Read Online The Puffin of Death by Betty Webb - Free Book Online

Before, you described it as an argument. Now you’re saying it was a physical fight?”
    â€œThere was some shoving. But there was another one, too, at last month’s birder meeting, when the Geronimos…”
    â€œGeronimos?”
    â€œThe Geronimo County Birding Association, of course. They were having their yearly elections and Perry Walsh won, he’s his friend, but then he claimed he’d cheated because he knew he had enough votes to win and he was really mad about being accused of…”
    The flurry of pronouns was confusing, so I stepped in to clarify. “This Perry person, he was Ben’s friend or Simon’s?”
    â€œBen’s friend, of course. Simon never liked him, said he was a crook.”
    â€œSimon believed Perry Walsh cheated to win the election?”
    She rolled her beautiful eyes. “Simon believed my husband cheated by stuffing the ballot box for Perry. Isn’t that what I said?”
    Not really, but I let it pass. “Dawn, if Simon won a big Powerball, why would he care who won the presidency of a birding club?”
    â€œHe said it was some kind of honor thing.”
    Only the misery on her face kept me from laughing. “An honor thing? Like, we’ll settle this at sunrise, and choose your weapons?”
    She gave me a baffled look. “I don’t understand wha—’
    My salvation arrived when at that precise moment, Bryndis opened the ladies’ room door. “Hey, Teddy, I was beginning to think you had drowned.”

Chapter Six
    â€œWhat was that scene in the ladies’ room about?” Bryndis asked, on the drive back to Reykjavik.
    â€œJust some woman upset about the murder.”
    Bryndis took her eyes off the winding Ring Road to glance at me in surprise. “Her husband was the victim? I heard she went back to Reykjavik.”
    â€œThis one wasn’t the widow. Uh, there’s a sheep standing in the middle of the highway. It looks lost.”
    She expertly swerved around the sheep and continued on. “Then why was she crying?”
    â€œWorried, I guess.”
    â€œYou Americans worry a lot. We Icelanders, even though our volcanoes chase us down to the sea every few years, do we worry about it? No. We simply keep our bags packed. Speaking of volcanoes, there’s Katla again, over on your right. So beautiful, the way the sun makes rainbows on the ice. Maybe the old witch will erupt while you’re still here. Would not that be fun?”
    â€œNo.”
    She laughed. “Volcano parties are the best parties. Everyone drinks and sings. Say, I have an idea. Tomorrow you are going with me to learn how to take care of Magnus and the foxes, so we will be busy all day. But Saturday, would you like to drive out to see Hekla, another volcano that’s even bigger than Eyjafjallajökull and Katla? In the Middle Ages people believed Hekla was the gate to Hell itself, that condemned souls traveled through it on their way to eternal damnation in a lake of lava. It’s a nice hike. Not the hike to Hell, of course, but through the valley surrounding Hekla.”
    I marveled at her equanimity. “It won’t be so beautiful if the thing erupts.”
    â€œThe last time Hekla erupted was in 2000, and she is not due again until maybe 2032, so you’re safe. It is Katla, the witch, who is overdue.”
    â€œAll the same…”
    She steered the Volvo around another sheep. “See, there you are, being American, worrying about some far off problem, while we Icelanders believe everything will work out in the end. Even if it does not work out, worries will change nothing.”
    Bryndis was right, of course. Worry alone never solved anything unless you took the necessary steps to solve whatever problem you were worrying about in the first place. For instance, look at Dawn Talley, nee ‘just Dawn.’ Worried sick that her husband might have killed Simon Parr, when all the