“It means we have a problem.”
“But… you don’t sound very worried.”
“Oh, I am worried. Very worried indeed. I think we have a woman who has killed many men and is likely trying to murder another one soon. So I’m very worried. But worrying won’t help protect the next man she has set her sights on.”
“Then what will?”
“Finding him before she does.”
“So you have a plan?”
“For a start, I’ll look for men with the same name in Chiang Mai.”
“And warn them?”
“No, I’ll investigate them. I’ll find out who they know and who they’ve been in contact with.”
“That is your plan?”
“I didn’t say it was a good plan.”
Indeed, that seemed like a highly inefficient way to catch a criminal. A little like posting policemen outside every bank in case someone tried to rob it. But he was the detective, not her.
After they’d said their good-byes, though, as she was finishing the pile of policies on her desk, his answer continued to nag at her. There were many men out there with this unfortunate name who were at risk. It was, after all, one of the most common of Chinese names. Less common in Chiang Mai, of course, than in mainland China. But still.
As she finished gathering her policies into a neat pile, she squared them just as Khun Panit liked to. Then she remembered the policy that had slid under her desk. She retrieved it, putting it in order. She was glad that she’d insisted that each of their policies have a unique number that denoted the year in which it was created. She’d invented that system herself several years ago to try to keep track of a growing stack of policies. Now each policy had a unique number that could be tracked. One number per policy. It was the sort of order that Mr. Booniliang would appreciate.
She was gathering up her handbag and turning off the light when those numbers gave her an idea. She stopped in the doorway, the office dark behind her except for a streak of light sneaking through the narrow basement window. It was a long shot certainly. And probably not worth exploring. And yet… she was increasingly certain that Khun Wiriya’s strategy would not help him find the murderer.
This idea Ladarat was thinking about might not find her either. But at least it was something. And besides, if they both looked in different ways, perhaps they might compare results?
And in the back of her mind, she admitted, there was the tiny hope that perhaps she would succeed where the detective had failed. Not a realistic hope, she knew, since he was a detective and she was only a nurse. Nevertheless…
But she was too tired to think about this right now. She would go home, and she would get something satisfying. Perhaps gai pad pongali—yellow curry rice with an egg whipped in. Like a savory curry pudding. Usually more of a winter dish, but perhaps Khun Duanphen would make an exception. And maybe—if she was very lucky—there would be glooai tawt. She would sit on her patio and share her dinner with Maewfawbaahn. And she would read the biography of Aung San Suun Kyi, with the compelling cover, because it was important to learn about inspiring people whenever one could.
SABAI SABAI!
Khun Ladarat, you work too hard!” Khun Duanphen was beside herself with indignation. “The hospital, to keep you late like this. It’s not right!”
“Ah.” Ladarat smiled. She had heard this before. Indeed, when hadn’t she heard it? The small woman who plied her griddle and wok like an orchestra conductor managing a chorus of strings and woodwinds always seemed to take Ladarat’s tardiness as an affront to all that is sacred about Thai life.
To think that she would take her work seriously! To think that she would work so hard, and forget to enjoy life! She should—
“Sabai sabai!” Duanphen said happily.
A ubiquitous Thai phrase. It was like the American sixties, all rolled up into one word. It meant something like “take it easy” or “easy does it” or “take one day at a time” or simply “relax.”
“But, Khun, where would we be if everyone said that all of the time? There would be no hospitals, and no government. No streets, and no electricity…”
The food seller just smiled. “Oh, you know that things would work out somehow. We don’t need all of this, you know. We could be happier without anything at all.”
Was that really true? Perhaps Khun Duanphen was very wise. Or perhaps she was exceptionally simple. Sometimes it was difficult to tell.
Duanphen handed her a Styrofoam container with her gai pad pongali, and then handed over a second container that was very warm. Little wisps of steam leaked from the corners. “For you, Khun. A small something. Because you work too hard.”
Ladarat sniffed. “Ah… glooai tawt?”
Duanphen nodded.
Banana fritters. Made with dwarf-size apple bananas that were extra sweet, and firmer than the larger bananas that Khun Dole mass-produces. She didn’t let herself have them very often. They were very fattening. But she did love them. They reminded her of her mother’s kitchen years ago. She’d come home from school and in the kitchen would be her mother or her grandmother—sometimes both. They would always make something special for Ladarat, and Siriwan, if they’d walked home from school together as they often did when they were young.
She thanked Duanphen, promising to work less hard in the future. As if that were really possible.
A few minutes later, she was sitting happily in her little garden. She decided to eat the glooai tawt first. They were, after all, much better when they were fresh and very hot. It wouldn’t do to let them age. Loyal Maewfawbaahn slunk closer after finishing his dinner of canned cat food and waited patiently. These fritters were really too good to share, but he was a good cat.
And had anyone burglarized her house today? They had not. So he was doing his job. And a leader has to reward her subordinates.
She picked up the remaining one third of the banana and set it down gently in front of the cat. He sniffed at it gingerly. Then licked it. And a second later it was gone. Amazing.
She’d left the gai pad pongali inside, but she was too tired and lazy to get up and bring it out. Besides, the glooai tawt had been very filling. Enough for dinner, although not a very healthy one, to be sure.
She sat back in her chair, resting one hand on Maewfawbaahn, who bounded up onto her lap. Ladarat looked up and noted that it had become cloudy. It would probably rain tonight. There were no stars, and yet still plenty to see, as the city lights played against clouds that shaded from light to dark in wide swaths.
Watching the clouds, and thinking about her day, she found herself wondering about this mysterious woman, Peaflower, who was causing such trouble. Ladarat had promised herself that she wouldn’t think about this case tonight, but she couldn’t help it. Could it be that Peaflower had a vendetta? That she hated these men?
The fact that they had the same name gave her pause. What if someone of that name had harmed her once? Or her family? And this was her revenge?
But no, who would do such a thing? To kill people with the same name who were unrelated? It was crazy.
To do that once, perhaps… That would be a hot-hearted crime. What Thais called jai ron.
It had always fascinated her that the Thais said someone was “hot-hearted” while Americans—and everyone else, it seemed—said such a person was “hot-headed.” The Thais understood that the heart was the seat of the emotions and assumed that anyone who was acting aggressively or out of character must therefore have an overactive heart. But the Americans, who saw the head as the seat of reason, saw such behavior and decided that the brain must have switched sides. That the brain must have become hot instead of cool.
It was typical of the Americans to find such a roundabout explanation for things. And typical, too, of the Thais to find the easiest answer.
The easiest answer?
She smiled to herself. That’s it. The easiest answer.
It had to be money. It had to be. Insurance or… something. Perhaps
there was revenge, or… other motives. But there was money involved. Suddenly Ladarat knew that with complete certainty. One must always look for the simplest answer first.
Even Professor Dalrymple said as much. “The most common diagnosis,” she counseled, “is always the most likely diagnosis.”
It was wisdom such as this that made Professor Dalrymple a useful companion to have in one’s head.
And there was no point at this stage of the investigation in looking for crazy theories. The simplest answer was the most common one. And what motivation is more common than greed? Peaflower was looking for money.
She thought about that a little longer as Maewfawbaahn fell asleep. She thought she heard the distant rumble of thunder that the clouds overhead had promised, but it was only his purring.
Ladarat moved and stretched as Maewfawbaahn slid, complaining, onto the flagstones at her feet. There would be time enough to be a detective tomorrow. For now it was enough that she knew—or thought she knew—that money was the issue. Now at least she had a motive. That was enough for a detective, at least for tonight.
Wan pareuhatsabordee
THURSDAY
WHAT WILL HAPPEN WILL HAPPEN
Perhaps the lazy portion of her mind that covertly subscribed to the philosophy of sabai sabai had listened to what Duanphen had said the night before. That she worked too hard. That she worked hours that were far too long.
Because Ladarat forgot to set her alarm and didn’t wake until past eight o’clock. She might not have woken even then if it weren’t for Maewfawbaahn, who wanted breakfast. Now. He could be very insistent, that cat.
So it was much later than usual when she arrived at the hospital. All of the shady spots in the parking lot had been taken an hour ago, so she had to leave the Beetle in a far corner, right next to the fence. There was no shade nearby, and even though she left the windows partly open, she knew that the insides of her little car would be like an oven by the end of the day. Ah well. This was the price she paid for being lazy.
Ladarat thought about that proper form of justice as she made her way slowly across the gravel parking lot and through the back door of the hospital. Most Thais wouldn’t have that reaction, she knew. Most Thais wouldn’t think that they deserved something bad to happen to them because they were lazy.
Waiting for the elevator to take her to the sixth floor, she wondered why she had these ideas. She thought… like an American. She had the work conscience of an American. Why would that be? One year in Chicago was hardly enough to explain it. And besides, she’d always had these feelings. She was still pondering this anomaly as she walked down the hallway and came to the ICU waiting room.
It was late in the morning, so Ladarat wasn’t surprised to find there were perhaps half a dozen family groups scattered among the chairs. The men were dressed in a mix of clean but worn work clothes, but many of the women wore traditional Lanna-style long skirts. They’d brought children and games and, of course, food, making the little waiting room look like it was hosting a small village that decided to take a trip to the big city.
But she was surprised to see the mysterious man here. Tucked into the same corner in which she’d found him yesterday, he was keeping a watchful eye on the crowded waiting room. Hunkered down on his haunches as he’d been the day before, he had the quiet patience of a man who could remain in one place forever, out of the flow of time.
She’d gone straight to the waiting room, so she didn’t have her white coat or badge. And she had her handbag over her shoulder. She looked as though she were visiting someone. At least, she hoped she did. That was her plan, if you could call it a plan.
Ladarat made her way slowly across the crowded waiting room, greeting family members and stepping around children playing on the floor, who wai’d respectfully. Careful not to step over anyone, which would have been a mark of disrespect, she was having a difficult time maintaining her balance, and her dignity.
From their dress and the respectful wais, she guessed that most, if not all, of these families were from the countryside. Up in the Northwest perhaps. Or over toward the Laos border in the north. This was perhaps the first time that some had been in a hospital. She hoped that things would end well for them, but she was afraid that, for many, they would not.
The most common cause of an ICU admission, after all, was an accident. Especially young adults who rode scooters without helmets. That didn’t usually end well. Still, the good doctors and nurses here did what they could.
Now she was in front of the window, where she looked out at Doi Suthep temple, as she’d done before. As nonchalantly as she could without being disrespectful, Ladarat turned to offer a wai to the man crouched on the floor, who returned it, watching her carefully.
She hadn’t prepared a strategy. She told herself that she wanted to be spontaneous. But the truth was that she wasn’t sure what she should say. She wasn’t at all sure that something would come to her in time.
But then, just as she began to panic, she heard herself asking the man if the person he was visiting was doing well?
“I don’t know,” the man admitted. “But I’m sure he’s getting the best care.”
Oh—this was bad. Very bad, from an ethical perspective. He was visiting a family member but could get no information? Presumably the doctors had not talked with him because he seemed simple. But that was no excuse. Even the simplest person from the country could understand the facts, if they were explained properly.
As Professor Dalrymple admonished her readers, “A failure of the patient to understand medical information is really a failure of the doctor or nurse to explain that information.”
There would be time for that later, though. Right now, it was good that she’d determined—almost by accident—that this man really was visiting someone. Is that how detectives operated? You make a guess and then discover whether you’re right? If so, she would make a very good detective, as she was always guessing. And sometimes, even, she was right.
“But why don’t you know how the patient is doing? Surely the doctors have told you something?”
In that moment, the man looked terribly, terribly sad. Of course he was sad. To visit someone with the commitment that he’d shown. Here day after day. But unable to find out how a patient was faring… well, that would be awful.
“Ah,” the man said. “But I cannot ask. I don’t have the words. I am a simple man.” He shrugged. “I will wait. I will find out.”
“But perhaps… perhaps I could ask for you?”
The man seemed to be considering that offer for a moment. His gaze left her face and skipped around the room as if he were looking for an answer along the far wall, or in the food basket a young woman was unpacking over by the window. Perhaps he found it, because a second later he turned to her and got to his feet in a flowing, graceful movement that reminded her once again of a forest animal.
“No, Khun. Please don’t trouble. I… I don’t even know the man’s name.” He offered her a deep wai, which she returned, puzzled. A second later he was hurrying across the waiting room, stepping gingerly around families without losing speed. Again she had this image in her head of a wild animal moving through the forest, sidestepping obstacles with ease that would stop humans in their tracks. It was a strange combination of grace and purpose, she thought, as he disappeared.
Much more slowly, she followed, avoiding the curious looks of the families around her. She doubted that they had overheard the conversation, but they must have been puzzled by the well-dressed city woman talking with the rough-looking man.
She wasn’t disheartened to see that the hall was empty when she reached it. Instead, she smiled to herself. She hadn’t really expected to see his retreating back.
Why not? Because she was a detective, of course.
But what now? What would a detective do?
She stood there for a moment at the waiting room entrance, thinking. A detective, she decided, would look for witnesses.
Turning
back to the waiting room, she caught sight of a face that looked familiar, on the far side of the waiting room. It took her a second glimpse of his profile as he was staring down at his mobile phone. Then she recognized the man in the elevator. The man in the stairs. The man with the wife in obstetrics.
But… if his wife was in the obstetrics unit, what was he doing up here on the sixth floor? Before she could ponder that out-of-place fact, the man snapped his phone shut and looked up at her. His eyes widened in surprise and he hustled around the corner and disappeared.
Why were people running away from her? This seemed to be a strange epidemic. This running from the ethicist.
Where was she? Yes. Witnesses.
Ladarat caught the eye of the young woman who had been unpacking sticky rice and fried vegetables from a basket. Now she held a small child on her lap. She was alone, which was not good. So perhaps that meant her husband was in the ICU?
She smiled at Ladarat and seemed to want to talk. Whether she was the best witness wasn’t the issue, Ladarat reminded herself. What was important was that she might have something to offer. One never knows.
So she greeted the woman and asked if she was well.
The woman smiled. A yim soo smile, which meant “as well as can be expected.” But she didn’t seem to want to talk about her troubles, and instead asked about the man in the corner.
“Do you know him, Khun?”
Ladarat shook her head. “I met him yesterday—we spoke briefly. I know nothing about him, but he seems… sad.”
And in that moment, she thought his sadness seemed out of proportion to his trouble in getting information. Not out of proportion, really. It’s just that it was a different sort of sadness. But maybe that was just her imagination.
“Do you know him, Khun?”
The woman shook her head. “No, we’ve never spoken. But he’s been here for several days, I think. I just arrived two days ago and he was there. And he is here at the strangest hours. Often early in the morning and late at night. I heard one of the other women here saying they thought perhaps he lives in the hospital.”
Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness Page 12