The Puffin of Death

by Betty Webb

  The article I’d found on the Internet said that when Simon won the Powerball, he had donated a large amount to a battered women’s shelter. The one Adele volunteered for, I bet. Their pillow talk must have entailed something more substantial than the standard billing and cooing.

  “Is that about it?” I asked. “No more tales of terror and/or wickedness re the people you keep referring to as my ‘buddies’?”

  “Nope. Tab Cooper, clean as a whistle. Almost suspiciously so, you might say, not even a parking ticket. As for Elizabeth St. John, her life’s an open book, ha ha.” He waited for my laugh, which I duly gave him, then continued. “Well-respected, well-liked, yadda yadda yadda. Donates to various charities, local and national. As for Lucinda Greaves, several marriages and some financial troubles—looks like the bank’s going to foreclose on her house—but no overt law-breaking I could find. Her daughter Judy runs a small yoga studio in a strip mall, and once got into some minor trouble over a semi-violent animal rescue but that’s about it.”

  Myself, I wouldn’t call a bloody nose “semi-violent,” but where an animal’s safety is concerned, I wouldn’t have cared if Judy had ripped off the woman’s ears.

  I’d saved my most important question for last. “Look, Joe, I know you’re telling me all this to warn me away from the group, and believe me, it’s working. But I am curious. Did you find out anything hinky about Simon Parr? Why would someone want to kill him? His wife’s already loaded, so she wouldn’t do it for the money. From what I hear, Arizona’s a community property state, too, so she’d have been paid out half the Powerball winnings when they showed up to collect the prize.”

  His voice lowered to growl again. “Aren’t you forgetting about the second victim, one Dawn Talley? The newspaper article mentions her, too.”

  “Yeah, but given what you told me about her husband…”

  “He’s top suspect there, for sure. But back to Mr. Megabucks Parr. I’ll admit I did a little digging around on him and I discovered that he led an exemplary life. Until…” he paused for effect. “Until he won that obscenely large Powerball. Then, in the short space of two months, he racked up three DUIs. The only reason he’s not in jail now—besides being dead, of course—is because his ever-so-expensive attorneys keep getting the court date pushed back.” He paused again. “You know, Teddy, I shouldn’t have told you any of this. At the worst, I’m aiding and abetting. At best, I’m enabling. Know what an enabler is?”

  Just then, Bryndis came through the door, her arms full of groceries. She bustled past me, leaving a faint trail of Eau de Zoo, and set the bags on the counter. It gave me the chance I needed to avoid another lecture.

  “My roommate just got home!” I said. “She brought groceries, and I need to help put them away.”

  Bryndis shook her head fiercely, not wanting to interrupt my phone call, but I ignored her. “After everything you told me, Joe, I promise to mind my own business from here on. Bye! Love you!” Over his protests, I made kissy noises and killed the call.

  “I thought you said you were staying with the birders through tomorrow,” Bryndis said, as she set a bag of sugar onto a pantry shelf. “Say, isn’t that a new phone?”

  I updated her on what had happened so far, ending with the reason for the new phone. I also mentioned my confiscated passport. To her credit, she looked every bit as alarmed as Joe had sounded.

  “Do not worry about Thor confiscating your passport, Teddy. You can bunk with me as long as necessary and it will be a pleasure. This is all my fault because I should never had have asked you to help Ragnar. As it turns out, Thor has already dropped him from their list of suspects. Ragnar called me this morning and told me.”

  Thor, meaning Inspector Thorvaald Haraldsson. I still found it startling that Icelanders referred to everyone, from their police to their president, by their first names, but I guess that’s how it works in a small country where everyone is related to everyone else.

  “Did the inspector say Ragnar is off the hook because there’s been another killing and he was nowhere near the scene of the crime this time?” I asked.

  “He didn’t have to. What happened in Stykkishólmur is all over the news. It is a lucky thing Ragnar was in Höfn, isn’t it?”

  “Very lucky.”

  Maybe too lucky.

  Chapter Eighteen

  My first day in Reykjavik, I’d learned about Valkyrie, Bryndis’ rock band, but I hadn’t yet had a chance to see them in action. The night I’d spent at Stykkishólmur had been the night for their regular gig at Hávær Tónlist, an arts district hard rock bar whose name meant “Loud Music.” As soon as Bryndis had showered off the gamey smells of the zoo, she informed me that I could see them tonight, if I wished.

  While someone had been trying to kill me in Thingvellir, the Valkyries had been experiencing better luck. They had received an offer to sub tonight for Of Monsters and Men, a popular Reykjavik band now opening for U2 in Brussels. The night club Myndavél—Icelandic for “Camera”—was larger and more well-known than the Hávær Tónlist, so it was a great opportunity.

  “This will be your last chance to experience Valkyrie in action before you return to the U.S. on Saturday.”

  “If Inspector Haraldsson doesn’t cut my passport loose, I’ll never make that flight,” I mourned.

  “Then you can stay here and be our official groupie.”

  I smiled. “And help you take care of more polar bear orphans. Not a bad deal.”

  ***

  The thing to know about Icelandic night life is that it happens late. Very late.

  When we arrived at Myndavél at eleven, Bryndis was already in her stage costume. Brass breastplate lined with fleece for comfort; skimpy leather loincloth, brass arm and wrist bracelets, brass helmet, hammered brass shield, and laced knee-high leather sandals. She resembled the shield-maiden Lagertha, on the Vikings TV series.

  Three similarly attired Valkyries were waiting for her in the Icelandic equivalent of a Green Room, except it was painted black. The rug and sofa were black, too. To lighten the mood, black-and-white photographs of other bands who had played the venue hung on the walls. Some I even recognized: The Sugarcubes, Beck, Sigur Rós, Arcade Fire, Kings of Leon, and, of all people, Kanye West.

  As fierce as the Valkyries appeared, each displayed childlike joy at the prospect of playing a major venue. Most of the time the women were polite enough to speak in English so that I could understand them, but so high was their level of excitement they kept breaking into frenzied Icelandic soliloquies.

  Leaving them to their ecstasies, I mouthed a “See you later” to Bryndis and wended my way through a tightly packed crowd to sit at the table reserved for the band; it was the only empty table in the entire place. The Green Room’s color scheme continued in the club itself. Black floor, black walls, etc. When the waitress, dressed in black, natch, came around I ordered a bottle of Black Death in honor of the occasion.

  I was taking my first sip of the strong brew when someone tapped me on the shoulder and a man’s voice said, “Can we join you?”

  I turned around to see Tab Cooper, dressed like an editorial spread in Ivy League Quarterly, holding hands with Judy Malone, resplendent in a colorful sari-print dress. They stood out from the rest of the black-clad crowd like sunshine at midnight.

  “Sure,” I answered, “but since this is the band’s table, you’ll have to find another spot when they go on break.”

  “No problem,” Tab said, pulling back a chair for Judy. “How’s your foot, by the way? You were limping pretty badly at Thingvellir.”

  “Much better, thanks.” My heel hadn’t swollen as much as I’d feared it would, and luckily, it still fit into my Nikes. And my limp was manageable enough that I would be able to continue my work at the zoo.

  Once Tab and Judy had ordered their drinks, I explained how I came to be in the tavern that night, hoping th
ey would do the same. They did. After Inspector Haraldsson took possession of everyone’s passports, the group voted to return to their Reykjavik hotel for a breather. Although their tour hadn’t been physically strenuous, the loss of two members had taken an emotional toll on everyone.

  “When we left the hotel, Mom and the others were with Elizabeth,” Judy said. “She’d seemed fine all afternoon, but while we were at dinner, she started crying, so Enid Walsh helped her to her room. You know how solicitous she is.”

  Solicitous for a crook, yeah. “Did Ben Talley have dinner with you, too?”

  Tab shook his head. “Nobody’s seen him since we left Stykkishólmur.”

  Grieving, maybe. Or gloating. Mistrusting my own growing cynicism, I looked at my watch. The Valkyries weren’t due onstage for another ten minutes and this was a good chance to clear up a few things.

  “How’d you get involved in birding, Tab?” I asked. “It seems like an unusual hobby for an actor.”

  He smiled his perfect smile. “Dad was one of the Geronimos’ founding members, and every chance he got, he’d take me with him when he went on their trips. Birds were the only thing we had in common, and I guess that’s one of the reasons it stuck. I’m grateful we were able to share that, because he passed away last year. Everyone in the club turned out for the funeral.”

  After expressing sympathy—there was so much of that going around these days—I said, “You say you two didn’t have much in common, so I take it he wasn’t an actor.”

  “CPA. He was actually in business with Simon for a while.”

  I’d like to say fireworks blazed into the sky. Instead, the light show was more of a slow dawning. “Your father was Simon Parr’s partner?”

  “Fifteen years ago. Burlingame and Parr, that was their company.” By way of explanation, he added, “Cooper’s my professional name. And I’m not ‘Tab,’ either. It’s Jim. James, actually, but my agent said there were already too many of both.”

  No wonder Joe hadn’t found anything on “Tab Cooper.” Remembering Tab’s dirty hands at Thingvellir, I made a mental note to run a web search on James Burlingame as soon as I got back to the apartment.

  I looked at my watch again. Five more minutes. Enough time for a few more questions. “Boy, it’s sure close in here,” I said, dabbing fictional sweat off my face with my beer napkin. “Hot. Stuffy. I can hardly breathe. Doesn’t this bother your asthma, Judy?”

  She frowned. “Who told you I had asthma?”

  “Your mother, I think. She worries about you.” Not that Lucinda had ever showed it in my presence.

  “Mom’s more of a control freak than a worrier, but to answer your question, I’m fine these days. Yoga has done wonders for me.”

  “No flare-ups?”

  “Only when I overexert myself, which I’ve learned not to do.”

  Except, possibly, when throwing around boulders at Thingvellir, then running as fast as possible to get away from the scene of the crime.

  “Now I’m regretting not taking you up on that free yoga lesson at Gullfoss,” I said.

  Her face relaxed. “You could always drop by the hotel. Just call ahead.” She reached into her handbag and took out a card. White lettering on a dark blue background said, “Be at one with the Universe.” Beneath that rather ambitious saying was her name and her cell phone number.

  “I’ll do that. By the way…”

  My next question was interrupted by an announcement in Icelandic over the loudspeaker, and a second later, the Valkyries sprang onstage, ready for battle. After a shout in Old Norse from Bryndis, they began to play.

  Imagine a blend of heavy metal bands Metallica and Megadeth, overlaid with harmonies that would do any gospel choir proud. Flying in the face of probability, this bizarre mixture of styles worked for the Valkyries, and the few people in the audience who had been lucky enough to find seats, rose to their feet, fannies waggling, fists pumping in time with the beat. Judy, Tab/Jim/James, and I rose with them, shaking fists and waggling our butts along with everyone else. I hadn’t felt so energized since I’d been in college and attended a Pearl Jam concert at the Fillmore.

  The highlight of the Valkyries’ set was a speed-metal version of “Hey, Jude,” sung in a mixture of Old Norse and English, and dedicated to “Our great American friend and defender of the environment, Teddy Bentley.”

  After what seemed like a too-short set, the band left the stage and made their way through the still applauding crowd to our table. Tab and Judy stood, ready to give up their seats, but Bryndis told them to sit back down, that they would drag up another couple of chairs. At first Tab could hardly keep his eyes off the musicians’ skimpy outfits, but after Judy jabbed him in the ribs a couple of times, he settled down. The ogling ground to a stop when Ragnar, who’d been standing unseen against the back wall, walked over and joined us.

  “How did we do?” Bryndis asked him, her eyes shining.

  It takes an artist to know how to really praise other artists, and Ragnar let ’er rip. By the time he was through extolling the band’s various and sundry virtues, all of it true, the Valkyries looked more like love-struck maidens than fierce warriors.

  As the night wore on, the Valkyries played two more sets, and in between each, returned to our table to chat, interrupted every now and then by fans who stopped by to have their Valkyrie CDs autographed. Every now and then I noticed Bryndis sneaking looks at Tab. Girls will be girls, right?

  When we finally made it back to the apartment in the wee hours, I learned how wrong I was.

  “Do not trust that man,” she said, unbuckling her breast plate.

  “Are you talking about Tab? Or Ragnar?”

  She placed her forefinger alongside her cheek and cocked her head. “Hmm. Let me see. Could I be talking about Ragnar, who has always been honest about his roving eye, or Mr. Tab Cooper, he of the two different names?”

  “Well, he’s an actor…”

  I sat down on the bed while she peeled over the rest of her costume. All that brass and leather had left red marks all over her body. Stripped to her undies, she wrapped herself in a terry robe, then sat down on the bed across from mine.

  “Tab Cooper is an actor, you say? So, to a certain extent is Ragnar, as you will find out when Berserker! is released.”

  “Berserker?” I’d heard the legend of the fabled Viking warriors who behaved like madmen in battle, spurred on by large amounts of booze and a mysterious drink that was the Dark Ages version of crystal meth.

  “Ragnar begins filming the battle scenes tomorrow. He is always on call for movies, especially when they’re about Vikings. Or bikers.”

  I had to laugh at that, but rather than let myself be dragged into a conversation about the similarities between the two groups, brought her back to the subject. “What has Ragnar’s film work got to do with Tab Cooper, and his untrustworthiness thereof?”

  She gave me a sly look. “Little, other than the fact that both Ragnar and Tab are actors and are therefore skilled liars. But given Ragnar’s faults, and they are legion, he has never lied to me, whereas I am certain Mr. Two Names spent most of the evening telling us what you call whoppers.”

  “Examples, please.”

  “Regardless of his big fake smile, Mr. Two Names is an angry man. We Icelanders get to know one another by discussing family, and to a certain extent, you Americans do, too, so I asked him about his.”

  “I don’t remember this.”

  “At the time, you were in the ladies room, getting rid of the beer you love so much.”

  True. I’d drunk two bottles of Black Death, and its effect on my bladder had been considerable.

  “While you were gone, Mr. Two Names told me he was an only child, that his mother worked in an office she hated, and that her boss was rude to her. He also talked more about his father dying, and kept saying, ‘It shouldn’t have happ
ened, it shouldn’t have happened.’ As he told me this, his eyes were trying to look pitiful, but he is not the actor he thinks he is. He was more angry than sad.”

  My opinion of Bryndis’ astuteness rose even higher. But she was a zookeeper, after all. Our charges can’t talk to us so we become experts at reading body language.

  “What do you think Tab’s angry about?”

  “I have noticed that Americans get emotional about money. Especially its loss.”

  She wasn’t wrong there.

  “I also talked to Judy,” Bryndis continued. “When I first met her at Vik, which was for only one short conversation, she seemed as angry as Mr. Two Names. But now she is happy.”

  “Young love makes pussycats of us all.”

  “Perhaps. But I will say this one thing, and then I must go wash off the grime of the night. I sweat a lot under that breastplate. So here it is. Mr. Two Names’ mother continues to work at a job she hates, so therefore she must need the money. Her son, being an actor, probably has little to contribute to her welfare, yet when he discussed her with me, he seemed fond of her and concerned about her well-being. As a son should! Now I will discuss Mr. Two Names’ girlfriend. Like her boyfriend, Judy makes little money and is two months behind on the rent of her yoga studio. Her mother is between jobs and the bank is going to take her house away.”

  I had to interrupt. “You learned all this while I was in the bathroom?”

  A smug expression. “I knew from past experience there would be a long line waiting to get into one of the stalls, so I worked fast. Besides, Judy was drunk.”

  True, at the end of the night, Tab had had to pretty much carry Judy out of the bar. I was still smiling at the memory when Bryndis added something else.