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while, the scenario was unlikely for two reasons. One, the chances of anyone smuggling firearms onto a flight these days was practically nil, even if Dawn’s husband had stowed it in his luggage, not his carry-on. Two, regardless of the feud between Simon Parr and Dawn’s husband, the idea that Ben Talley, owner of a big restaurant chain, would commit murder over Dawn or a disputed vote at some birding club was beyond ludicrous. We worry-wart Americans weren’t that crazy.
    As the Ring Road swept past green pastures, another element of our conversation began to bug me. If Dawn was really all that worried about her husband’s possible involvement in the murder, wouldn’t it make more sense to keep her mouth shut? Why seek out a total stranger—in a hotel ladies’ room, no less—and blurt out possible motives, however far-fetched? Was she truly that unintelligent? Or maybe she wasn’t dumb at all, and for her own reasons, had decided to throw suspicion toward her husband. If so, I guessed she’d soon be sharing her “concerns” with Inspector Haraldsson. Whatever was going on with the woman, I felt well out of it.
    By the time we reached the barren lava fields outside Keflavik and the Ring Road turned north toward Reykjavik, lost sheep sightings had dwindled to nothing, and the only holdup was traffic congestion. But Icelanders being the polite drivers they were, we encountered few problems, and were soon back in Bryndis’ cozy apartment on Baldursbrá Street.
    â€œSo. What would you like to do now?” she asked, after changing out of her riding clothes. Apparently no longer concerned by the events at Vic, she was looking forward to the rest of the day. “Shop on Laugavegur? Hit some museums and galleries? See Hallgrimskirkja, the church built to look like the basalt columns at Vik? Or maybe we could take a nice walk down to the harbor and I can show you Harpa, our new concert hall? Harpa’s built right over the bay and has become quite the tourist attraction. Coming back we could see the Solfar Viking boat sculpture. And get hot dogs.”
    â€œHot dogs?”
    Bryndis now wore gray linen slacks and a blue silk blouse. With her hair unpinned, the combination of chic sportswear and shoulder-length blond tresses made her look more like a fashion model than Dawn. But to be honest, Bryndis was at least ten years younger, and Dawn, stressed about her husband’s possible involvement in Parr’s murder, wasn’t having a good day. Stress can play hell with a woman’s looks.
    â€œYou will love Bæjarin’s Beztu Pylsur. They serve the best, most famous, pylsurs —hot dogs—in the entire world,” Bryndis continued, unaware of my flashback to the morning’s sad events. “So famous that Bill Clinton and Madonna and that bad boy Charlie Sheen and James Hetfield from Metallica have all eaten there. Even Mikhail Gorbachev, when he was having the Glasnost meeting with Ronald Reagan, they say he ate there, too. I will treat you to a big eina með öllu , which means ‘one with everything.’ If a pylsur could help end the Cold War, it will help us recover from what happened at Vik. I keep seeing that dead man’s face. Ugh!”
    So much for Bryndis’ Icelandic stoicism.
    â€œMurder aside, I did enjoy the horses,” I said. “And yes, a walk down to the harbor sounds wonderful, as well as the whatsis, the hot dogs. But you don’t have to treat me, because the Gunn Zoo’s picking up the tab for everything.” Within reason, of course. The tab for hot dogs wouldn’t break Aster Edwina Gunn’s bank.
    â€œThen we will have two beztu pylsurs ! Each! And Cokes!”
    ***
    On this balmy August afternoon, the temperature hovered around seventy degrees Fahrenheit in downtown Reykjavik, keeping sidewalk musicians and other performance artists busy on Laugavegur Street. Across from an upscale