Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness (36 page)

THE PROTECTION OF
JAI DEE

A
n hour later, after the police had come to take Peaflower away, cataloging the videotape as evidence, Wiriya tried to explain their suspect’s bizarre confession as he walked Ladarat to her car.

“We see this. It’s not uncommon, really. Imagine that you’ve done something very, very clever. Something that not one person in a thousand would be able to dream up. But then imagine that you couldn’t tell anyone what you did. No one would know. And no one would appreciate how smart you are. Think how awful that must be.”

But as she walked beside him, she could see from his profile that the detective was smiling.

“That doesn’t seem so awful,” she said.

The detective laughed. A deep, hearty chuckle. “No, I don’t suppose it would be for me either. But if you really thought you were more clever than anyone else, and if you felt that no one appreciated you… well… I could see how the urge to brag would get the best of you.”

“But not for someone who is
jai dee
.”

Wiriya laughed again. “Yes, it’s true. Not for someone who is
jai dee
. In
jai dee
there is protection from many dangers, is there not?”

Ladarat agreed that this was true. One could avoid many misfortunes simply by being virtuous.

“But honestly,” he continued, “we don’t see many murders committed by people who have a good heart.”

There was one other aspect of the case that was bothering her. And that aspect had to do with someone else who wasn’t
jai dee
.

“So… the mamasan?”

“Yes?”

“She will…” What was the phrase? “Get off free?”

Wiriya smiled a sad smile that didn’t have any Thai name.

“She will.” He shrugged. “There is not much we can do—she is gone. Far away by now, and probably back across the border in China, if she’s smart.”

Ladarat thought about that for a few moments as they walked in silence. That ending seemed… wrong somehow. But perhaps not everyone pays for all crimes.

They stopped at Loi Kroh Road, a busy street that ran right through the heart of the tourist district. Old taxis and battered private cars barreled ahead, and schools of mopeds swirled around them like small, predatory fish. All seemed oblivious to two polite pedestrians waiting patiently to cross.

When she’d come this way just a few hours ago, she’d forded this street from within the relative safety of a crosswalk a block away. But Wiriya took her elbow gently and led her out into the swirling traffic. The stream of traffic parted for them as if by magic, and cars and mopeds flowed around them.

“You must be firm,” Wiriya explained as they reached the safety of the opposite sidewalk. “You must signal your intention, and drivers will react accordingly.”

Ladarat thought about that as they turned the corner to the
soi
where she’d left the Beetle. Certainly one must be clear about one’s intentions. That stood to reason. But she had great difficulty imagining how the presence in a street of someone of her diminutive dimensions might cause any driver to react.

She stopped on the sidewalk and Wiriya stopped beside her, looking around for her Beetle.

“Your car is not on this street?”

“Apparently not.”

There was a pause as Wiriya thought about this information.

“But you left it on this street?” he asked finally.

“I did.”

“Ah. I see.”

But Ladarat, who was not a detective, did not see. Who on earth would want to steal a forty-year-old Volkswagen? Of course, she thought loyally, there was nothing wrong with it, per se. But as a target of theft, well, wouldn’t a thief be better off stealing a horse and cart?

“I suppose I’ll need to file a police report,” she said. And, she thought, now I’ll get a new car after all. She was sad to see the Beetle go, of course. It had sentimental value. But really, it wasn’t a sensible car.

“I can give you a ride,” Wiriya offered. “Besides, you’ll never get a taxi in this neighborhood. You’d need to walk over to the night market, and in that time I could take you home. I can fill out the report, too. Do you have insurance information and a car title at home?”

Ladarat nodded, still a little too shell-shocked to think clearly.

LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE

T
he police formalities hadn’t taken long. Wiriya called a uniformed policeman who had met them at her townhouse to take a statement and filled out the paperwork that would go to the insurance company. Odd that she was saving one insurance company from paying a murderer, but she was asking another to pay her for her car. That was the way that karma worked.

While Wiriya and the policeman sifted through her title and car registration, filling out forms, she explored her kitchen, looking for something that she might be able to make them for dinner.

Nothing.

She looked again. Refrigerator? Cupboards? She turned up a grand total of a bag of raisins, a package of Digestive Biscuits, a jar of peanut butter, and a bottle of
tom yam
spicy sour soup mix. Oh, and five cans of cat food. She pondered for a moment the sort of meal she might be able to make from that motley collection of foodstuffs.

“I’ll be right back,” she called out to the men in the living room.

Duanphen’s cart was just closing. But she still had
gang massaman
—a new dish for her. From the south, it was halal chicken curry with potatoes and a brown mild gravy. Just the sort of thing you’d serve to a substantial man, she thought. And for something lighter,
tom um gung
—spicy prawn soup—and
kai jiew moo ssap
—a Thai omelet with fish sauce and pork, deep fried. And
glooai tawt
, of course. Finally she picked up two mangoes from the fruit cart just down the street. Crisis averted. As an afterthought, she picked up a six-pack of Singha from the corner 7-Eleven. Wiriya looked like a man who would appreciate a beer at the end of a long day. Come to think of it, so would she. Her day, arguably, had been even longer than his.

When she got back, the policeman was gone and Wiriya was out on the patio, with
Maewfawbaahn
on his lap. They appeared to be getting along splendidly.

Ladarat didn’t make any pretense of serving and presentation. No need for Wiriya to get the wrong impression about her. Instead, she brought the Styrofoam containers to the patio table, where she’d spent so many nights, taking plates and utensils and serving spoons from the kitchen on the way.

Wiriya smiled. “You didn’t need to go through all the trouble of cooking for me.”

“Yes, well, I’m such an excellent cook, I love to be able to show off my skills. And I’m very good at making Styrofoam food containers. They’re my specialty.”

As she opened the boxes and set them down in the middle of the small table between them, she asked Wiriya a question that had been on her mind ever since the beginning of the case. Now, she figured, was as good a time as any to ask.

“Why… did you come to me about this case? You could have come to anyone in the hospital. Or even someone in the Ministry of Health. They would have access to all of the records that I found, wouldn’t they?”

The detective thought about that as he took a bite of the omelet. Then he smiled and nodded.

“You are an excellent cook, Khun Ladarat. And so quick.” He was quiet for a moment.

Then he swallowed and shrugged. “To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure what the result would be. If it were murder, well, that’s one thing. I know how to deal with murder. But what if it were less straightforward? What if there were…”

“Nuances?”

“Exactly so. Nuances.” He seemed to be rolling that word over in his mind appreciatively.

“Like what?”

“Well, what if this woman was a victim of abuse by her husband, for instance?”

“That wouldn’t make her immune to the law, would it?”

“No,” Wiriya admitted. “It wouldn’t. Not really. But it might affect whether the law should be involved.”

“How so?” Ladarat helped herself to some of the curry. Just a bit.

“Marriage has its own set of rules,” he said thoughtfully. “Its own set of laws.”

“So if someone breaks those… laws?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But it seems to me that if there were conditions of abuse, or even infidelity, then those… laws were broken. In that case, one might be excused—at least partially—for circumventing other laws.”

“And the story that Peaflower told you—were those the sorts of nuances that you thought might exist?”

“Yes, unfortunately. In my experience, whenever a woman harms a man, the man always bears some of the blame.”

“But not exactly in this case, no? The male culprit, if there was one, was Peaflower’s stepfather.”

Wiriya agreed that this was so. “However,” he said, “these more recent men were hardly blameless. They thought they could buy a wife off the shelf. Perhaps they did not mistreat Peaflower, but they showed a disregard for her as a person that suggests that they would have. I could never imagine finding a wife in such a way. In the best marriages, it has always seemed to me, mutual respect must develop first.” He paused, toying with a piece of chicken. “Respect and… cooperation.”

“Ah.” Ladarat took a sip of Singha, hoping it would clear her head. It did not.

“Anyway. Ah… so you thought that if I looked into this first, I could determine whether there were any of these… nuances?”

“Exactly so.” The detective seemed to be relieved to be back on firmer ground. “And if there were, and if perhaps this woman were acting in self-defense, well… then I hadn’t really begun an official investigation.”

“You would let sleeping dogs lie.”

“I would what?” Wiriya looked genuinely surprised, his bottle of Singha hovering midway between table and mouth. “Why… dogs?”

“It’s an American expression,” Ladarat explained. “It’s how they say that one should leave well enough alone.”

Wiriya thought about that for a moment as he split the remaining omelet between the two of them.

“It’s wise to let a sleeping dog lie,” he said finally. “I had no idea that Americans were known for their wisdom.”

“They have their moments,” Ladarat admitted.

Wan aatit

SUNDAY

AN ELEPHANT APOLOGIZES

I
t was still very early—not even seven thirty—and the hospital garden was quiet. Only the low voices of a small group of medical students in a far corner broke the silence. They had their books open, and their steady murmur was a counterpoint to the fountain’s mumbling.

But was this the right place for the meeting she had planned? She wasn’t so sure. What if the Americans wanted more privacy? What if there were outbursts? But at least the mahout would be more comfortable out here. And if he was comfortable… well… maybe that would help.

She arranged two of the light aluminum tables next to each other, then gathered eight matching chairs around them. The scraping of the chair feet on the concrete sounded harsh in the silence, and two of the medical students looked up. But a second later they were back to their studies. It only took a moment, and she had the tables and chairs together. She thought for a second, then made space to accommodate two wheelchairs.