The Puffin of Death

by Betty Webb

  For that reason I repeated my story again, adding a few details I hadn’t been able to give Haraldsson over the phone. Neatness freak Tab Cooper’s soiled hands, for instance, Judy’s red face and inhaler for another, not to mention the fact that the birders had wandered along the pathway individually, not as a group, and that Oddi, their tour guide, said he had lost sight of them all.

  “Each of them split off to photograph birds. Different birds. Perched on different rocks.”

  Haraldsson’s frown grew deeper. “I will interview them. Did you say they were in the restaurant?”

  “Your officers told them not to leave until you’d talked to them, so they decided they might as well enjoy an early lunch. Elizabeth promised to bring me a sandwich.” She had, too. The ham and cheese was dry, but at least it kept my stomach from growling.

  While customers milled around the store buying plush toy puffins, Icelandic flag key rings, and tee-shirts emblazoned with phrases in Old Norse, I continued my story, adding that when they found me in the gift shop, each of the birders, even crotchety Luncinda, had acted distressed over my injured foot.

  “They took it for granted the rock fall was a natural occurrence,” I said. “At least that’s what they said. Shifting tectonic plates and all that. The only one who differed was Elizabeth. She thought the rock fall was too much of a coincidence.”

  I had seen alarm leap into the author’s eyes. Tellingly, perhaps, she had directed a hard look at Tab Cooper and Judy Malone. She also had no trouble understanding why I preferred to wait for the inspector in the gift shop and not with the others in the restaurant.

  “Writers are trained observers,” I told Haraldsson, “She might have noticed something I didn’t.”

  His grim expression became even grimmer. “I will interview them all. By the way, I spoke to the magistrate this morning, stressing the fact that this small group had already been involved with two murders and one murder attempt in only four days, and he has given me the authority to relieve you all of your passports. Do you have yours on you, Miss Bentley, or is it back in Reykjavik?”

  “At Bryndis’ apartment. But I’m supposed to fly back to the States on Saturday! And I think the Geronimos are leaving the day before.”

  “Not any more. Considering everything that has happened, we would be remiss not to demand you all stay in Iceland until an arrest has been made.”

  “You mean another arrest.” I wasn’t about to let him forget he’d first arrested Ragnar. “What if you can’t solve the crime?”

  “That is unlikely.”

  “But if you can’t? What are we all supposed to do? Rent an apartment? Get jobs and hang out together until the killer finally confesses out of sheer frustration?”

  Or commits more murders, as per the plot line of Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Indians.

  “I doubt it will come to that,” Haraldsson said.

  Further argument proved futile. Giving up, I said, “Oh, all right. I’ll go back to Reykjavik, get my passport, and drive it down to the police station.” I stood up and managed to totter a few steps away before he caught me by the arm.

  “You cannot drive in your condition.”

  “Sure I can. The Volvo I rented is an automatic, not a stick.”

  “Your right heel is injured, and unless rental cars have changed their design in the past year, your right foot will be the one pressing the accelerator as well as the brake. Therefore I will drive you back to Reykjavik myself.”

  “But my rental…”

  He didn’t let me finish, only nodded toward the young officer who had accompanied him. “Eymundur will return your car to the rental company. There will be no more driving for you.”

  “But…”

  “Give Eymundur your car keys, Miss Bentley.”

  “You can’t…”

  “I certainly can. Hand them over or I will take them from you.”

  Grumbling, I surrendered my keys. For his part, Officer Eymundur accepted them with a sheepish look. The two then headed toward the restaurant to interview the others, but before leaving, Haraldsson managed one final comment.

  “Cute shoes,” he said. “The Icelandic flag looks good on you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The trip back to Reykjavik with Inspector Haraldsson wasn’t as uncomfortable as I had feared. Instead of lecturing me, he pointed out sights that amused him. Smoking volcano; tourists snapping pictures. Ancient sheep farm buried by lava; tourists snapping pictures. Steaming hot springs; tourists snapping pictures. Film set on lava-strewn beach; tourists snapping pictures. Roadside horses begging for handouts; tourists snapping pictures.

  Which reminded me. “My phone’s ruined. Why are you keeping it?” We were passing yet another spectacular waterfall and the inevitable camera-snapping tourists.

  “Because our crime lab can work wonders. There is a possibility that after you dropped it, it continued snapping pictures before breaking, maybe even taking a picture of your assailant.”

  “Before breaking? Squished would be a more accurate term.”

  “Squished? Good word. I will add it to my English vocabulary.” When he smiled, he looked almost handsome. “But you must stop poking your nose into places where it does not belong or your nose also might become squished.”

  And here I’d thought I’d escaped another lecture. “I had to ‘poke my nose,’ as you put it, because you arrested the wrong person. Ragnar didn’t kill Simon Parr.”

  “This I know.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “When did that revelation strike you?”

  “Our medical examiner discovered that Mrs. Talley—whom you told everyone was your old school friend, but was a lie—did not drown. She was killed by a blow to the head from that blunt instrument your American mystery writers are so fond of when they are not shooting their victims to death with big guns. There was no water in Mrs. Talley’s lungs, none at all, the poor lady.”

  So Inspector Haraldsson had a heart, even if he took pains to hide it. “Yes. Poor Dawn.”

  We passed another volcano and more tourists taking pictures.

  “As to your roommate’s boyfriend, Ragnar,” Haraldsson continued, “when Mrs. Talley died, he was with a group of artist friends in Höfn, helping them set up a new art collective. He has many, many people who will swear to his presence. We believe them, although they are artists.” Was it my imagination or did that grim mouth twitch into a grin?

  “Where’s Höfn?”

  “More than three hundred kilometers east of Reykjavik.” While I was still converting kilometers to miles in my head, he added, “That would be approximately two hundred U.S. miles. I also do not find it credible that one person killed Mr. Simon Parr and a different person killed Mrs. Talley, do you?” Not waiting for my answer, he continued, “Of course you don’t. You can act foolishly, but you are no fool. Now, Miss Bentley, I do not want your head squished like Mrs. Talley’s or shot like Mr. Parr’s. Do you understand?”

  Another hot spring, more tourists. “You’ve made that perfectly clear, Inspector.”

  “Then give me your promise you will cease your snooping.”

  “Promise,” I said, hiding my crossed fingers with the other hand.

  A chuckle. “Now promise again, Miss Bentley, this time with both hands where I can see them.”

  There’s nothing more irritating than an observant cop. “Only if you promise to listen without arguing while I tell you everything I’ve found out.”

  “I promise, and not with crossed fingers. So now it is your turn to promise. For real.”

  After I complied, he listened intently while told him everything I’d discovered over the past few days. I’d expected him to look impressed, but he didn’t.

  He looked worried.

  ***

  Bryndis hadn’t returned home from the zoo by the time we dr
ew up to her apartment, but since she had given me a key, it created no problem. After I unlocked the door, Haraldsson followed me to the desk in the living room where I’d stashed my passport.

  “You may want to alert Icelandic Air to your possible cancellation,” he said, stashing the passport in his suit pocket. “I have said the same thing to the other members of your group.”

  “They’re not my group.”

  He shrugged, made me renew my promise not to stick my nose in police business—both hands showing—then left. Annoyed, I limped toward the kitchen. I needed coffee.

  Chamomile tea would have been a better choice, because after a few sips my hands, steady enough earlier, started trembling. After I sloshed away half the contents of my mug, I gave up and poured the rest down the sink. While wiping up the coffee I’d spilled on the table it occurred to me that I should have asked Haraldsson to drop me off at an electronics store—there was one on almost every block in Reykjavik—so I could replace the phone I’d lost. Well, not lost, exactly…

  My hands shook so hard the dishrag I was holding fell to the floor.

  That’s when I realized the problem wasn’t caffeine. I was having a delayed reaction to my near-death experience at Thingvellir. Haraldsson had been right. What was I thinking, playing detective in a strange country more than four thousand miles from home? Hunting for a two-time killer, no less!

  I needed to talk to someone, and that someone was no frosty Icelandic police inspector. Fortunately, the clock on the stove read almost six, which meant it was around ten a.m. in California. Or eleven, since the state’s switch to Daylight Savings Time, which never ceases to confuse me. Whichever, Joe would be be at his desk in the San Sebastian County sheriff’s office. If I hurried, I could make it to the electronics store down the block before it closed.

  Halfway there my foot reminded me how sore it was. Despite the pain and a warning trickle of blood, I soldiered on, reaching the store at the same time the proprietor was hanging up the CLOSED sign. Being a typical Icelander, he took pity on my frantic state and opened the door. A half hour later I was back at the apartment with a new phone and a newly throbbing foot. Five minutes later, after chugging two aspirins, I was on the line to Joe, who luckily, was finished with the morning briefing. He was usually even-tempered, but not today.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing, Teddy?”

  Feigning innocence, I said, “Why, I’m talking to the handsomest county sheriff in California.”

  I’ve known pit bulls with friendlier growls. “Don’t play the innocence card with me.”

  “You’re worried about that text I sent you last night, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, gee. What makes you think that? Why should I be worried, finding out that the woman I love to distraction has gone and immersed herself in another murder case, this time in a place where I can’t come galloping to the rescue? Why should I be upset about that? Huh? Huh?”

  I winced. Joe seldom got mad, but he was boiling now. It was a good thing there were four thousand miles between us or he’d shoot me. In a manner of speaking, of course. Twenty years on the job and Joe had never shot anyone, although I knew there were times when he’d been tempted. Like now.

  “You think it was my fault I was out horseback riding and stumbled across a dead guy?”

  “Knowing you, yes!”

  “Really?”

  I could hear him draw a deep breath. “Well, you didn’t have to get involved in the case.” The growl diminished to a soft rumble.

  “Joe, I didn’t have any choice. The police questioned me like they did everyone else.”

  Another deep breath. “Teddy, did you know that the Gunn Landing Reporter ran an article this morning about that homicide and your name was mentioned? As a witness?”

  “I was not a witness. He was dead when I got there.”

  “Ha ha.” But he wasn’t laughing. “I must have called you a dozen times and left a dozen messages! And nearly texted my fingers off! Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

  Because in the morning I was busy talking to murder suspects, and after that, whoever killed Simon and Dawn tried to kill me, and in the attempt, squashed my phone to smithereens. But I had better sense than to tell him that. “My phone went kablooey this morning when I was hiking out in Iceland’s version of No Man’s Land, and I’ve only now returned to the Land of All Things Electronic. Your number was the first one I dialed on my new phone, which is quite nice by the way.” I left out the fact that I was delivered back to Reykjavik via police escort.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, oh.” Now that he was on the defensive, it was time to make my move. “But I’ll admit I’m curious about the people who knew Simon Parr, the dead guy, and I was wondering if you had any information on them. Reykjavik’s a small place. In fact the whole country’s kind of small, and it’s hard to avoid anyone here, so it would be good to know if any of them are dangerous so I can stay far, far away.”

  A suspicious silence. Then, “Are you playing me, Teddy?”

  “No, no, I’m not, I swear.” Hoping to distract him, I said, “I’m just tired, Joe. I’ve been working with the bear cub, some Icelandic foxes, and a couple of puffins.”

  “Puffins?” A native Californian, Joe had never seen a puffin in his life, except while watching Wild Kingdom with me.

  “If you want, I’ll give you a private tour as soon as they’re settled in at the Gunn Zoo.”

  For a minute I didn’t think he was going to answer. When he did, it had nothing to do with animals, at least not the four-legged kind. “Teddy, listen to me carefully. I want you to stay far away from Benjamin Talley. He’s done time.”

  “For vehicular homicide, I know.”

  “That, too.”

  It took me aback. “What do you mean, ‘that, too?’ Was there something else?”

  “Your boy’s been in more fights than Mike Tyson, but unlike Tyson, he loses most of his. He starts them, though. You know that Talley’s Restaurants chain? Like the one here in San Sebastian?”

  “And formerly one in Gunn Landing.”

  “Soon-to-be-formerly here, too. The chain’s filing for bankruptcy. But that’s besides the point. A few years back, Talley worked as bouncer in the flagship restaurant’s bar—they’re Kansas City-based—and he was always getting in fights. His specialty was blowing trivial incidents into major ones, something a good bouncer never does, but from reading his sheet, I got the idea he liked the action. The biggie was the time he decked some guy from Topeka for mouthing off, and put him in a coma for a week. The guy sued, and the money the Talley family attorneys threw at the other attorneys couldn’t make it go away. The guy eventually got a big cash settlement, and Talley wound up doing six months. After he was released, the family gave him the title of VP, along with a monthly stipend, but that’s it. He’s officially persona non grata as far as they’re concerned. You stay away from that man, hear me?”

  So much for the accuracy of Cowgirl Spencer’s gossip-mongering. Not that I could blame her. She could only tap into the scandals around Geronimo County, not events halfway across the country. This new information make me look at Ben in a new light. Dawn, too. Had he ever gotten physical with her? And that so-called “shoving match” at Sky Harbor International Airport before the birders departed for Iceland? From the information Joe had given me, Ben might have been the aggressor there, not Simon Parr.

  “Agreed. I won’t go near him.” Good thing he couldn’t see my crossed fingers.

  “Now, as to the rest of your buddies…”

  “I told you, they’re not my buddies.”

  “The rest of your buddies don’t smell like roses, either! Perry and Enid Walsh are under investigation for…”

  “I know all about that,” I interrupted. “The charges were dropped.”

  “First time around, yeah. But my information is
that they’re back at it, fobbing off fake jewelry as real.”

  “They’re nice people!” I protested.

  He actually laughed. “The best con artists always are. Don’t buy anything from them.” He laughed again.

  Since I liked her, I was almost afraid to ask about burgundy-haired Adele Cobb, Simon’s ex-mistress, but I did anyway, adding, “Please don’t tell me she’s an ax murderess.”

  His voice turned serious. “No, she used a Colt .38.”

  “What!?”

  “Teddy, one of these days you’re going to learn not to place your trust in people because they seem ‘nice.’ Point in fact, for a few years there was a string of domestic violence calls from the Cobb residence…” He paused. “You do know she’d been married, right?”

  “Uh, no.” I was so focused on Adele’s relationship with Simon Parr that I hadn’t thought to ask.

  “Reece Cobb was a bad actor, no doubt about it. He put Adele in the hospital twice, but she would never testify against him, so the case always went away. Then one night he broke her jaw, and I guess she’d had enough, because she popped him one with his own handgun. But she was a lousy shot and got him high in the forearm. Flesh wound. Went right through, so he’s fine. Re-married and from what I could find out, is busy battering the second Mrs. Cobb. Nothing happened to Adele, because it was an obvious case of self-defense.”

  Why hadn’t Cowgirl told me? I asked the obvious question. “This didn’t happen in Geronimo County, did it?”

  “Florida. She moved to Arizona twelve years ago. Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering. Other than her shooting her husband, who as far as I’m concerned deserved it, was there anything else?”

  “Well, there was this one time she played detective over a theft at her house and maybe went a little too far in pursuit of justice, but what the hell. As far as I’m concerned, she saved the local law trouble and money. Crime-fighting doesn’t come cheap, you know. Another thing. She volunteers at a shelter for battered women, and every now and then feeds the folks at a homeless shelter. Can’t help liking a woman like that.” He paused, then added, “Or wondering, maybe, if she’s too good to be true.”