The Puffin of Death by Betty Webb

me of something that had come up in the Walters interview before I changed the channel. St. John said she and her husband had what they called a “European” marriage, which she defined as a marriage that gave them the freedom to occasionally “date” others. It kept their marriage fresh and exciting, she claimed. When Walters asked the writer her if she wasn’t afraid that such an admission might hurt her book sales, St. John answered, “I always tell the truth. Besides, Barbara, you of all people should know there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
    I remembered something else, too. After the Walters interview, St. John’s book moved from No. 9 on the New York Times best-seller list to No. 1.
    â€œHow did Mrs. St. John take the news about her husband’s death?” I asked Haraldsson, who was still yammering about warm beaches and beautiful women.
    The inspector’s face revealed nothing. “When I told her about Mr. Parr’s demise, she shed tears, which is only what one would expect. They had been married for twenty-six years, you understand. But that brings me to you, Miss Theodora Bentley.” Some of the geniality had left his voice. After a few seconds pawing his big hand through his wet raincoat, he pulled out an iPhone, poked it a couple of times, then turned the screen toward me. It revealed an article in The Gunn Landing Reporter , with the headline, LOCAL ZOOKEEPER SOLVES MURDER. My photograph wasn’t flattering.
    â€œAs you can see, I’ve checked up on you,” Haraldsson continued, “and I think it might be wise to let you know, before things go any further, that the Icelandic National Police do not need your help. We are perfectly competent to investigate a suspicious death, even though—and being from a much more dangerous country than ours you may have trouble believing this—Mr. Parr’s is our first murder this year. We only had two last year, one committed by a Lithuanian, the other by a Dane. Both recent immigrants, both stabbings, one over a woman, the other over a card game. We Icelanders might slap obnoxious drunks from time to time, but we do not sneak around and shoot them in the back of the head. The use of guns as murder weapons is almost unheard of here.”
    â€œThen where’d the firearm come from?” I asked, stung by his portrait of me as an interfering busybody. “Judging from the wound and the fact that there were no powder burns around it, I’d say he shot from at least several feet away by a small caliber handgun. Or a rifle.”
    Bryndis gaped at me but Haraldsson’s polite expression never wavered. “I applaud your knowledge of ballistics, and, yes, the weapon is most likely the Finnish Sako that Ulfur, the hotelier here, reported missing this morning. I only mention this because he has been complaining to everyone, so it is no secret. Poor Ulfur. He needed that Sako to take revenge on the chicken-stealing fox that has plagued his farm for the past two weeks. But you see? Already you are sticking your pretty nose in. While I sympathize with your concern over the fate of a fellow American, please be aware that any interference on your part can create difficulties for all of us, so I would appreciate it if you concentrated on your little polar bear and your foxes and your puffins.”
    Oblivious to my ire, he put his phone back into his pocket and stood up. “Good day, Miss Theodora Bentley. Enjoy your stay in Iceland.”

Chapter Five
    â€œHe likes you,” Bryndis said, watching Inspector Haraldsson’s retreating back.
    I looked at her in amazement. “You’re kidding, right?”
    â€œHe called your nose ‘pretty.’”
    â€œWhich means exactly nothing.”
    â€œIt does in Iceland.”
    While Inspector Haraldsson had been giving me my marching orders, the hotel’s crowded dining room had fallen strangely silent. I suspected a