by Betty Webb
But, no.
The puffin circled back and dove at me, uttering the same low growl I’d heard once before—on the cliff at Vik, when I’d wandered too close to her burrow. Still growling, she flew toward my face, getting closer and closer until I could make out the white stripe on her head.
“Good Mama,” I whispered. “Protect your baby!”
I reversed direction, turning away from Mama Puffin and the too-close cliff ledge at Vik. Within a few yards, the ground began to climb.
You lose track of time and space when you’re running blind, and at first I thought I was imagining things when over Katla’s grumbling and rumbling I heard someone call my name. Several someones, actually.
“Teddy!” Ragnar.
“Where are you, Teddy?” Bryndis.
“Yell so we can find you!” The lead singer of “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.”
“Here!” I yelled back, almost tripping again in my excitement.
Oblong shapes bobbed toward me through the fog, some of them steadier than others, which might have had something to do with the liberal ingestion of Katla’s Kisses. I ran toward them, waving with one arm, because for some reason I couldn’t use the other.
“Hurry! Elizabeth’s been hurt and needs help!”
One by one they emerged from the mist, looking like dirty snowmen. Ragnar, Bryndis, Olli, Ulfur, and a host of barbarians and astronauts.
“We realized you were not following us,” Bryndis said, as she reached me. “So we came back. We could not let…Wait. What is wrong with your arm, Teddy? There is blood all over you! And where is your shirt?”
“That is a pretty bra,” Ragnar said. He couldn’t take his eyes off my chest.
Bryndis made a noise almost like the growling puffin’s. “Look the other way, Ragnar.” To me, she repeated, “Teddy, your arm. What happened?”
I stared down at my arm. No wonder it wouldn’t work. I had lost so much blood I couldn’t see much skin, just long streaks of red. “Oh. That. I’m fine, not all mine, some of it’s Elizabeth’s, but we have to…uh, we have to…”
Why couldn’t I think straight?
I turned around and began walking back up the hill toward Elizabeth, taking it for granted the others would follow. “I’ll take you to her, but be careful, because she’s…uh, dangerous. I took her knife away and threw it down the…uh, the hill, because she killed her husband, and then she killed Dawn because…uh, I’ll tell you later, then she tried to kill me, a couple of times, but I…uh, I got away, and then…”
I began to cough.
I was cold. So cold.
But what could you expect with so much ice and ash in the air? Nasty old witch Katla! She wouldn’t get me, though. I was walking, still walking.
Someone wrapped something around my shoulders. Bryndis.
“Oh, you’re ruining your pretty…uh, your pretty blue jacket!”
Still cold.
“Hafta tell you about puffin,” I croaked. “Such a good mama. Uh, she…”
A flash of red to my right.
“Tee-shirt! Joe gave me tee-shirt! Birthday…uh, birthday present.”
A few steps more and there lay Elizabeth, my I BRAKE FOR REDHEADS tee-shirt still protecting her.
“See? Geez, what a mess. Head wounds bleed…uh, a lot. Musta read that somewhere, in her book, maybe. Anyway, she needs medical…uh, medical atten…”
Katla must have blown again because the air around me became so dark I could hardly see her even though I stood right over her, but maybe because I was just so tired…
“I’m gonna get me some rest now, so…”
I lay down next to Elizabeth. Funny how soft moss-covered lava can feel.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Ragnar said, hauling me to my feet.
“Rude!” I protested.
While he held me upright, Bryndis took off her own tee-shirt and wrapped it around my arm, securing it in place with her belt. Not as tight as a tourniquet, but snug enough to stanch the blood flow.
“Thanks,” I told her. Caro had raised me to always be polite, even when I didn’t mean it. “But wanna nap.”
“I want a Range Rover, too, but that doesn’t mean I’ll get one,” she replied, cinching the belt one notch tighter.
“Mean!”
Before I could complain again, scrambling sounds made me turn my head. Two berserkers and an astronaut had picked up Elizabeth and were hauling her back down the hillside. Like me, she was bleeding, but still alive.
“Oh, good. Not dead. Didn’t wanna kill her. Bad.. uh, bad karma.”
Ragnar gave me a sharp look, then slung me over his shoulder.
I took a little nap.
***
Two hours later I felt a lot better. Elizabeth, not so much. I could hear her shrieking from the kitchen while I reclined regally in a cushioned booth, drinking orange juice and eating oatmeal cookies. When my head cleared, Bryndis told me the writer had regained consciousness, and Ulfur—after trussing her up like a Christmas turkey—had attended to her head wound. She was now locked in the kitchen larder.
“That’s what she gets, stealing my rifle, letting damned fox eat my chickens,” he muttered darkly, filling up my glass again, telling me I needed to keep my sugar level up. He also fed me another cookie.
“Oatmeal. Good for you!”
I chomped through the cookie, then chased away its dryness with more orange juice. But I did it left-handed. My arm, wrapped in bandages from the hotel’s first aid kit, throbbed from the nasty, four-inch slash Elizabeth had given me. One of the berserkers had volunteered to stitch it up for me but I’d told him thanks but no thanks, I’d wait for a doctor.
“I’d wash my face if I were you,” I told the ash and blood-spattered Bryndis when she joined me in the booth.
“Pot calling the kettle black,” she said. “Looked in the mirror lately?”
Although more muted than earlier, the party had resumed. So had the choruses of “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” which—by the time Inspector Haraldsson and company arrived via helicopter from Reykjavik—was down to a measly three bottles.
When Haraldsson entered the hotel lobby he didn’t look happy, but then he never did. Led by Ulfur, he and one of his underlings headed for the kitchen, while two medics hurried to my side. While they were cleaning my wound and arranging a saline drip, Elizabeth’s shrieking stopped. What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall in that larder.
Whatever was going on in there didn’t take long.
“I thought I told you to mind your own business,” Haraldsson barked at me, when he finally emerged from the larder. “But no, you just had to keep poking around.” He frowned at my arm, my ash-covered face. “Now look at you.”
“I’m avoiding mirrors these days.”
“How is she doing?” he asked one of the techs.
The tech—the name on his nametag said LARUS—answered in Icelandic.
Haraldsson’s frown deepened. “He says you need professional attention, so we will fly you back to Reykjavik. To receive about, say,” another peek at my arm, “sixteen stitches.” He delivered this in an almost kindly voice.
“Maybe I can get a shower?”
“That, too, can be arranged.”
We sat in comfortable silence for the next few moments until I saw two of Haraldsson’s men escorting a sobbing Elizabeth outside. The ropes Ulfur had bound her with had been replaced by handcuffs. Although she’d killed two people, then tried to kill me, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.
“She confessed everything,” I told Haraldsson.” How her husband was dumping all the women in his life, including her, how Dawn saw her take Ulfur’s rifle and was trying to blackmail her, all of it. Will you need me to testify?”
“Probably not, since my trip to the larder confir
ms your claim that the lady is in a confessional mood. But don’t tell anyone I told you.”
“Mum’s the word, Inspector.”
When he smiled, he looked almost handsome. “Call me Thor, Teddy.”
Epilogue
Gunn Landing, California: One month later
MEET MAGNUS THE GREAT
AT THE GRAND OPENING OF THE GUNN ZOO’S
NORTHERN CLIMES EXHIBIT
I’d tried to tell Aster Edwina that since “magnus” already meant “great,” the sign in front of the little bear’s enclosure said “Meet Great the Great,” but my boss never listens to me.
The crowd gathered under the bright California sunshine to see the Gunn Zoo’s new polar bear cheered as Magnus dove off an artificial ice floe and into his big pond in pursuit of his favorite toy, a bear-proof red Boomer Ball. When he reached it, he grabbed the ball with his little paws, then flipped over on his back and back-pedaled across the pool like a big albino otter.
The crowd cheered again.
So did Joe, who was taking an hour off work to attend the grand opening. Thanks to him, crime in San Sebastian County had slowed recently. He looked sexy in his sheriff’s uniform, and as soon as Aster Edwina turned her back, I snuggled up to him.
“Fraternizing with the police in public, Teddy?” he murmured into my ear. “Tsk-tsk. Aster Edwina will have your hide. On second thought, who cares what she thinks?” He nuzzled my ear again.
Another cheer from the crowd.
I looked over at the “glacial” pond, as Aster Edwina insisted on calling the pool, and saw Magnus hoist his Boomer Ball out of the water. He began batting it back and forth across the artificial ice floe.
“He’s playing soccer!” piped one small child. “Mommy, can I have one?”
The boy’s mother vented a tired sigh. “You already have two baseballs, a soccer ball, a basketball, a foot—”
“Bear! I want a bear!”
“There’s your next generation of zookeepers,” Joe whispered.
A lot had happened since I left Iceland.
Bryndis, who had returned home after helping Magnus settle in, emailed me an invitation to her and Ragnar’s October wedding. I responded with a resounding “Yes!” As soon as she received my reply, she let me know that Inspector Haraldsson-call-me-Thor would be in attendance, too. I didn’t know how to feel about that.
The Geronimos’ lives had also changed in interesting ways. Lucinda Greaves, she of the intemperate temper and multiple marriages, had moved in with Oddi, the tour director. He was now helping guide her through the long process of getting the Icelandic equivalent of a green card. Good luck there, I thought, but Oddi might be the only man on earth who could handle the harridan. Lucinda’s daughter, Judy, snagged a spot in Tab Cooper’s upcoming reality TV show, Wrangler Wives, and was looking forward to her brand new acting career. Perry and Enid Walsh have returned to their old lives as jewelry floggers, albeit under a new DBA: Icelandic Diamonds.
And the heartbroken Adele Cobb? She was the biggest surprise of all. An article printed in Publishers Weekly reported that Doubleday paid her a six-figure advance for her upcoming “true” crime book, Iceland: Land of Passion and Death. In the book, Adele describes her torrid love affair with Simon Parr, his and Dawn Talley’s murders, and reveals how she used her “expert detection skills” to track down the killer. The article also hinted that a movie deal was in the offing, starring Angelina Jolie as Adele. In a red wig.
Which brings me to Elizabeth St. John.
Under Icelandic law, Elizabeth’s confession was not to be enough to send her directly to prison. Inspector Haraldsson and the other detectives assigned to the case had to provide material evidence that she’d carried out the murder of two people with malice aforethought. No problem, though, since she led them to the volcanic flume in which she’d hidden Ulfur’s rifle. (Poor Ulfur still doesn’t have it back and to this day, remains chickenless.) The tire iron from the night concierge’s “borrowed” Suzuki with which Elizabeth killed Dawn was dredged from the harbor at Stykkishólmur, Elizabeth’s fingerprints still on it. And on Ulfur’s rifle. And on the steak knife she’d slashed me with.
Elizabeth was now doing a fourteen-year-to-life sentence at the new prison near Reykjavik, but Bryndis advised me that hardly anyone ever served more than fourteen years, no matter how many people they’d killed. The prison sounded rather nice, since—like all things Icelandic—it had been designed to hold wayward relatives. Elizabeth enjoyed a private room with a toilet and shower, as well as access to a common kitchen and dining room, a gym, and a living room where she either could watch TV or read books from the well-stocked prison library. The private visiting room available for her guests was being put to good use, too.
When the story of her crimes hit the newspapers, her book sales went through the roof. She was visited by her agent and her former publisher, who, during a long, kiss-and-make-up session, offered her an eight-figure advance for her new Jade L’Amour novel, Icelandic Passion. She was already halfway through.
Well, more power to her. Elizabeth may have tried to kill me, but I still had a sneaking liking for the woman. I, too, took honor seriously.
Not that I’d ever kill for it.
“You have the strangest expression on your face, Teddy.” Joe’s voice startled me.
“Oh, just thinking about this and that. Like, how happy I am that Magnus is happy.”
The polar bear cub had cleared quarantine with flying colors. Thanks to the excellent care he had received at the Reykjavik Zoo from Bryndis and the other keepers, he wasn’t infested with worms or other parasites. His radiographs were clean, with no signs of broken bones or diseased organs. In short, Magnus was as fit as any polar bear cub could be.
So were my own pets, DJ Bonz and Miss Priss. They appeared overjoyed when I picked them up at Mother’s house, but Toby, my half-Siamese cat, was more tepid. On my first night back he refused to return to the Merilee, preferring to remain on Cathie Kindler’s houseboat, S’Moose Sailing. But early the next morning the little devil finally padded home to snuggle with his doggie foster-father DJ Bonz. Still, Toby is Toby, and considering his roving eye, I think he’s already on the lookout for another boat to mooch around on.
Not so the Icelandic foxes or puffins. They love their new homes. Speaking of which…
“Follow me to the new puffin rookery,” I told Joe, taking him by the hand. “I have something to show you.”
I led him to the southern end of the Northern Climes exhibit, where Sigurd and Jodisi had their own pool, almost the size of Magnus’. The two puffins lived in a human-made rookery built to resemble the clifftop at Vik. Bright green moss covered a cement-and-stone surface, but several spots had been hollowed out so they could choose and furnish their own burrow. As a result, they now dwelt in a snug little nest lined with twigs and grasses scavenged from the “litter” I had placed at the corner of the exhibit.
“Look carefully and tell me what you see,” I said to Joe.
“Two fat black and white parrots walking around. The smaller parrot has a white stripe across its head.”
I gave him a playful slap on the arm. “Try again.”
“Okay, not parrots. Puffins. What you’ve been calling a ‘breeding pair.’”
“Old news. Keep looking.”
“Boy and girl puffin?”
Another playful slap. “Look just to their right, and do it quick, because Jodisi’s about to climb into the burrow.”
He squinted his eyes. “Something…something…” He squinted harder. “Why, it’s an egg!”
I would have clapped my hands, but I didn’t want to startle the birds. “She laid it last night, and in around forty days, we’ll have a brand new puffin chick at the Gunn Zoo. Forty-five days after that, it’ll be strong enough to live on its own.”
“Then Mama and Papa Puffin go th
eir separate ways?”
“Puffins mate for life, so no one’s leaving anyone.”
Joe smiled. “Like penguins, then.”
“And swans. And wolves.”
He nuzzled my cheek. “And turtle doves.”
I nuzzled back. “And gibbons, and prairie voles, and bald eagles, and…”
He shut me up with a kiss. When he was finished, he whispered, “And us.”
“Yes,” I gasped, once I caught my breath. “And us.”
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