Read Online Close to the Heel by Norah McClintock - Free Book Online

taking in everything on the property when I saw a car come over the bridge. It pulled up in front of the house and a woman—not Brynja—got out. It was the old man’s nurse. She waved to me and went inside.
    I still had nothing to do, so I decided to take a run into Borgarnes and poke around there.
    Parking was no problem. I found a place outside a small restaurant. From there I walked up and down the few streets, discovering a tourist shop that sold Icelandic sweaters, mitts and hats; a bakery; a pizzeria; a burger joint with a variety store attached; a small art gallery with a café; and a tourist information center. I wandered in there to pick up a few brochures and thought about using one of the computers to get online. But it sounded expensive—five hundred krónur for thirty minutes, when all I wanted to do was see what was what out here. It wasn’t that important. I asked for a map of the area and then headed back to the car. I was about to get in when someone behind me said, “Excuse me.”
    I turned.
    It was the crazy woman from the gas station.
    â€œLook, lady—” I began.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said. She sounded pretty normal. “I hope I didn’t upset you yesterday. But they won’t tell me where he is, and I know they know.”
    â€œThey?”
    â€œEinar and Brynja.”
    I remembered what Brynja had said about the missing man.
    â€œEinar and Brynja know where your husband is and they won’t tell you?” That seemed to be what she was saying, but what kind of sense did it make? “Why wouldn’t they tell you if they knew?”
    â€œBecause they think he killed Gudrun.”
    â€œGudrun?”
    The woman’s expression changed. She looked confused.
    â€œI thought you and Brynja…”
    â€œMe and Brynja what?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said. “I thought—it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry.” She turned to go.
    â€œWait,” I said.
    She turned slowly.
    â€œWho is Gudrun?”
    She shook her head and walked away.
    I ran to catch up to her.
    â€œWho is Gudrun? What happened to her?”
    She walked more quickly, darting across the street and disappearing into the grocery store. I was about to chase after her when a police car blocked my path.
    The window of the car whirred down to reveal Brynja’s Uncle Tryggvi, the cop.
    â€œIs that woman bothering you again?” he asked.
    â€œNo. Not at all. She just apologized for yesterday.”
    Tryggvi glanced around. “Where’s Brynja?”
    â€œShe’s busy. I decided to look around, see if there are any sights worth seeing.”
    â€œI can give you some ideas, if you want.”
    â€œSure.” He took the map from me and circled a couple of nearby destinations.
    â€œIt’s a beautiful country,” he said. “There is a lot to see that you can’t see back in America.”
    â€œI’m Canadian.”
    He didn’t correct himself but instead started to roll up his window.
    â€œWho’s Gudrun?” I said.
    The window stopped its ascent.
    â€œThere are many Gudruns in Iceland.”
    â€œWho’s the Gudrun that that woman’s husband supposedly killed?”
    â€œIs that what she told you?”
    I nodded.
    â€œGudrun Njalsdottir was a reporter for a newspaper in Reykjavik.”
    â€œUntil someone killed her,” I said.
    Tryggvi raised an eyebrow. “Until she died.”
    â€œSo she wasn’t murdered?”
    â€œShe fell over a waterfall. It was probably an accident, but her family thinks she was murdered.”
    â€œProbably?”
    He stared at me as if wondering what business it was of mine. “The death was ruled Undetermined ,” he said. “She drowned. But whether it was an accident or a suicide—”
    â€œOr murder,” I said.
    â€œOr homicide,” he said, correcting me, “could not be