The Puffin of Death
Read The Puffin of Death Online
Authors: Betty Webb
Copyright © 2015 by Betty WEbb
First E-book Edition 2015
ISBN: 9781464204173 ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
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Contents
This book is dedicated to Barbara Peters and
Robert Rosenwald of Poisoned Pen Press, for their unfailing courage in giving their authors a voiceâ
no matter how eccentric that voice may be.
As usual, many people helped in the preparation of this book.
In Iceland, a thousand thanks are due to ever-patient Police Superintendent Ãrni E. Albertsson, at the National Commission of the Icelandic Police, who aided me in so many ways that cataloguing them all would require a book in itself. I owe you, Ãrni! My gratitude also goes out to Birgir Saemundsson for giving me details on the Finnish SAKO rifle. Mr. Saemundsson, a 1988 world record-holder marksman and marine engineer, is the founder of BRS Custom Rifles. Thanks and hugs to my kind hosts at Guesthouse Baldursbrá, in Reykjavik, and the lovely people at Hótel Egilsen, in exquisite Stykkishólmur. I also want to thank the everyday people of Iceland who were unfailingly patient and helpful, and who all spoke better English than I do. But my most ardent thanks and kisses go out to valiant Freya, the Icelandic horse who carried me safely across glacial rivers and lava-strewn valleys. Oh, and one more thing: my apologies to the residents of Vik for slightly altering the geography of their beautiful seaside community.
Back in the U.S., thanks again to the loyal Sheridan Street Irregulars, who always let me know when I'm barking up the wrong tree. The same goes for my faithful friends Marge Purcell, Debra McCarthy, and Louise Signorelli. Special thanks go out to Deborah Holt, whoâin return for her donations to Friends of Wetumpka Library (FOWL), an Alabama literacy projectâcontinues to let me use her name for a boat-owning character; and to Cathie Kindler, of Moose Hill Llamas, in Alabama, who made a donation to SSLA Youth Scholarship so she could take care of one of Teddy's cats on a houseboat named
S'Moose Sailing
.
Any mistakes in
The Puffin of Death
are due to my own errors, not the intelligent and big-hearted folks who helped me!
Icelanders
Bryndis Sigurdsdottirâzookeeper at the Reykjavik Zoo and lead singer in the rock band The Valkyries. Teddy stays with her while in Iceland.
Ragnar ErikssonâBryndis' ex-boyfriend, an artist and bit player in the film
Berserker!
Inspector Thorvaald Haraldssonâinspector with the National Commission of the Icelandic Police. He prefers to be called “Thor,” and thinks Teddy is cute.
Kristin Olafsdottirâbookstore manager in downtown Reykjavik
Oddi Palssonâvery patient tour guide
Ulfur NarfassonâVik hotelier plagued by a chicken-eating fox
NOTE: A man's last name is taken from his father's FIRST name, with “son” attached, thus Ragnar Eriksson's name means, “Ragnar, Erik's son.” A woman's last name is also taken from her father's first name, with “dottir” (daughter) attached, thus Bryndis' name means “Bryndis, Sigurd's daughter.” Because so many Icelanders share the same last names, Icelandic phone books have to list people by their first names!
Americans
Theodora “Teddy” Esmeralda Iona Bentleyâzookeeper from Gunn Landing, California. While not tending to her animals, she solves crimes.
Simon Parrâfounder of the Arizona-based Geronimo County Birding Association (the Geronimos) and winner of the largest Powerball in history. The money has made this birder highly attractive to women despite his Elvis Presley sideburns.
Elizabeth St. JohnâSimon's broad-minded wife, a birder and world-renowned romantic suspense author. She likes birds just fine, but in reality she lives her life through her books' archaeologist heroine, Jade L'Amour.
Adele Cobbâanother birder, and Simon's seemingly heartbroken ex-mistress
Dawn Talleyâformer model, and another of Simon's ex-mistresses (he had a collection). The only bird she likes is Duck l'Orange.
Benjamin TalleyâDawn's put-upon husband, a birder and ecology-minded traveler. Although from a wealthy restaurateur family, he has a dark past.
Lucinda Greavesâacid-tongued, often-married birder who drinks too much
Judy MaloneâLucinda's timid yoga-instructor daughter, who might be less timid than she acts
Tab Cooperâbirder, aspiring actor, deceptively clean-cut
Perry and Enid Walshâthe newly elected president of the birding association, and his birder wife and business partner. Unfailingly kind, patient, and helpful, the couple may be too good to be true.
Icelandic Animals
Magnusâadorable orphaned polar bear cub going to the Gunn Zoo
FreyaâBryndis' Icelandic horse, a sorrel mare
EinnarâRagnar's Icelandic horse, a black gelding
LokiâIcelandic fox, a male going to the Gunn Zoo
IlsaâLoki's wife (Icelandic foxes mate for life), going to the Gunn Zoo
Sigurdâmale puffin going to the Gunn Zoo
Jodisiâoddly marked female puffin, Sigurd's wife (puffins mate for life, too) going to the Gunn Zoo
But firstâmore helpful tips on the Icelandic language
Because of Iceland's remote location, modern Icelandic is little changed from the Old Norse of the ninth century, and for non-Icelanders, this ancient languageâspoken by the legendary hero Leif Eriksson and modern hoteliers alikeâis difficult to learn. Fortunately, all Icelanders speak fluent English, and they're all eager to help you. In fact, they'll help you so much the only Icelandic word you'll ever need is
Takk
! which means “Thanks!”
And don't let those long, tongue-twisting Icelandic place names throw you. If the name ends in
vik
, you're near a bay or harbor; if it ends in
foss
, you're by a waterfall; if it ends with
eldfjall
, you're passing a volcano; if it ends in
kirk
, dress up, you're going to church; if it ends in
kull
, you're headed for a glacier, so make sure you're wearing crampons.
Why is the Icelandic language so difficult? Well, Icelanders seem to like consonants more than they do vowels, and this can be especially daunting when you want to ask directions to SkútustathagÃgar or þingvallakirkja. By the way, that odd letter which looks like a combination of a “b” and a “p” in þingvallakirkja is called a
thorn
and it is pronounced “th.” I have used its phonetic spelling throughout this book, especially with Thingvellir (which would correctly be spelled “þingvellir”).
Another reason Icelandic is so difficult is that in an attempt to keep the ancient language pure, Icelanders have devised a creative way to refer to modern inventions such as electricity, television, computers, and telephones. In some cases, they simply add several words together in a string to make up one hyper-long word, thus the terrifying:
vaðlaheiðarvegavinnuverkfærageyms
luskúraútidyralyklakippuhringur,
Which (strung together) means hip-wader-moor's-roadwork's-tools'-storage-shed's-front-door's-keychain's-ring; in other words, a key ring holding a key to a highway storage facility located on marshy ground. See? In a weird sort of way, stringing all those words together actually does make sense.
Then again, Icelandic doesn't always work that way. Sometimes these descendants of the fierce Vikings use poetic combinations of ancient ideas to create a new word entirely. Thus, the Icelandic word for “meteorology” is
vethurfroethi
, which literally means “weather science”; “telephone” is
simi
, which means “long thread”; the word for “television” is
sjónvarp
, which means “vision-caster”; the word for “electricity” is
rafmagn
, which means “amber power”; and the word for “computer” is
tölva
, which means something like “a woman seer who uses numbers to tell fortunes.” Cool, huh?
The only Icelandic besides “Takk!” that you need to know:
snyrting
âtoilet
karlar
âmen's room
konur
âladies' room
bilastaeði
âparking
heatta
âdanger
sjúkrahus
Ââhospital
Vik, Iceland: August 7
As he snapped yet another photograph of the black, yellow, and white bird, Simon Parr congratulated himself. God only knew why the bird had flown all the way from Egypt to this rough Icelandic clifftop overlooking the North Atlantic, but there it was, pecking its way toward the puffin burrow. Although the morning was chilly, what with that damp wind freezing the tops of his uncovered ears, he had to smile. By sneaking away at four-thirtyâthe sun was almost up, for God's sake!âand leaving the rest of the group back at the hotel, he would be the first, and perhaps only, person on the tour to snag the hoopoe. So what if he'd forgotten his hat.
Note to self: even in August, mornings in Iceland were frigging cold.
But this trip was working out in more ways than one. First, the conversation back at the airport, where he'd told a certain someone exactly how things were, now the hoopoe. And afterwardsâ¦Well, better things were yet to come.
The morning hadn't begun well, what with that stupid hotel clerk blasting away with a rifle at some fox. Simon had been afraid the noise would scare away every bird in the vicinity, but no, after a brief flutter, they all came back. Now all he had to do was wait.
He heard a squawk.
The puffin, another visual weirdo with its oversized red, yellow, and blue-black beak, had stuck its head out of its burrow and was sounding a warning. It wasn't happy with the hoopoe's incursion, but who cared what a puffin thought? Especially that particular one. Instead of the standard, unblemished black crowning its head, this one sported a white streak down the middle of the black. Ugh. Besides, there were millions of the nasty things up here, so if the hoopoe fouled some freak puffin's living room, well, too bad. Parr didn't like puffins, never had. Rats with wings, he'd once called them, bringing down the wrath of the other birders at last month's disastrous meeting of the Geronimo County Birding Association. But had they ever smelled a puffin rookery? It was enough to make a person gag.
The stench was worth it. Same for the damp north wind numbing his fingers. He'd have gone through all kinds of hell to get those shots of the directionally challenged hoopoe.
All things considered, the hoopoe was a gorgeous bird. Not stubby and ungainly, like the poorly marked puffin, but sleek, built for flight and speed. Black-tipped yellow crown. Long, narrow black bill. Dramatic black-and-white-striped wings and tail. Bright yellow body. Given its extraordinary plumage, he could understand why there'd been such excitement when word of its arrival reached them. But in the end, a bird was just a bird. Another notch on his belt, nothing more.
Speaking of belts, another note to self: hire a private trainer and get rid of that incipient pot belly. He had the money now, didn't he? Money to do a lot of things he couldn't do beforeâdress the way he wanted, smoke what he wanted, wear his hair how he wanted.
Don't like my Cubano Cohiba Esplendido cigar? Hold your breath, wimp. Don't like my sideburns? Babe, if they were good enough for the King, they're good enough for me. Maybe I'll even buy a gold lamé sports coat, a big purple Cadillac, go the Full Elvis.
Money meant freedom. Money meant no limits.
Simon Parr was so busy gloating over his glorious future that he forgot about the hoopoe. He also didn't hear the footsteps approaching behind him. He didn't even hear the gunshot, because by the time the sound reached his ears, he was already falling toward the puffin's burrow, unaware of sound, sight, or any other sense.
He would never hear another thing.
Or see another hoopoe.
