Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness (27 page)

THE POISONER’S ART

W
iriya had been strangely solicitous as he walked her back to her car. Quite unnecessarily so. After all, it was only eight o’clock and the streets were crowded. But they talked about the note that had been left on her Beetle’s window and he’d told her she should be careful. Very careful. She didn’t tell him about the durian. That just would have upset him, and he had enough on his mind, especially now that he was about to be hunted by a murderer.

Then Khun Wiriya said something that surprised her. She looked out of place, he’d said. And that could lead people to take advantage.

Now, sitting on her back porch in the moonlight, with
Maewfawbaahn
curled up against her feet, she wished she’d asked him what he meant. “Out of place?”

Of course she looked out of place. Did he think she routinely frequented such streets? She smiled and took a last bite of the
kao niew moo yang
she’d been fantasizing about earlier—grilled pork skewers and sticky rice. It would keep well. The simplest dishes—like the simplest people—always withstood time the best. She’d save the rest for lunch tomorrow.

But what did he mean? Did she really look more out of place than he did? She didn’t think so. Although his suit jacket was obviously made of good cloth, it was also obviously old. Well cared for, but aged. Not the kind of garment a man would put on if he was going out for a night on the town. So he didn’t fit in any more than she did. Which was a good thing.

Maybe he meant that she looked too trusting? He didn’t say that, but she’d heard it before. And it was a useful attribute to have, was it not, if you wanted to get people talking to you? People would tell you things they wouldn’t ordinarily say, if they thought that you would believe them without a second thought.

Did that attribute prepare her to be a detective? She could imagine that it might. If people were to tell you things they wouldn’t ordinarily say. If they were to let secrets slip… Well, maybe detecting would simply be a matter of listening.

She smiled and reached down to scratch behind
Maewfawbaahn
’s left ear—his favorite spot. She should just look trusting. She should just be herself. What could be easier?

A moment later,
Maewfawbaahn
’s head wasn’t where it had been, and her fingers closed on air. He bounded in quick hops over to the gordonia bushes that lined the back wall and disappeared behind the oversize leaves that parted like a curtain and closed behind his tail. A mouse, maybe. Or a snake. He was always hunting. But fortunately he was a very bad hunter. If he ever caught anything, he never brought it home, which was one thing to be very thankful for.

Maewfawbaahn
, she decided, was not a trusting soul. And that led her to think back to these poor Chinese men. They would not be trusting souls either, would they? She didn’t think so. Making such long-distance marriage arrangements was risky—surely they knew that?

And then when they met this woman, well, they wouldn’t let down their guard, would they? No, they would be careful.

She thought about that for a moment or two, as a subtle movement of the gordonia leaves against the far wall marked
Maewfawbaahn
’s relentless pursuit of an evil mouse.

If they were not trusting—if they were still skeptical—what would they do? How would they act?

Well, for one thing, they would probably not believe their good fortune. They would conclude that this was a little too good to be true. So they would be suspicious. They would be fearing a trap.

Would they go back to Peaflower’s home? They would not. They would surely have heard stories of unsuspecting men who were lured into an unfamiliar place and beaten up and robbed. So they would prefer to stay in public places—hotels and restaurants.

Then how had she managed to poison them? If indeed Khun Wiriya was right, that is, and they were poisoned. Her mind wandered and she imagined scenarios that might fit.

She somehow puts something in his food in a restaurant? But that would be difficult to disguise. Perhaps with enough spices? Perhaps with a very spicy dish like
tom yam
soup?

That was possible, but unlikely. What if it didn’t work? What if the man had a fine sense of taste? Some men do. That wasn’t something she could be sure of in advance. And, too, there was the problem of how Peaflower could order a dish for him that she herself wouldn’t touch. And she’d need to ensure that he ate all of it.

No, there were too many problems and potential failures. And if there was one thing Ladarat knew about Peaflower, it was that she didn’t take chances. She would be certain of the outcome before she ever walked into the House of Rooster Happiness to meet her next victim.

So what’s the best way to disguise a poison? That would be the poisoner’s art. The science—finding a substance that would kill—seems like it would be relatively easy. But how to induce your victim to take the poison that you’ve prepared?

Ladarat thought about that for a good long while. Long enough for
Maewfawbaahn
to return—empty-mouthed, fortunately—from his hunt. Again he curled up at her feet, proud that he’d kept the tiny yard safe from vermin.

Safe… that was it. What was safer than medicine? Medicine from a trusted doctor?

What if… Peaflower managed to get drugs from a doctor? A doctor that the victim would trust? And what if she somehow substituted the poison for the drugs?

But that would be difficult. How to disguise poison as a drug? As a pill or a liquid? Ladarat didn’t know much about poisons, but that seemed like it wouldn’t work.

So… what if she used a drug to poison him? Then it would be simply a matter of substituting one dangerous drug for another.

She would just need to get him a medication that he was expecting. A medication that he wanted to take. Then she’d substitute something like an opioid or a sedative, or maybe both. In a high enough dose that he would fall asleep. Then he’d stop breathing. Very soon he would be dead.

The trick, though, would be getting him to want to take any medication in the first place. In hopes of stumbling on an answer, she let her mind run along, while she tried to keep up.

He arrives, and they meet. They spend the evening at the House of Rooster Happiness, perhaps. Or perhaps they go to a hotel. Perhaps they don’t spend the night together. She would want him interested, but she wouldn’t want him to turn around and leave. She’d have to
keep
him interested.

So she leaves him in his hotel. She promises they will meet the following day.

But… the following day he doesn’t feel well. She’s done something to him. A sprinkle of laxative in one of his drinks, perhaps. Or aspirin, which would cause stomach discomfort. A little gastrointestinal upset was easy to arrange. That, Peaflower could be sure of.

So when they meet the next day, he is feeling out of sorts. He’ll stay in his hotel, he says. He’ll spend the day resting.

She’s helpful. She is the perfect future wife. She can’t let her future husband suffer, can she? He wouldn’t expect that. So she offers to get him a prescription for something that will calm his stomach.

But the man refuses. He’s in a foreign country. He doesn’t know the doctors here. He doesn’t trust them. If he were at home, he would call one of the best doctors in Kunming, who would make a house call for him. But here? Were these Thai doctors any good?

No, no, he’d say. It will be all right. I’ll be better. It’s nothing.

Then Peaflower would play her trump card. There’s a Chinese doctor not two blocks from the hotel. Very well respected. He treats many Thais who are in influential positions in government. And many ethnic Chinese. Very wealthy…

Eventually the man relents. He wouldn’t trust just anyone, but if it was a Chinese doctor, and an important one… well, that was almost as good as his own doctor back in Kunming.

But how would Peaflower arrange to get a prescription? Would a doctor write a prescription for a patient he’s never seen? Even for a stomach tonic, probably not. And still there was the problem of how she’d get an opioid and a sedative. How would that work?

Maybe Peaflower really did use some form of poison, but Ladarat had a feeling that this was a case of switched medications. It was more… clever. Anyone could use rat poison, but Ladarat had a feeling that this woman was proud of her cleverness.

So she’d need to get her new man to a doctor. And she’d need to get a drug that could be lethal, like morphine, from somewhere. And she’d have to switch them somehow.

Ladarat was stumped. Somehow, the woman would need to get those prescriptions without the “patient” being present. How could that be possible?

She thought about that problem for almost an hour. Even
Maewfawbaahn
decided that enough was enough and he slunk inside through the patio door she’d left open. She just couldn’t see how a doctor would be willing to write those prescriptions. And if the man were actually in the clinic with the doctor, who handed him the prescription, wouldn’t he get it filled immediately?

Ah, so that was it. The man would be feeling poorly, so he would go straight back to the hotel, while Peaflower filled the prescription. Then she would replace the stomach medicine for something far more dangerous.

Ladarat basked in the feeling of success for a whole minute but then realized her mistake. What if the doctor didn’t write a prescription? Or what if he provided the man with medicine that was in the office? There were too many possibilities and ways that her plan could go wrong.

And, too, there was the problem that this woman was a serial killer. She did this again and again. So any plan would need to work not just once but perhaps a dozen times. Not necessarily with the same doctor, but probably so.

But how? Think.

Think about what you do know. And go back to the beginning.

They meet. He has made arrangements to stay in a hotel. Where? Well, the Shangri-La, obviously. It was where businessmen, and especially Chinese businessmen, stayed.

But if she did this repeatedly, she wouldn’t be able to use the same hotel, would she? She would not. So it could be anywhere.

A few moments ago, she’d thought that Peaflower would have mentioned a Chinese doctor near the hotel. That had just been a guess, but it made sense, didn’t it? And it would have to be near the hotel. She’d want to get out and back before the man started feeling better.

That meant she was looking for a doctor—a Chinese doctor—near many high-end hotels that cater to foreign travelers. That would be outside the southeast corner of the old city, between Chang Klan Road and the Ping River.

So they were looking for a Chinese doctor near the Shangri-La who provided a prescription about a week ago to a man named Zhang Wei. He should be easy to find, shouldn’t he?

She looked at her watch. Almost ten o’clock. Too late. Or was it? Her hospital’s medical records department would still be open. There was always someone there.

This close to the inspection, it might be her friend Panit Booniliang. But if it wasn’t, then it was probably his nephew.

She stood and stretched, then carried her plate and the leftover
kao niew moo yang
inside. She picked up the phone and dialed the medical records number. She was unaccountably pleased when the nephew answered, just as she’d predicted.

He didn’t seem surprised to hear from her. It was almost as if he’d been waiting for her call. Of course, he must be bored. Any interruption would be welcome. So she told him what she wanted. He sounded skeptical at first, but all she had to say was that she needed the information for the hospital inspection. That was enough.

After she hung up the phone and began to get ready for bed, there was one question that was still nagging her. If her theory was right, then these men died in a hotel. So Peaflower would need some way to remove their bodies, undetected, which would be difficult. She’d also need to transport those bodies to an emergency room unnoticed, which would be almost impossible. So how did she do it?

And there was still the problem of the drugs that actually killed the man. If she was correct, it would be drugs like morphine. A doctor would never provide those without seeing the patient. That was the second problem with her theory.

Those two problems should have been enough to make her doubt herself. And perhaps, a week ago, they would have. But much to Ladarat’s surprise, now they weren’t. She was convinced that she was right. Everything else made sense. Everything else fit together. Even if this one piece didn’t… well… she would figure it out in time.

Wan sao

SATURDAY