Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness (12 page)

Halfway down the street, though, the businesses lining the
soi
seem to lose their focus. There was an electronic repair shop, and a small crockery store, and a kitchen supply warehouse. Beyond that was another plain storefront that announced itself simply as “The Tea House.” That business had the same stylized woman’s figure in the lower-right-hand corner of the door, but the little sign was the only indication of what went on inside. And that, Ladarat knew, was exactly the way that her cousin Siriwan Pookusuwan wanted it.

Ladarat slipped through the oversize wooden doors, a little surprised that they were unlocked. Usually they weren’t open until after six o’clock, to discourage the odd traveler who wandered in looking for tea. They served tea, of course. But anyone looking for tea was probably in the wrong place. The place was a brothel, although Ladarat was careful never to call it that.

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, the contours of the large room emerged, stretching back into the dim corners. There were century-old teak floors and walls, with a large sunken table more than five meters long in the center. Wood carvings and silk tapestries lined the walls, and a Buddha to her right watched over the entrance.

That Buddha was the ubiquitous Thai
Hing Phra
. Many places of business had one inside, just as they had a
Saan Jao
, or spirit house, outside. It was a balance that Ladarat found comforting. Outside you’d pray for luck and good fortune or good crops—all materialist things. But inside you’d pray for harmony and enlightenment. She paused and knelt, depositing the bananas as an offering in hopes of her own enlightenment regarding matters of detection.

As she rose, out of the darkness a man materialized in front of her. A blond
farang
, the biggest she had ever seen. Easily two meters tall, with broad shoulders and a crewcut, the man looked like he’d been designed by a Thai casting director who’d been told: “Give me a typical big American surfer.”

The man turned toward her, holding up a hubcap-size hand. “We’re not open…” he said in English. He looked nonplussed for a moment, then switched to heavily accented but perfectly serviceable Thai. “Hello, so good to see you, Khun Ladarat.” He offered a high
wai
, which she returned. “And how have you been?”

“Well, I thank you, Khun Jonah. And you?”

“Krista’s pregnant,” he burst out, unable to contain himself. “It’s going to be a girl,” he said shyly.

“That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for both of you.” And she was.

Jonah had had a rough life. As a tourist just out of college, he’d gotten involved in a scam to run drugs to Koh Samui to make enough money to travel on to India. But as many unsuspecting
farang
are, he’d been caught and had ended up in prison for five years. He’d gotten hepatitis in his third year and had been transferred to Sriphat Hospital, where she’d met him when his family had come over to try to get him released. She had translated for those meetings, and much to her surprise, their director had gotten involved and had intervened.

Somehow—she wasn’t sure how—Jonah had been released. You’d think he would have left Thailand immediately, but he hadn’t. His girlfriend, Krista, had come over to live, and he’d taken a series of jobs as a bouncer at some of the bars around the old city, where his size had been enough to quell most
farang
disturbances before they started. One look at him, and even the most inebriated Australian would decide he’d rather make trouble somewhere else. But not always, and sometimes he had to wade in.

It had been after one such brawl that he’d ended up in the hospital and Ladarat had met him again. He had asked her, jokingly, whether she knew of a bar where he would be less likely to get hit over the head with a full bottle of Mekhong whiskey. And much to his surprise, she’d said yes.

“Please, sit,” he said now. “I’ll get the
mamasan
.”

Ladarat took off her pumps at the door and padded over the polished teak floors to the large table. She was met by a smiling, bright-eyed girl with the broad, pretty face of an Isaan farmer, who offered her a
wai
, and a cool glass of ginger tea and an iced towel. Her name was on the tip of Ladarat’s tongue.

“It’s so good to see you again,” the girl said. “It’s been so long. You are well?”

“Yes, very well. Thank you. And you…”

Kittiya, that was it. “Ya” was her nickname.

“Khun Ya? And your family?”

The girl smiled proudly. “My parents’ house is finished, and my brother has passed his civil service exams with honors. So he will be starting work in the Ministry of Health next month.”

What she didn’t say, but they both knew, was that Ya had paid for that house, and her brother’s education, as well as a herd of twenty water buffalo, out of her earnings at the Tea House. Also unspoken were her plans for the future. Many girls from Isaan came to Chiang Mai or Bangkok and found they liked the flashy, glamorous life. But not Ya. She would probably escape soon. One day, she would simply disappear and go home to begin a new life.

“Well, that is very good. I am so happy for you.”

“Thank you.” She gave another deep
wai
. “I must sweep upstairs.”

Jonah and the girls all cleaned, and mopped, and cooked, and prepared drinks. The Tea House didn’t employ people for those jobs. At first Ladarat thought this rule was the tightfisted result of her cousin’s efforts to cut costs. But it was really just Siriwan’s way of making the Tea House seem more like a home, and their customers more like guests. It was odd for a business of this type, but not too different than what she tried to do in the hospital.

That was just one way that this place was different than many of the other so-called “girlie bars” on the street. So different, in fact, that it was in a category of its own. There were no bar fines, as there were at other places—payments the man had to make before a girl could leave with him. All “business” was transacted here, where the mamasan could keep an eye on things. And where Jonah could intervene forcefully if there were any difficulties.

There were half a dozen spacious rooms upstairs, as clean and as large as hotel rooms. Men often spent the night, staying for breakfast in the morning, and money changed hands surreptitiously. Many men who were repeat customers would simply hand the mamasan a wad of baht when they entered, trusting her to deduct the appropriate amount. And almost all customers were repeat customers. You couldn’t find this place unless you had heard about it from a friend. There were no advertisements, and no touts out on the street.

And there was none of the shenanigans of other places. No pickpockets or laced drinks. And no hidden video cameras in the rooms upstairs, which Ladarat had heard about. Some bars, she’d heard, made most of their money from blackmailing wealthy
farang
whose Thai vacation had been captured on digital film.

Ya and four or five other girls, all in sweatshirts and leggings, flitted around the large room dusting and scrubbing and lighting candles in the sconces on the walls. Ladarat sat quietly and sipped her tea, feeling for a moment strangely as if she were part of a family. Which, she supposed, she was.

“Ah, cousin. So good to see you. You have been staying away from me?”

“No, cousin, just very busy.” They exchanged
wais
and then hugs.

Her cousin, Siriwan Pookusuwan, was four years older but looked ten years younger. She’d kept a girlish figure, she claimed, because she was surrounded every day by young beauty that rubbed off on her. She had clear pale skin and long flowing black hair that was usually tied up primly in a bun.

“And how is my learned ethicist nurse?” There was a teasing note to Siriwan’s banter that some might mistake for jealousy, but that wasn’t the case at all. They’d gone their different ways, that was all.

Siriwan had worked for a time as a tour guide, and then had gone into business for herself. She’d done well, but not in a way that Ladarat ever could have emulated. Business wasn’t for her, any more than the careful work of a hospital ever would have appealed to Siriwan. Ladarat could barely balance her savings passbook every month. She’d often thought that there were a limited number of genes for various traits in a family, and Siriwan had obviously received all of the money genes.

It was true, though, they didn’t see each other often. But perhaps that would change.

“Now I’m not just a nurse,” she said with an arch, mocking boast. “I’m… a detective.”

That pulled her cousin up short, and she paused, with a glass of iced tea halfway to her lips. Slowly she set it back down on the table.

“I see,” she said slowly. No, actually, she didn’t. “A what?”

“A detective.”

It wasn’t often she could surprise Siriwan. Whenever they met, her cousin always had wild stories of
farang
and her girls, and tales of politics and intrigue. Mostly Ladarat just listened. In fact, she’d always felt as though Siriwan’s four-year seniority had dogged their relationship all their lives. But now, at last, after forty years, here was something of Ladarat’s that piqued Siriwan’s interest.

And so Ladarat told her cousin about the mystery of the dying men. And about Wiriya. And about Anchan.

Siriwan’s eyes seemed to open just a little wider when Ladarat mentioned the mysterious peaflower lady, but perhaps it was her imagination. She waited until Ladarat had told the whole story, and then sat back in her chair, taking a sip of iced ginger tea, and thinking carefully.

Ladarat knew her cousin well enough to know that she couldn’t rush her. Although Siriwan could be a decisive businesswoman, and a ruthless one, she would always take her time when presented with new information. It was as if she had some sense that told her when an idea was ready, much as the fruit seller could sense a mango’s ripeness.

Finally she spoke. As usual, she cut straight to the heart of the matter.

“So you think this woman is killing these men for their life insurance, and you want to find her before she finds another victim?”

Ladarat nodded. “Exactly so. But how can we find her? That’s the difficulty. We have a name, but it’s a name that doesn’t appear in the Chiang Mai city directory that Khun Wiriya has access to. She could be anywhere.”

“Are you sure it’s the insurance she’s after?”

“But what else could it be?”

“Ah, cousin. For someone so educated,” she said teasingly, “you are not very worldly. Perhaps this is… fun? Perhaps she likes the thrill? Or perhaps,” she added thoughtfully, “this is a vendetta of sorts. Perhaps she doesn’t like men because of a bad experience in the past and hunts them down.”

“Just because she can?”

“Precisely because she can. Perhaps there’s no financial motivation at all.”

Ladarat couldn’t understand that at all. Murder… for a thrill? Even murder for money was very difficult to understand, but at least she could grasp the premise. But for fun?

“But it could be the life insurance, though, couldn’t it?”

Siriwan was thoughtful. “Yes,” she admitted finally. “I suppose. But life insurance payments are often generous. One such payment would be enough to set many people up for a good life. And certainly two should be adequate. She could buy a house, open a small shop, and hire someone to run it…”

As Siriwan spoke, it sounded as though she were talking about her own fantasy retirement. But that was rubbish. Her cousin would be bored in an instant.

“And besides,” Siriwan continued, “there is often a waiting period for life insurance. If they are married today and he dies tomorrow, most insurance companies would look askance at that.”

So Ladarat explained about the old marriage certificate, and advanced her theory that perhaps Anchan was reusing it for subsequent men.

Siriwan nodded. “Then she is very clever.” She paused, thinking. “And very thoughtful. This is not a vendetta, or if it is, it’s a long-term campaign.”

“And that,” Ladarat insisted, “is why I need to find her.”

Siriwan didn’t ask why. She’d known Ladarat all her life, and knew that once she’d been given a task, she had to finish it. Whether that was eating a plate of her mother’s
gang keow wan
—Thai green curry—that was far too spicy, or finishing a fellowship in the cold and unfriendly city of Chicago, if it was an assignment, she would finish it.

“Let me think about it,” Siriwan said finally. “I can… make inquiries.”

“But quietly,” Ladarat cautioned her. “Quietly. If Peaflower knows that someone is looking for her, she’ll go somewhere else and start again, and we’ll never find her.”

Siriwan nodded, and Ladarat rose to leave. As her cousin walked her to the door, they passed Jonah, and again Ladarat wished him the best of luck. She was truly happy for them both. He had earned some happiness.

As Siriwan opened the door to see Ladarat out, she thought of one last question.

“You said that she did this before? You’re sure?”

“I think so,” Ladarat answered. “That’s what the policeman told Khun Wiriya. Of course, he can’t be sure.”

And not for the first time, she realized that quite a bit hung on that corporal’s recollection. What if he’d confused Peaflower with someone else? What if that was a different woman entirely? Then there was no case here, and she wasn’t a detective. She was just playing a detective, and wasting everybody’s time.

She’d almost convinced herself that might be the case, so she was surprised by Siriwan’s next question.

“This other man… was he also Chinese?”

Ladarat paused. “I don’t know for certain. But it seems likely, doesn’t it? If she’s doing this for life insurance, then she’d want to find men with the same names. But would that help us find her?”

“It may,” Siriwan said. “If she is interested mostly in Chinese men, well, that might mean something very different.” But she didn’t say what that something was.

Just then the door opened and two older
farang
with neatly trimmed beards pushed through the doors. As their eyes adjusted, they saw Siriwan and Ladarat and offered formal
wais
, then took off their shoes and
wai’d
the Buddha by the door.