The Puffin of Death by Betty Webb

did.”
    â€œEmotions can be confusing, can’t they?”
    Sniff. “We Icelanders are not like you Americans.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œWe are not run by our emotions.” Sniff.
    â€œCommendable, I’m sure.”
    Once inside the apartment, Bryndis flicked on the kitchen light. “How about some coffee?”
    â€œSounds good.”
    As I sat down at the table, she busied herself at the Mr. Coffee, imported, like almost everything else in Iceland, from the U.S., Denmark, or China.
    â€œStrong or weak?” she asked.
    â€œWeak. I don’t want to lie awake all night. We have a full day at the zoo tomorrow.”
    â€œI have a full day at the zoo,” she said. “Not you.”
    Mr. Coffee gurgled and a thin brew trickled out.
    â€œWhat do you mean, not me? I thought I was going to the zoo with you, and working some more with Magnus.”
    She handed me a half-filled cup of coffee. “Sugar? Cream?”
    â€œNeither. You didn’t answer my question. Am I or am I not going with you to the zoo tomorrow?”
    â€œYou are not.” She poured herself a cup then joined me at the table, her formerly vulnerable face set in hard lines. “You go wherever you need to go, but call me every now and then and tell me of your progress.”
    I frowned in puzzlement. “I don’t understand.”
    Her jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed, making her look like one of her ruthless Viking ancestors ready to lay waste to some sleepy English village. Even her tone scared me.
    â€œHere is how this will work, Teddy. Tomorrow morning you will drop me off at the zoo, then you will take my Volvo. Oh, and be sure and take your laptop along, too. I can catch a ride home from one of the other keepers. A couple of them live nearby.”
    â€œYou want me to take your car? Where? And why?”
    â€œBecause you are going to find out who really killed Simon Parr, that is why!”

Chapter Nine
    You can’t argue with an Icelander.
    Bryndis refused to listen to my refusals and little by little she wore me down. Against my earlier resolve, I agreed to look into the case. Mission accomplished, she tottered off to bed, leaving me alone in the kitchen, drinking more coffee than was good for me.
    I knew I was unequipped for the task, being in a foreign country and having already been warned by Inspector Haraldsson to mind my own business, but as the silence of the apartment closed in, I began to wonder. What had led the inspector to arrest Ragnar in the first place? Despite my ignorance of the parties involved, I could already see three possible explanations.
    One: Ragnar’s slap-fest with Simon Parr at the Viking Tavern proved he had a temper and wasn’t loath to act on it. Two: judging from his paintings, he had more than a passing interest in birds, and the unfinished oil of a hoopoe made me suspect he might have traveled to Vik on the day of the murder in hopes of seeing one of the birds in the flesh. Three: most damning of all—Simon Parr might conceivably have photographed Ragnar on the cliff top.
    This led me back to Inspector Haraldsson’s odd visit to the Reykjavik City Zoo, where he’d shown me the printouts of Parr’s pictures of birds and one naked woman. Yet he’d shown me no photograph of Ragnar at Vik. Because no such photograph existed? Or had he withheld the photo because Bryndis was standing next to me? But then why show me any pictures at all, especially given the fact that he’d already warned me not to get involved in the case? Could he have been checking out Bryndis’ reaction, and not mine? Surely he didn’t suspect the zookeeper of also being involved in Parr’s death!
    The more I thought about it, the more troubled I felt. To give the devil his due, Haraldsson probably had good reason to arrest Ragnar, but to me, it didn’t feel right. Given Icelanders’ lack of enthusiasm for murder-by-firearm, touring