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

women’s wear shop, two “Vikings” dressed in traditional garb play-acted a swordfight for tourist dollars, while a few doors down, a musician—her Chihuahua sitting patiently at her side—played a rousing rendition of Flatt & Scruggs’ “Foggy Mountain Breakdown” on her banjo. Cheered by this touch of home in such an unlikely setting, I threw a five-dollar bill into her banjo case.
    â€œ Takk fyrir ,” she said, repeating in English, “Thank you.”
    Although our stroll down Reykjavik’s colorful streets was pleasant, the image of Simon Parr’s mutilated face kept intruding in my mind. True, both times I’d seen Simon in action, he’d been behaving badly, but try as I might, I couldn’t keep the memory of his ecstatic face on television as he held up that check for 610.3 million dollars. Yet his generosity with his friends proved that he wasn’t a complete churl.
    Unlike animals, people are complicated. A bear acts like a bear all the time, and a tiger acts like a tiger. Even a lizard always acts like a lizard. But people constantly surprise you. Self-centered men risk their lives rescuing kittens from burning buildings. Beautiful women who act as if they don’t have a brain in their heads can be hiding a level of intelligence that would impress an astrophysicist.
    Besides Dawn’s husband, who else wanted Simon Parr dead? That wasn’t the only question nagging at me. I was also plagued by the suspicion that I had missed something at the murder scene, something important, but as much as I racked my brain, I couldn’t remember.
    By the time Bryndis and I reached the Ingolfsstraeti turning toward the harbor, I’d tried to distract myself by contributing to so many buskers that I’d run out of American dollars and had to switch to Icelandic króna. I would have bankrupted myself if not for Bryndis, who put a warning hand on my money arm.
    â€œBetter save some for later,” she said. “While I was dressing, I received a call from Ragnar. He has invited us to a party tonight at his apartment. It is on Skólavörðustígur, in the middle of the arts district, so on the way, you will have plenty of opportunities to make our street performers happy.”
    Just before reaching the harbor, we paused in front of a small store named Ingolfsstraeti Bókabúð. Despite its difficult name, it was obviously a bookstore. But what caught our attentnion was the big sign in the window, printed in both Icelandic and English.
    MEET AUTHOR ELIZABETH ST. JOHN
    6 P.M. SUNDAY
    HEAR THE FAMOUS AUTHOR TALK ABOUT HER NEW BOOK
    * * * TAHITI PASSION * * *
    AND THE PROFOUND NEW LOVE
    HER HEROINE JADE L’AMOUR
    DISCOVERS WHILE CONDUCTING AN ARCHAEOLOGICAL DIG
    IN AN EXOTIC TROPICAL PARADISE.
    FREE REFRESHMENTS
    Bryndis looked at me. “Uh oh.”
    â€œâ€˜Uh oh’ is right. Think we should we go in and tell them what happened at Vik this morning?”
    â€œWe had better. I know the manager, and would hate to see her spend her kronur on refreshments for a talk that will not happen.”
    The bookstore wasn’t as large as the three I’d visited yesterday. Having no room for a café, nothing but books lined the four walls. Banks of free-standing floor shelves provided more space for books, leaving only narrow aisles for customers, of which there were many. At first I couldn’t see how such a small store could host signings for even unknown authors, let alone a superstar like Elizabeth St. John, but as Bryndis led me toward the back, I saw a small alcove near the restrooms. In the alcove stood a table topped by the author’s photograph and a small stack of books. Unless there were more in the back room, they would surely run out.
    â€œFollow me,” Bryndis said, weaving her way through the racks. “Kristin is usually in her office.”
    From the entrance, the door to the office had been invisible