Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness by David Casarett

“cat”; faw is “watch over”; baahn is “house.”) Maewfawbaahn means “catwatchhouse,” or watchcat. Actually his name was Whiskey, because of his golden fur. But he seemed to appreciate the title and the prestige it conferred. He was a very honorable cat.
    Her little home wasn’t much to brag about, but she loved it nonetheless. It was a townhouse built in the old Lanna style, with wide-board teak floors, exposed beams, and white plaster walls. There was a small living room and kitchen on the first floor, and a small bedroom, study, and bathroom on the second. That was all. It was to be a starter house for her and Somboon, but they never… started. So sixteen years later, twelve years since he died, here she was, still.
    For some time, in the back of her mind, there had lurked the vague notion that she might perhaps… remarry someday. Nothing more than a general idea. Certainly nothing that had taken shape.
    Nor would it ever take shape. Statistically speaking, Ladarat knew that she would never remarry. Most people marry once, do they not? And they call themselves fortunate to do so. Perhaps a select few are fortunate enough—and attractive enough—to find love twice. But surely they were in the minority.
    And did she have attributes that would justify her place in that fortunate minority? She most certainly did not. She was neither pretty nor intelligent, nor was she a good cook. In short, she possessed none of those qualities that might lead her to think she could find love a second time.
    So here she was, with her house and its garden out back. Ladarat was most proud of that garden. Ladarat had no aptitude for growing things, but somehow plants here seemed to thrive spontaneously. Some were native to Thailand, like the Siam tulips around the edges of the patio. Their pretty fluted stalks were just as nice this time of year, in the fall, when they weren’t crowned with a flower. There was silver-leafed ginger, too, with stripes down the middle of its leaves that seemed to her as if they were little ladders. There were impatiens by the score, flowering now in a pure white and a fluorescent yellow. And even though they never seemed to flower, the gordonia bushes with tough dark green waxy leaves hid the ugly concrete block wall at the back of the garden. And gold-leafed philodendron with delicate riffled edges popped up here and there according to a whim of their own.
    Whenever she came out here—which was almost every day that it wasn’t raining—she thanked her good fortune that she was not in Bangkok. Indeed, she had been to that enormous city only twice, and that was more than enough. The first time was with Somboon, on their honeymoon. They’d taken a plane that landed in the enormous Suvarnabhumi Airport outside of the city. The flight was only forty-five minutes, but it took them at least that long again to make their way through the gleaming corridors of the airport, surrounded on every side by marble and stainless steel and glass. She felt as though she were walking through a very wealthy person’s endless bathroom. The second time was for a conference about palliative care, and she took the train—a much more pleasant and relaxed experience of travel altogether.
    But when she was there… oh dear. So big, and so dirty. The air pollution alone was surely the same as smoking a pack of cigarettes every day. And not the major brand imported ones, or even the counterfeits like the gullible Mr. Fuller bought, but the rough filterless cigarettes that were imported illegally from Cambodia. After an hour outside, she felt as though she had a bronchial infection. How could people live in such a place? And why would they want to?
    Perhaps it was just as well that there were people with such predispositions. What if every person in Bangkok decided he or she would much prefer the clear skies and cool nights of Chiang Mai? What if all eleven million inhabitants of that big, dirty city took the train north