Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness (21 page)

Nor, at first, did she think about whether she should heed that warning. That is, she did not think seriously about whether she should give up on the Peaflower case.

No, as she waited for her beloved Beetle to smell a little less like it had been filled with a week’s worth of rotting garbage, she thought about who might have done this. She thought very, very hard about this question.

There was, obviously, Peaflower herself. She could have left that note on her windshield, and the durian on the driver’s seat. That would be the simplest answer.

And yet, there was a problem with that theory. If Peaflower were the durian perpetrator, then how did she know? How could Peaflower possibly know that she, Ladarat Patalung, was tracking her down? Ladarat pondered that question for several minutes, without appreciable results.

She sighed, stood up, and leaned in through the open passenger-side window. The durian’s aftereffects were still quite strong. Overpowering, really. So she had more time to think.

Her thoughts, unfortunately, were not very productive. At least, they were not productive in the sense that they provided her with answers. Yet they were highly productive in the sense that they succeeded in making her very nervous.

Because she realized that this episode of fruit-based intimidation could only have happened in one of two ways. First, and perhaps most likely, Peaflower had learned of her detective activities and was trying to warn her away. That, Ladarat knew, meant that someone had told Peaflower about those detective activities. That is to say, Peaflower had an accomplice. Several accomplices, perhaps.

These would presumably be accomplices who knew about Ladarat’s activities. People who knew about them, and conveyed the news of Ladarat’s investigation to Peaflower. That was troubling, because there were very few people who knew about Ladarat’s activities. Detective Mookjai, of course. And Ladarat’s cousin. Both were beyond suspicion. That left Panit Booniliang, the hardworking medical records clerk and cricket aficionado. He should also be beyond suspicion, should he not?

The very impossibility that these three individuals might have warned Peaflower led Ladarat inevitably to a second possibility, which was equally implausible. Perhaps one of these accomplices had actually done the warning. That is, one of these accomplices had placed the note on her windshield and the frowning durian in her Beetle. They might be protecting Peaflower, or if their role in her crimes was substantial, they might be protecting themselves. Yet that seemed inconceivable.

That left a third possibility—that it was the mamasan Wipaporn Chakrabonse who had discovered Ladarat’s investigation and was warning her away. And that, Ladarat knew, had to be the case. It was the only logical explanation.

But was Khun Wipaporn acting on her own to protect herself? Or was she working with Peaflower to protect both of them?

That was the most important question. If the mamasan was interested primarily in protecting herself, then perhaps she might be open to persuasion. She might even be willing to give evidence to save herself.

But if the mamasan and Peaflower were working together… well… that was very bad. If that were the case, then Ladarat suspected that her meeting tomorrow night with Khun Wipaporn would be a trap.

Ladarat poked her head through the passenger-side window once again. She noted a slight improvement. But driving, she thought, would still expose her to toxic levels of durian fumes. She resolved to wait a few more minutes.

As she settled back into position on the Beetle’s hood, she had two thoughts more or less simultaneously. The first was that she should inform Detective Mookjai of these latest… developments. He would want to know.

But it was as she was reaching for her mobile phone in her bag that she had the second thought. And this was a thought that froze her right hand in mid-reach. If someone had left a note on her car, and had left a frowning piece of fruit in that same car, on the same day, then that someone must be… following her. And in all likelihood, someone was watching her right now.

Ladarat tried to maintain a calm demeanor for the benefit of this unseen watcher. A watcher who, hopefully, could not see her hand trembling. She took out her mobile and dialed the detective’s number. As she did, Ladarat scanned her surroundings in a way that she hoped was surreptitious. That is, in the way that a detective might scan her surroundings to identify watchers. Because if ever there was a proper time to behave like a detective—even if one was not—this was such a time.

Perhaps her observations were surreptitious, but they were not productive. Her scan of the darkening street and shuttered shops revealed only two dogs poised at the end of an alley, a group of three schoolgirls heading home, and a young
farang
couple holding hands and looking around at the closed shops in wonder, as if this were the most exciting street they’d ever walked down.

Ladarat pushed aside a twinge of something that could only be called jealousy. She remembered when she and Somboon were like that, many years ago. Wherever they were was the best place they had ever been, because their future was glowing so brightly.

None of these individuals, however, could possibly be Peaflower’s accomplice. So if Ladarat was being watched—and she had to assume that she was—then she was being watched rather expertly. By someone, presumably, who was very talented at watching. And that sort of person was not a person to be trifled with.

The detective didn’t answer, and so Ladarat left a brief message explaining that someone had placed a note on her Beetle, warning her away. She left out the information about the durian, although she couldn’t say why she omitted it. It seemed both silly and frightening at the same time. She wasn’t sure whether to make it into a joke, or to grant it the gravity that perhaps the threat deserved. So she said nothing.

As Ladarat put her mobile away, she stuck her head in through the passenger-side window one more time, hoping that perhaps the fumes had dissipated. They were slightly reduced but were by no means gone. At this rate, she would be here all night. So, taking a deep breath, she opened the driver’s-side door and got in, hoping that if she drove fast enough, she might encourage the fumes to leave.

By reflex, as she was pulling away from the curb, she turned to wave at the fruit seller. It was only then that she realized that the good man was still not there. The whole time she had been waiting for the durian’s effects to wane, he had not been at his post. And it was now well past seven. Normally he’d be packing up about now.

So where was he? And did his extended absence have anything to do with the frowning durian? That was too much to try to figure out. Particularly on an empty stomach.

One should never try to think too hard on an empty stomach. Particularly about matters of ethics and morality.

So she would go home, driving as rapidly as safety permitted. With her head out the window if need be. And she would make herself a pomelo salad. And she would think about recent developments. And she would decide whether to continue with her activities of detection.

ONE SHOULD NOT BLAME FRUIT FOR OUR DISAPPOINTMENTS

T
he pomelo salad had not been quite as good as Ladarat had imagined it would be. In large part, that failure could be attributed to the aftereffects of driving home, marinating in the stink of durian. It proved to be difficult indeed to work up any appetite under those conditions.

But on further reflection, she had to admit that disappointment was inevitable if you try to imagine how things would be. You get an idea in your head of how nice a fresh pomelo salad would be, and then you start filling in details. Just how crunchy the fruit would be, with a very specific tartness. And you imagine just how spicy the chilies would be. And it’s all wonderful until you take that first bite. Then it’s not what you imagined and somehow that makes it less good.

If you had no expectations, that bite might have been wonderful. You would be pleasantly surprised. But if you had those expectations, then the event itself was bound to be a disappointment, if for no other reasons than it was different. That failure was not the fault of the pomelo—one should not blame fruit for one’s disappointments. So as a general rule, you should be careful what you expect, since that will determine how happy you’ll be.

And Ladarat was not happy. There were too many things to worry about. And—what was worse—she was worrying about what she needed to worry about. Like the inspection, of course. And Director Tippawan. And then there was Peaflower. And the durian and a car that smelled as though a large forest animal had died in its front seat.

What should she be doing to better prepare for the inspection? What could she be doing?

And what should she be doing to catch Peaflower? And should she be doing anything at all?

And there was the man in the ICU waiting room. She needed to do something—anything—to solve that problem before the inspectors arrived.

And her smelly Beetle…

Eeeehhh. It was enough to make her want to quit her job and go back to being a regular nurse. She would care for patients during her shifts, and then she would go home. She would do her job, and do it well. And she would go about her life. She would read books and buy strawberries, and drink tea. She would do what normal people did. What Khun Duanphen advised her to do. She would not work so hard, and she would not think so much.
Sabai sabai.

Yet… that would be boring, would it not? And besides, it was difficult to remain unhappily worried for very long. After all, this was the perfect time of day, with the best possible Chiang Mai weather.
Maewfawbaahn
was asleep, the night was cool enough to need a sweater, a thin gray wool cardigan that was one of her favorites.

As Ladarat let go of her worries, she found, as she often did, that her thoughts meandered along of their own volition. Those thoughts didn’t seem to move in straight lines but instead went forward and backward, crisscrossing one another in unpredictable ways. Sometimes they moved slowly and sometimes so fast that she couldn’t keep up. But they moved. That was the thing about thoughts. They would work hard for you if you just let them do what they want to do.

Tonight, several thoughts were rambling around in her head. There was the Peaflower investigation, of course. And the question of whether she should give it up. She let those thoughts go where they would. Perhaps she would solve the case. Or perhaps she would decide not to solve it. Either seemed like a good outcome of thinking. So she let those thoughts wander off to wherever it was they wanted to go.

That left her to think about other thoughts that were less freighted by worry. And indeed, it was in moments like these that Ladarat found that she could think about expectations and happiness with the detachment of a philosopher. That was the best definition of luxury she could imagine—to think about things because you wanted to, not because you had to.

There was that young man who bought the rambutan. His expectations, it seemed, were almost nonexistent. He was surprised by nothing. He was, she was certain, a happy sort.

But he also didn’t notice things. His expectations were so vague and ill-formed that nothing struck him as odd or unusual. She smiled. An elephant could amble down Praisanee Road along the Ping River, and that young man would probably take it in stride. He might not even notice.

That vision of an elephant wandering past a 7-Eleven on the river road led her to think about the wary country man outside the ICU. He was also a foreigner in a strange land, just as the American was. If he saw an elephant, he wouldn’t be surprised. He might even feel relieved. Here was something that was familiar. But everything else was foreign to him. He was nervous. And wary.

But what about these men who were being murdered? She knew that her thoughts would turn back to that case eventually, whether she wanted them to or not. That’s the way thoughts worked.

What about those men? What did they expect? For this to happen again and again, without anyone sounding the alarm, they must all be like the young American. They must be wide-eyed and unsurprised by anything.

But where would Peaflower find such men? How could she reliably locate men who would be unfazed by whatever she did to them? Unsurprised by whatever requests she made regarding life insurance?

That was when Ladarat had the insight of a true detective.

She thought about the wide-eyed American and the man in the ICU waiting room and the distance between them. The sort of trust she’d seen in the boy this afternoon was for the young. An older man, particularly one in a strange environment, like that man in the ICU or these Chinese men, would be cautious. He might be stupid. But he would notice things. He would be paying attention.

So it followed that this woman, Peaflower, was very, very clever. She was leading these men down a very carefully tended path. They were seeing what they expected to see. She’d eliminated any unpleasant surprises. If they expected elephants prancing down Praisanee Road, then she gave them elephants.