as far as temper, she’s quite peaceful. All that yoga, I guess. Here’s the real story about that broken window. You know how hot it gets in Arizona in the summer? One day when Judy was crossing the parking lot at the Geronimo Mall, she spotted a puppy locked in a car. It had to be something like 115-degrees outside, which meant that the temperature inside the car was even hotter, so she did what any decent human being would do.”
“Called 9-1-1?”
“That, too. But first she ran back to her own car, got a tire iron, and broke the car window to drag the little thing out. He was in bad shape. Dehydration, heat stroke, the whole nine yards. Then, before the cops arrived, its owner showed up, some dunderheaded woman who saw no problem leaving an animal in a car in the middle of July while she was in an air-conditioned mall buying shoes. Judy was beside herself. There was a fight, and by the time the cops pulled up, she’d bloodied the woman’s nose. Both cops being animal lovers themselves, they didn’t arrest her, but she did get a ticket. And later, she got sued.”
“For hitting the woman or breaking the window?”
“Dog theft. Judy refused to give it back, still has it, too. Named it Shiva. Ugliest creature you ever saw, some kind of pit bull/great Dane mix, grew to the size of a donkey. But loyal? God help any burglar who tries to break into that house!”
“Lucinda didn’t mind her bringing a rescue home?”
A wry smile. “She would have have preferred a rescued eagle instead of some dehydrated mongrel, but she wasn’t about to turn it away. On that front, she’s the same as her daughter. She’s like that inscription on the Statue of Liberty, ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, et cetera,’ only applied to animals instead of people.”
***
Since I had to resort to my Icelandic guidebook to find the place, the birders arrived at Thingvellir ahead of me but I caught up with everyone in the crowded visitors’ center at the top of a steep hill. While hordes of vacationers milled around them, the birders listened as Oddi explained the area’s significance. I was so entranced by the spectacular view outside the center’s large window that only now and then did I catch a few words of the tour guide’s well-practiced spiel.
“Beginning in the tenth century, the Vikings held their national assembly, called the Althingi, here and…”
Having already read about Thingvellir’s significance, I moved closer to the window and further away from the history lesson. In the distance ran the deep rift of Almannagja, where two active geological plates literally split Iceland in half. Running northeast to southwest, the eastern side of the canyon marked the end of the Eurasian continental plate. On the western side, the beginning of the North American plate. Each year the two tectonic plates moved further apart by almost an inch, which may not sound like a lot, but to geologists and science nerds like myself, it meant Iceland would eventually become two separate land masses divided by the North Atlantic. I couldn’t wait to get outside and study the rift more closely, along with the birds that flew above it, of course, but I didn’t want to be rude and leave the others behind.
“…and it’s rumored that the Vikings actually practiced human sacrifice here,” Oddi continued, to the oohs and ahs of his appreciative audience.
Weren’t the Geronimos here to see birds? Flocks of various species were winging their way through the Almannagja, swooping down to pluck up a snack, then back aloft in an aerial dance. Gulls, terns, puffins—you couldn’t go anywhere in Iceland without being surrounded by puffins—warblers, goldfinches…Wait! Wasn’t that red bird with the black wings a scarlet tanager? Impossible. A tanager’s habitat was too far south. Then I remembered the African-based hoopoe Simon had photographed at Vik before he was murdered, so anything, however improbable, was possible. I wouldn’t know for sure unless I heard the bird’s distinct chip-durr, chip-durr call, but from in here, with Oddi yammering…
“…while the law-giving assembly conducted its business, merchants displayed their wares in booths all along the Almannagja. You can still see the remains of…”
Oh, the hell with it.
“Scarlet tanager!” I yelled, dashing out the door.
***
It took only a few minutes to reach the Almannagja, and from ground level, it was even more impressive than it had been from above, yet somewhat claustrophobic. The cliff walls between the two sides of the chasm loomed forty feet above me as I hurried along the trail below in pursuit of the red bird. The tanager didn’t make it easy, darting back and forth from both sides, stopping every now and then to scoop up a bug. Finally, about a quarter-mile from the hubbub of the visitors’ center, it came to rest atop a moss-encrusted outcropping on the North American plate and began preening its feathers. I moved into the shadows of the Eurasian side, not wanting to frighten it away.
Chip-durr, chip-durr.
Yep, a scarlet tanager.
Although the bird’s grati
ng call was considerably less beautiful than its plumage, it still thrilled me. iPhone at the ready, I crept closer to the preening bird. I managed to snap three shots before it cocked its head as if listening to something, emitted an un-tanager-like squawk, and flew further down the chasm.
Cursing under my breath, I followed, while the tanager increased its distance from me.
Now the claustrophobia I’d felt upon first entering the low trail between the two plates really kicked in. Those high canyon walls seemed to close in on me as I ran after the bird, while the flat plain of civilization above appeared to vanish. Down here in the narrow rock tunnel it was all too easy to imagine fierce Vikings above, throwing their sacrificed victims down to the chasm below. Scarlet tanager or no scarlet tanager, I was beginning to regret leaving the visitors’ center by myself.
But there!
The tanager, spotting a tasty morsel atop a pyramid-shaped rock on the North American side of the chasm, swooped down. After landing and gobbling another treat, it stayed to scratch for more.
Perfect.
I stepped out of the shadow of the Eurasian cliff wall and moved forward to get another picture.
And that saved my life.
Chapter Sixteen
I heard the noise first, then a mini-second later felt pain as a bowling ball-sized rock roared down from above, grazing my right heel.
It missed my head by an inch.
Still, the impact knocked me off my feet. Momentarily stunned, I fell back on the Eurasian side of the chasm, staring at my ruined hiking boot. The rock had torn its leather heel away, exposing what was left of my thick sock. Now the beige sock was dappled with bright red polka-dots in the process of growing larger. As I studied the slow color change, I heard a clatter from above. Then a grunt.
The sound snapped me out of my stupor. Instinctively I rolled into the middle of the trail as another rock—this one only slightly smaller than the first—crashed down onto the very spot where I had been lying.
Ignoring the pain in my foot, I stumbled to my feet and dashed across the trail to the North American side, seeking shelter from the next Eurasian rock fall. I pressed myself against the cliff wall, praying that the western side of the separating plates was more stable.
Then I heard footsteps. Quick. Light.
A person on top of the Eurasian plate was running away, back toward the visitors’ center.
Not a rock fall.
Someone had tried to kill me.
As his—or her—footsteps faded, I thought I could hear my heart pound and even the seep of blood through my sock. I looked down at my hands. They were shaking and dirt-encrusted, but empty. Where was my cell phone? I needed to call 9-1-1, or whatever passed for HELP ME in Iceland. What had the guidebook said it was? 2-1-1? 1-1-2? Whatever. I’d dial until some helpful Icelander answered. If I called quickly enough, the police might be able to catch my attacker. I’d been taking a picture of the tanager when the first rock fell…Scratch that. When my attacker threw the first rock at me.
Heart still pounding, I limped back to the Eurasian side and scratched around in the debris, finally finding my phone lying face-up beneath the second rock. Its screen had been crushed, and when I tried to punch in a number, nothing happened. No light. No sound. Dead as a dodo.
Regardless, I put the ruined cell in my pocket and began what now appeared to be a painfully long and uphill trudge back to the visitors’ center. Hobbling along on a flapping piece of leather that used to be a boot didn’t help.
Luck was with me. As I limped past several large stones arranged in a rough rectangle—the remnants of one of an ancient sacrificial altar?—I saw a group of sightseers walking toward me. I recognized none of them, but they, too had a tour guide, this one a woman.
“…and remember, this is the same place where the Icelanders, who up to this point had remained pagan, voted to accept Christianity as their official relig…Oh, my goodness, Miss! Are you hurt? Yes, of course you are. You are limping and there is much blood all over…”
I waved away her concern. “I’ll live, but I’d appreciate it if someone could lend me a phone. I need to make a call.”
They all, including the tour guide, reached into their pockets, backpacks, and/or handbags, but Tab Cooper surprised me by emerging from the back of the mob and handing me his Android.
“Holy crap, Teddy! Do you need an ambulance?” His voice and face radiated concern. At least it sounded and looked like concern.
“I need the cops more.” Then I raised my voice, addressing the rest of the crowd. “Anyone know their number?”
“Try 1-1-2,” their tour guide answered.
I limped far enough away from the group that they couldn’t eavesdrop. After a brief conversation with an emergency operator, I found myself transferred to a police sergeant, who after hearing my story, transferred me yet again, this time to Inspector Thorvaald Haraldsson. I wasn’t happy about that, and neither was he.
“I am dispatching local officers immediately, but in the meantime, you stay put until I get to Thingvellir!” he ordered, after I’d repeated my story.
“Stay put? In between two separating tectonic plates?”
“Do not get smart with me, Miss Theodora Bentley. Go up to the visitors’ center, have your leg attended to at the First Aid…”
“Foot.”
“Foot attended to at the First Aid station and then sit there on your pretty a…ah, sit there until I drive over from Reykjavik. It’ll take about forty minutes. You can sit still for that long, can’t you?”
I was so irritated by his bossy tone that my foot forgot to hurt. “Oh, I dunno, Inspector. I’m an active gal.”
“So I have noticed. In the meantime, whatever you do, do not—I repeat—do not allow yourself to be left alone with any member of the Wild Apaches, do you understand?”
Despite my aching heel, I had to snigger. “You mean the Geronimos.”
“The what?”
“The birding group calls themselves the Geronimos, Inspector. But I read you loud and clear.” I rang off. Haraldsson’s warning had been unnecessary. Those tectonic plates would be a hundred miles apart by the time I trusted any of the birders again.
After returning the phone to Tab Cooper, I announced that I needed to visit the First Aid station, which further complicated my situation, because Tab immediately offered to help me get there. Ordinarily I would have accepted, because he was a strong-looking guy and I could lean on him as I limped along. However, when he’d loaned me his phone, I’d noticed that for such a perfectly groomed man, his hands were filthy.
So filthy that he could have been playing in the dirt.
Or throwing rocks.
The awkward moment was saved by a muscular Icelander who offered his own services. “The history of this place is quite interesting,” he said, “but this is my fourth time at Thingvellir and I already know everything our beautiful guide is telling us. I will help you to the First Aid station, Miss, and catch up with my group later.”
Before Tab could protest, I accepted the big Icelander’s steadying arm, and off we went.
Along the way, we passed other Geronimos. With the exception of the Walshes, who were photographing a dowdy chaffinch together, each was alone. After professing dismay at my condition, they all denied hearing me scream “Scarlet tanager!” and explained that after Oddi finished his lecture on the area’s history, they had each gone their own way. The only excuse that seemed suspect was Judy’s. She had paused beneath a rocky overhang to use her inhaler. When the big Icelander paused to ask if she needed assistance, she waved us away.
But not before I noticed that her hands were as dirty as Tab’s. And her face was as flushed as if she’d just finished running a four-minute-mile.
Time may fly when you’re having fun, but it drags when you’re limping along on a sore foot. Thanks to my Icelandic
crutch, we eventually reached the First Aid station, where he handed me over to an equally compassionate attendant. After cutting what remained of my hiking boot and sock off my blood-soaked foot, the attendant cleaned the wound, salved it with a pain-easing ointment, and wrapped it in bandages to keep it clean.
My foot would heal, he said, but my boot was toast. “Unless you know a skilled cobbler, Miss?”
I shook my head. Like most Americans, I seldom repaired shoes or boots when they became old or damaged; I bought new ones. Since these old boots had been with me for years, I felt no pang of loss, and decided to simply buy a new pair when I got back to Reykjavik. While being helped through the visitors’ center to the First Aid station, we’d passed through the clothing section, where I’d spied a backless pair of clogs with the Icelandic flag emblazoned on the vamp. I tried on a pair and discovered they were not only cute, but perfect for my wounded heel. Even better, when I limped up to the checkout counter with them, the solicitous clerk gave me a twenty-five percent discount.
God bless Icelanders.
Sporting my new pair of shoes, I went over to the book section and bought the new Yrsa Sigurdardóttir mystery. Book in hand, I settled onto a bench and waited for Inspector Haraldsson.
***
What with the traffic getting out of Reykjavik, the inspector had been somewhat optimistic about the time it would take to get to Thingvellir, and he and an accompanying officer didn’t show up for almost an hour. By then I’d made it to page forty-seven and the discovery of a fourth murder victim, killed horribly in a machete attack. Iceland may have averaged less than a murder per year, but its authors loved wholesale slaughter.
When Haralsson saw the book I was reading, he frowned, but instead of playing literary critic, said, “The local police radioed they were unable to find your assailant.”
“That’s what they told me, too.”
At the clip my assailant was running away, he—or she—probably made it back to the visitors’ center or even the parking lot long before the local police had shown up. When the two officers had interviewed me, I was unable to even give them a description. It was a relief knowing they accepted my story without question, but it was also alarming. They, too, were convinced someone had tried to kill me.
