Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness (7 page)

So here she was, with her house and its garden out back. Ladarat was most proud of that garden. Ladarat had no aptitude for growing things, but somehow plants here seemed to thrive spontaneously. Some were native to Thailand, like the Siam tulips around the edges of the patio. Their pretty fluted stalks were just as nice this time of year, in the fall, when they weren’t crowned with a flower. There was silver-leafed ginger, too, with stripes down the middle of its leaves that seemed to her as if they were little ladders. There were impatiens by the score, flowering now in a pure white and a fluorescent yellow. And even though they never seemed to flower, the gordonia bushes with tough dark green waxy leaves hid the ugly concrete block wall at the back of the garden. And gold-leafed philodendron with delicate riffled edges popped up here and there according to a whim of their own.

Whenever she came out here—which was almost every day that it wasn’t raining—she thanked her good fortune that she was not in Bangkok. Indeed, she had been to that enormous city only twice, and that was more than enough. The first time was with Somboon, on their honeymoon. They’d taken a plane that landed in the enormous Suvarnabhumi Airport outside of the city. The flight was only forty-five minutes, but it took them at least that long again to make their way through the gleaming corridors of the airport, surrounded on every side by marble and stainless steel and glass. She felt as though she were walking through a very wealthy person’s endless bathroom. The second time was for a conference about palliative care, and she took the train—a much more pleasant and relaxed experience of travel altogether.

But when she was there… oh dear. So big, and so dirty. The air pollution alone was surely the same as smoking a pack of cigarettes every day. And not the major brand imported ones, or even the counterfeits like the gullible Mr. Fuller bought, but the rough filterless cigarettes that were imported illegally from Cambodia. After an hour outside, she felt as though she had a bronchial infection. How could people live in such a place? And why would they want to?

Perhaps it was just as well that there were people with such predispositions. What if every person in Bangkok decided he or she would much prefer the clear skies and cool nights of Chiang Mai? What if all eleven million inhabitants of that big, dirty city took the train north and descended on her little garden? That would not do. Much better that they like the crowded streets and the dirty air, so she could have her town just the way it had always been.

Here in Chiang Mai, she had her garden, and she could sit and hear nothing at all. Or perhaps only
Maewfawbaahn
mewing for attention, and the little red-breasted swallows creating a chorus of chirping from back among the dense gordonia leaves. And that’s what she was going to do right now.

Too tired to cook, she’d picked up some
tom nam khon
—spicy prawn soup with coconut milk—and
glooai tawt
—banana fritters—from Khun Duanphen, the Isaan lady who ran the stall at the corner. At least, tirednesss was her excuse. But honestly, Ladarat couldn’t cook. She never had been able to. Besides, Duanphen’s
tom nam khon
was about the best in Chiang Mai. And she didn’t make it very spicy like some of the other stalls did. Too much spice is as bad for you as not enough. So Ladarat put
Maewfawbaahn
’s canned food under the table and settled her slight frame onto one of the two delicate iron chairs that sat before the matching table.

Ladarat was always careful to alternate between the two chairs. There is nothing sadder, she always thought, for a person who lives alone, as when half a home becomes worn out while the other half stays fresh. It’s as if a person’s incomplete life were imprinted on the world. So everyone would know that she is just half a person.

She would not let that happen. Anyone looking at her small home would note that the chairs are evenly worn and the silverware is evenly tarnished, and even her bed is worn on both sides. That evenness was a comfort to her, although if pressed, she wouldn’t be able to explain why it should be so.

Right now, though, she didn’t have to explain anything to anyone. She was sitting on the patio in back of the house that she owned, watching the sky above her turn from a bright white to a deep blue with the rapidity and surety of a scene change in a play. There were things she needed to think about, and many things she needed to worry over. Such was life. But she put them all out of her mind for the moment.

It was at this time of day, though, that she missed Somboon most acutely. During the day there were distractions and work; now was the time that people should sit quietly with family and talk over their day. They should tell each other what had happened. And, she imagined, they should ask each other for advice. Sitting here with
Maewfawbaahn
was pleasant enough, and restful. Still, it was now more than ever that she felt as though she was missing something.

But perhaps that was one more thing to worry about. And so she put it out of her mind, setting it on a shelf for later. There would be plenty of time to think about her future. And, of course, to worry about the upcoming inspection. And, of course, the mystery man and the murderer and her own future as a detective. For now, she would sit here savoring the last bites of her
glooai tawt
, with
Maewfawbaahn
happily on her lap, listening to the swallows argue about whatever it is swallows argue about.

Wan ang kaan

TUESDAY

THE HEALTH BENEFITS OF BUTTERFLY PEAFLOWER TEA

A
re you well, Khun?”

Ladarat asked out of politeness, as one must. But truth be told, the man facing her across the medical records counter did not look well at all. In fact, he looked harried. His face was pale—even paler than is normal for a man who works in the windowless basement of a large hospital. And his short hair was mussed in odd, swept-back whorls as if he’d been running his hands over his head in frustration, as he did reflexively when he greeted her.

Of course Panit Booniliang was harried. He knew, as she did, that the hospital inspectors were likely to focus very intently on their medical records. The inspectors usually asked for many charts, and when they did, they wanted them immediately. It was almost as if, despite the fact that they were supposed to be interested in how well a hospital cared for patients, they forgot that, all around them, conscientious staff were trying to do just that. When they wanted a chart, they had to have it. So Panit Booniliang was a very nervous man.

He smiled the
yim yae yae
smile, which could be loosely translated as: “Well, it’s awful, but really, what can you do?”

This smile, she knew, told the story of why Khun Panit was in charge of medical records. He would do whatever he could to prepare. And still he would be nervous. That was most un-Thai. His worrying was almost American. But in the event, he would realize that he’d done everything he could do and would retreat into the Thai state of
choie
, or imperturbable calm.

Alas, he was not quite there yet, as his roving glances across the wide, neat countertop revealed. He was still looking around for files out of place, as if he might see something that would remind him of a task he had forgotten. She hated to bother him now, but it couldn’t be helped.

Ladarat offered her own version of the
yim yae yae
smile and said she needed his help.

“It is about a matter to do with the care that we gave to an unfortunate man in the emergency room last week.”

“Yes, Khun?” She had gained at least a sliver of his attention. That was good, but she needed his full concentration for the matter at hand.

“He died,” she said. “It seems he died before he came to our hospital, but his death was pronounced officially here.”

“I see. And how old was this unfortunate man?”

“I believe he was about fifty.”

“And what time did he die?”

That was when Ladarat knew these questions weren’t prompted by idle curiosity or by concern. Not that Khun Panit was a heartless man, but his questions were typical of Thais faced with news about the death of someone they didn’t know. In a culture that was wrapped in superstition and beliefs about numbers, the story of a man’s death—his age, birthday, time of death—provide the raw ingredients for speculation that led, all too often, to a selection of numbers for that day’s lottery.

Once she’d even witnessed, much to her dismay, a gaggle of nursing students speculating about the death of a young woman—a
katoey
. A woman’s spirit trapped in a man’s body. Unable to cope with that cruel joke of fortune, she’d thrown herself off the roof of the Empress Hotel, one of the highest buildings in Chiang Mai. Ladarat was deeply ashamed of her profession to hear these nurses discussing how many floors the poor creature fell, so they could play those numbers in the lottery.

Panit Booniliang wasn’t like that. No, this was just the force of habit. These were the questions one asked. It was a reflex. That was all.

Still, better to cut off further questions to which she wouldn’t know the answer—birthdate, occupation… So she was perhaps a little more direct than she would have been in other circumstances,

“We have a problem.”

This got Khun Panit’s attention.

“I see, Khun. That is bad. What sort of problem?”

He was too polite to ask the question that was no doubt on his mind: What sort of problem could one have with a patient who is dead? Surely this couldn’t be a very important problem. Surely it couldn’t be more important than, say, preparing for next week’s inspection?

She would need to choose her words carefully. She mustn’t cause alarm, of course. Yet she must convey the gravity of the situation to a man who was understandably preoccupied.

There was a saying in Thai to which she’d had recourse many times in her career:
Kling wai korn, pho sorn wai.
Roughly: Do whatever needs to be done, to get through the moment.

Odd that in the United States such an aphorism would denote a strong-willed determination and a fundamental belief that defeat is impossible. But the Thai version was an illustration of creative pragmatism. Especially the importance of maintaining grace and smoothness, and a willingness to bend the truth if that’s what was required. And in this case, it most certainly was.

“We have received word that the inspectors are very interested in the care of patients who have died,” she announced, with what she hoped was a perfectly neutral face.

“Ahhh. This is from… an inside source?”

“It is.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed. That is, they are interested in the care of patients who have died suddenly. They will want to see records of patients in particular like this man, Zhang Wei, who died suddenly two nights ago.”

“But why?” Khun Panit could not hide his confusion. “Why would they be so interested in such a patient, when there are hundreds of other patients in this hospital right now?”

Why indeed? That was an excellent question.

“Besides, which,” he added, “from what you’ve told me, it seems that this man died outside our hospital. What could we have done that was good or bad?”

“Ah, but you see, that is perhaps the most important part of the practice of medicine.”

“It is?”

Ladarat was as surprised as Khun Panit had been to hear this. But she needed to invent an explanation. Quickly.

“Yes, indeed. When a patient dies, our responsibilities don’t end.”

“They don’t?”

“No, of course not.” Ladarat shook her head, warming to her topic. And wondering what words were going to come out of her mouth next.

Words were like that, she thought. Sometimes they surprised you by appearing. Or by failing to appear. Hopefully that wouldn’t happen in this case.

And indeed it did not.

“No,” she heard herself saying. “We still have an obligation—a duty—to help support the family. That means offering emotional support, for instance, and the chance to pray with one of our monks. It also means making sure the family has enough information about the cause of the patient’s death.”