The Puffin of Death by Betty Webb Page B

itinerary—if indeed they decided to continue on their adventure. In light of the tragedy, they might return to Arizona, but given the fact that this was a paid-for trip of a lifetime, I didn’t see that happening, murder or no murder.
    In reading the birders’ itinerary, I saw nothing but Old Norse town names. They were unpronounceable—mainly consonants with only few vowels—but a quick scan of the map in my tour book gave me their locations. The Geronimos were based at Hótel Keldur, in downtown Reykjavik, but for the most part, stayed within the southwestern side of the country, along what was known as the Golden Circle. None were in the Icelandic interior, an impenetrable wilderness of glaciers and volcanoes. Tomorrow the birders would visit something called the Snaefellsnes Peninsula, where they would spend the night in a small fishing village named—Heaven help my poor twisting tongue—Stykkishólmur. I checked the map in the tour book again and discovered that the unpronounceable village was less than two hours away from Reykjavik, all on what appeared to be decent roads. Maybe after I dropped Bryndis off at the zoo, I’d take a little drive.
    ***
    The next day I arrived in Stykkishólmur—pronounced STICH-ish-HOL-meh, Bryndis had explained—shortly before nine. With a population of less than fifteen hundred, it should have been easy to find eight people wearing red blazers and matching baseball caps, but that wasn’t the case. The village was made up of one main street leading to a picturesque harbor, and a few side streets winding to the top of a bluff that overlooked the North Atlantic. The bluff appeared to be perfect bird-watching territory, so I headed straight there, only to be disappointed. Ten minutes later, having driven every one of its narrow lanes, I gave up. After checking my guidebook, I learned that birding was also popular on the rocky island further out in the bay.
    Rather than waste more time driving around aimlessly, I pulled into the parking lot of Hótel Egilsen, where they would spend the night. That’s when I spotted a large blue van with ODDI’S ICELANDIC TOURS emblazoned on its side.
    The hotel, painted bright red with sparkling white shutters, was as charming inside as out. Its small lobby was furnished with comfortable seating, desks, and bookshelves loaded with magazines and books in both English and Icelandic.
    The counterman, another tall, blond Viking type who’d been reading a book, looked up with a smile. His name tag said, LEIFUR.
    â€œ Hvad segerōú ?” Leifur asked.
    Noticing the panic on my face, he switched to English. “That is Icelandic for ‘How are you?’”
    â€œFine, thanks.” I don’t like lying, but sometimes it’s necessary. “I’m looking for some friends from the Geronimo County…” I trailed off, not knowing under which name the reservations may have been made. “Ah, the friends of Mr. Simon Parr.”
    Leifur’s smile broadened. “The birding group from Arizona! I plan to go there someday to see the cowboys and ride the broncs. Yes, your friends, such nice people, arrived a couple of hours ago, but after leaving luggage in their rooms, they left with their binoculars and cameras.”
    â€œOh.”
    I was either transparent or Leifur was good at face-reading, because he added, “Do not feel sad. They may have gone to Helgafell, which is popular with birding groups because many birds nest in the ruins of the old church. Or they might be up by the lighthouse on Súgandisey, that little island across the bay. I am no birder myself, but I hear you can see many puffins, guillemots, and eagles near the lighthouse. So perhaps you should try that first, since it’s closest. You can climb to the top in a few minutes.”
    I could see the island’s sheer cliff wall from the hotel’s lobby window. It looked like a climb fit