Free Murder With Puffins by Donna Andrews

puffin ashtrays with a suspiciously serious look on his face, I poked through the display rack. Evidently, the Puffin Lady was reasonably prolific; the shopkeeper had at least a dozen titles displayed.
    Even as a child, I had what Dad called a "deplorably literal streak." When presented with a book that was part of a series-- The Borrowers , for example, or Little House on the Prairie --I would insist on beginning with the first in the series and working my way through in order. I therefore examined the copyright dates and passed up Puffin in the Rye ("The Happy Puffin Family Visits a Farm!") The Daring Young Puffin on the Flying Trapeze! ("The Happy Puffin Family Visits the Circus!"), and Snow Falling on Puffins ("The Happy Puffin Family Goes Sledding!") in favor of the original volume, Hark the Herald Puffins Sing ("Christmas with the Happy Puffin Family!").
    I hoped the Puffin Lady's artistic and literary skills had improved over time. I wasn't much impressed with either in her first opus. The puffins looked vaguely inauthentic--either she didn't draw all that well or perhaps she had taken liberties with their anatomy to make them more anthropomorphic. Or perhaps it was the props and costumes. She liked decking the poor birds out in brightly colored bits of human clothing, or having them carry things like yo-yos and lollipops. They were colorful and eye-catching. But she hadn't succeeded in making them all that appealing, as far as I could see; in fact, they looked faintly reptilian. I saw more charm in one mass-produced plush stuffed puffin from the gift shop than in Rhapsody's whole book.
    It was the beaks and the eyes. The puffins' beaks might be picturesque and unusual, but they weren't designed for expressing human emotion. Whatever charm the Puffin Lady had tried to create with cute little props and costumes, she hadn't managed to make those huge cartoonlike beaks look any different. Happy, sad, angry, or surprised, the puffins all had the same lack of expression. And the eyes--maybe it's just me, but I've always found birds' eyes a little cold and alien. You get the feeling they're off thinking strange, fluttery little splinter thoughts; and you hope it's all about seeds and nuts and where to find a birdbath, and not something like acting out in real life their great-greatgrandfathers' starring roles in The Birds. Maybe I'd done her artistic skills an injustice. Rhapsody had captured everything I disliked about birds' eyes so accurately that a chill went down my spine.
    "You're not really thinking of buying that," came a voice, interrupting my thoughts.
    I looked up, to see one of the birders, a matronly woman who had both the inevitable binoculars and a pair of reading glasses dangling over her ample bosom, not to mention a camera hanging by a strap from her wrist. I wasn't sure, but I thought she might be one of the birders who'd snapped pictures of the lunatic shooting at us, so I resolved to be as polite as possible.
    "Just trying to see what the fuss is all about," I said. "She seems such a local celebrity."
    "I can't for the life of me see why," the birder said. "It's not as if she's particularly good at it."
    Actually, I agreed, but the birder's bullying manner irritated me, so I said only, "Oh, really? How so?"
    "Her stuff's shockingly inaccurate," the birder said with a sniff. "Shoddy research all around. Worse than useless from a scientific point of view."
    I looked back at the brightly colored page, where the Happy Puffin Family was sitting down to Christmas dinner. The little Puffins, complete with napkins tied bib-fashion around their necks, looked eagerly toward their mother--you could tell her by the flowered hat. Mama Puffin stood beside the table, holding a giant covered dish with the tips of her wings. I flipped the page. The dish now rested in front of Papa Puffin, who was about to wield a carving knife on its contents--not turkey, thank goodness, but an enormous smiling fish. The small Puffins