Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness (11 page)

Then, back in her little cubby of an office, she’d reviewed a dozen more policies, which made her feel a little more confident that she could actually review them all by next week. So the afternoon had been interminable, but now, at last, she could leave. And she should. Before anything else happened.

She was just rising from her chair and reaching for her bag when the telephone rang. It was Detective Mookjai, asking for an update.

Ladarat was hesitant at first. After all, she had found nothing. And that’s what she explained. No note. No lab results. And no record of any blood sample having been taken. In short, a failure. Except…

“Except?”

“A name. That is to say, I have the woman’s name. On her marriage certificate. She is called Anchan Pibul.” Ladarat paused to let that information register.

“Ah, Khun Ladarat. That is very good. Very good. More progress than I’ve made.”

She smiled at that. She was perhaps doing better at detecting than a real detective?

“And there is a little more,” Ladarat admitted. “Although I don’t know what it means. The marriage certificate…”

“Yes?”

“It was dated more than five years ago.”

There was a protracted silence as the detective considered this revelation.

“Khun Wiriya?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I was just thinking about what this new information means.” He sighed. “I’m not sure. I suspect it means… something.”

But what? An old marriage certificate, by itself, meant nothing. She married this man several years ago and then he died. But there was the corporal’s story of seeing the same woman with a different man. So either she was married to multiple men at the same time—which seemed as though it would be a lot of work for a murderess—or…

“Is it possible,” she said slowly, “that this woman is… recycling a marriage certificate?”

“Recycling?”

“Imagine that she… connects with multiple men, and kills them. Then she uses the marriage certificate to prove that she deserves a share of their life insurance?”

“But that would only work if the men all had the same name.”

“Like Zhang Wei?”

“Ahh, yes. A most common name. Perhaps that could be her strategy. Assuming the man isn’t really married,” Wiriya pointed out, “because surely his real wife would object?”

“So perhaps she preyed on men who were not married?”

“Ah, I see. That is very clever. You are either a very good detective or…” He paused. “You have a bright future as a murderer.”

Ladarat wasn’t sure how to respond to that assessment, so she said nothing. But Wiriya didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he posed a question in return.

“But, you see, there is a very large problem with that… strategy. To be successful, our friend Anchan would need to find men—single men—with the same name. Granted, it is a common name. A common Chinese name. But how would she do that?”

“I don’t know,” Ladarat admitted. “She seems to be very quick, too, if your corporal is to be believed. Only three months from one death to the next? At that pace, she can’t rely on chance meetings, and she couldn’t rely on friends, who would become suspicious.”

“Perhaps she is placing advertisements somewhere,” Wiriya suggested.

“Ah, it would be difficult indeed to use such advertisements to find a man with the right name. But perhaps she is using a dating service, which has a database she could search,” Ladarat suggested. “And that would point to a younger woman.”

There was a moment of silence on the line, and then Wiriya asked why she should say that.

“Ah, well, younger people are more likely to use services such as online dating.” She paused, smiling. “It is a known fact.” Like the known fact that women use poison. So there.

And indeed, when she thought back about conversations she’d had, she could only remember hearing about such services from the younger nurses.

“Maybe,” Wiriya said tentatively, “older people who use such services are more… traditional. And thus they’re embarrassed to talk about them.” He paused.

“Ah.”

“Ah,” she said again.

Then he rescued her. “So you see, it is possible that an older man or woman uses one of these services. But it is also possible that they might use a more… discreet service.”

“To avoid embarrassment?”

“Exactly so.”

“But there must be dozens of such services,” she said.

“Hundreds, actually,” he said. “I looked.”

She resisted the temptation to ask whether he had looked for personal or professional reasons.

“But can’t we simply… question her?”

“Ah, we could, if we could find her.”

“But surely her name is unusual. Anchan Pibul? I don’t think I’ve ever met an Anchan before. You must have databases to search…”

“I do, and in fact, I’ve been looking as we’ve been talking these last few minutes. There is no record of a phone number or address of such a person in Chiang Mai.”

“Perhaps that is a… pseudonym?”

“Perhaps,” Wiriya admitted. “But that name was on the marriage certificate. She was listed as his wife, using that name.”

Ladarat didn’t see how that could mean anything. What would stop her from giving any name she liked. Unless…

“She needed the death certificate to obtain the life insurance money. So… that must be her real name.” Because certainly she would need to provide some proof that she was actually the man’s wife in order to receive the life insurance payment. So unless she had many forged documents that would be good enough to fool a tight-fisted insurance company, then there was an excellent chance that her name really was Anchan Pibul.

“So if that really is her name, and I can’t find her,” Wiriya said, “then she is making an effort to be hidden.”

Which would, of course, make a great deal of sense if your hobby was murdering middle-aged men. It was not the sort of activity that cried out for a high profile.

“Then how can we find her?” Ladarat asked. “She wouldn’t use her real name in a dating service profile, I suppose?”

“No, people don’t use their real names in what’s available to the public. In order to find a person’s true name, they must agree to share it with you.” Again, she wondered how the detective knew such information. But perhaps it’s the sort of thing that police know.

“Then how can we find this woman?” she asked again. They sat in a companionable silence for a moment, thinking.

Was this what detectives did? They made some progress, and then they ran into a dense thicket that prevented any movement. And then, she guessed, there would be a breakthrough. The silence on the phone lengthened.

Now would be an excellent time for a breakthrough to occur.

And then, just like that, it did.

“A matchmaker,” Ladarat said. “There might be benefits of using a matchmaker when one is searching for a spouse.”

“Perhaps,” Wiriya agreed. “Some people will use a matchmaker. They might, for instance, if they were shy, or were anxious about meeting new people.” He paused. “But if there are hundreds of dating services, there must be just as many matchmakers.”

“Ah, but what if matchmakers—or dating services, for that matter—specialize?”

“Specialize?”

“What if,” she asked excitedly, “our woman Anchan is looking for a particular type of man. A… Chinese man?”

“I see… then she might go to a service that specialized in just such matches.”

“And such services do exist,” she said. “I read about them. Because of the one-child policy in China, there is a shortage of wives. So Chinese men, and particularly middle-aged Chinese men, search for wives in Myanmar and Laos and Vietnam and Thailand.”

“Exactly so,” Wiriya said. “But… how would we find this person?”

But Ladarat had a ready answer.

“I have…” What was the word the police used? “I have… a source,” she said.

“Ah, indeed?” Although he knew perfectly well who her source was. “Well then, you are becoming a true detective.”

And in that moment, Ladarat could think of no higher praise.

THE LIMITED PATIENCE OF MANGOES

T
he day wasn’t yet over, and Ladarat was a little cautious as she left by one of the hospital’s back doors. More than a little cautious, truth be told. It wasn’t yet five o’clock and she was hurrying to her car in the parking lot next to the nursing school.

Hopefully Khun Tippawan was not watching her right now. Ladarat looked over her shoulder but saw no one. Only an empty parking lot. Still, there were the windows of the nursing school to her left. Five floors, each with a row of windows as long as a city block. Any one of them could be the lookout post of one of Khun Tippawan’s spies.

Did that seem paranoid? Perhaps. But some paranoia was justified, was it not? The Director of Excellence seemed to have an uncanny ability to know when Ladarat was not at her post.

Although surely people realized how hard she’d been working to prepare for the inspection? Still, it would be her luck to meet Khun Tippawan. Or… worse… the hospital director himself. He would joke about how some staff had such an easy life…

She played that scene out in her head several times, making it more uncomfortable with each iteration, until finally she reached her car and heaved a sigh of relief as she slid into the driver’s seat.

Eeeeeyyy. Fortunately she’d come in early that morning and had been able to get one of the best spots under an immense banyan tree close to the hospital building. Still, it was hot. Whoever it was in Germany who designed these vinyl seats didn’t think about weather in Thailand. Her next car would have air-conditioning. And perhaps a radio. A radio wasn’t truly necessary, of course. One always had one’s thoughts for company. But it would be nice to hear another voice, for a change.

Then she patted the Beetle’s dashboard gently, feeling disloyal. Not that she’d be getting a new car anytime soon…

Ladarat threaded her way out of the university hospital complex and onto Suthep Road, and then cut over to Arak—the westernmost side of the perfect square that encircles Chiang Mai’s old city. She followed the road around the square—south, then east, then farther east on Sridonchai Road toward the Ping River.

Farang
thought Chiang Mai was old and quaint because they mostly saw the old city. But out here, and on the Ring Road in particular, you could be in a suburb of Chicago. There was a wide divided highway with big stores and supermarkets and gas stations. She didn’t like this part of Chiang Mai, because it was ugly. But she was proud of it, too, in a way. Proud not that her town could boast strip malls, but that those strip malls could coexist with traditional Thai values. At least for the time being.

She turned left at Charoen Prathet Road, which led north to Tha Phae, the tourist avenue that led from old city down to the night market and the river. Anything
farang
wanted—from girls to elephant hair bracelets—they could find along this half-mile stretch of road. But this wasn’t her destination.

There was an unnamed
soi
, or small street, about halfway down Tha Phae, where she could usually find a parking spot. It was little wider than an alley; nevertheless this
soi
was filled with
farang
, many of whom would nod appreciatively at her yellow Beetle. Some of the older ones were perhaps remembering fondly their own motoring history. If she ever sold the Beetle, she decided, patting the dashboard again for luck, she would park it here with a big “For Sale” sign in English. She’d find it a good home with a car collector in… California.

She found a parking space even more easily than she’d hoped and greeted the owner of the fruit stand across the street, whom she knew by sight.

The mangoes looked particularly good. Still partly green, they’d mostly turned a promising warm yellow. She gave one a gentle squeeze. Ahh, almost ripe.

“I’ll be back, Khun. Save one for me.”

The man smiled and shrugged. “You cannot expect a ripe mango to wait for you. Mangoes—they are not a patient fruit.”

Ladarat nodded agreement. Fruit stand philosophy was oddly comforting right now. But not helpful.

She didn’t need a sackful of ripe mangoes where she was going. But a bunch of bananas would be perfect. She bought them and paid 30
baht
, or about a dollar. She waved her thanks and crossed the small
soi
, entering an even narrower alley. It was shadowy here, and a few degrees cooler. Still, she hurried. This wasn’t a neighborhood she liked to be seen in.

Even if you had never been to this part of Chiang Mai before, just the names of the businesses around her would tell you in no uncertain terms what this street was all about. There was the Cowboy Bar, and the Paradise. And the Shangri-La.

This was a street that catered to the worst appetites of
farang
. Big greasy meals and T-shirts and women. And women. And more women.

Every other business, it seemed, had the same stylized figure of a naked woman with long hair. It was as if someone, somewhere, had decided that this was the universal symbol of a girlie bar, in much the same way that traffic signs had become international.