Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness by David Casarett Page A

and descended on her little garden? That would not do. Much better that they like the crowded streets and the dirty air, so she could have her town just the way it had always been.
    Here in Chiang Mai, she had her garden, and she could sit and hear nothing at all. Or perhaps only Maewfawbaahn mewing for attention, and the little red-breasted swallows creating a chorus of chirping from back among the dense gordonia leaves. And that’s what she was going to do right now.
    Too tired to cook, she’d picked up some tom nam khon —spicy prawn soup with coconut milk—and glooai tawt —banana fritters—from Khun Duanphen, the Isaan lady who ran the stall at the corner. At least, tirednesss was her excuse. But honestly, Ladarat couldn’t cook. She never had been able to. Besides, Duanphen’s tom nam khon was about the best in Chiang Mai. And she didn’t make it very spicy like some of the other stalls did. Too much spice is as bad for you as not enough. So Ladarat put Maewfawbaahn ’s canned food under the table and settled her slight frame onto one of the two delicate iron chairs that sat before the matching table.
    Ladarat was always careful to alternate between the two chairs. There is nothing sadder, she always thought, for a person who lives alone, as when half a home becomes worn out while the other half stays fresh. It’s as if a person’s incomplete life were imprinted on the world. So everyone would know that she is just half a person.
    She would not let that happen. Anyone looking at her small home would note that the chairs are evenly worn and the silverware is evenly tarnished, and even her bed is worn on both sides. That evenness was a comfort to her, although if pressed, she wouldn’t be able to explain why it should be so.
    Right now, though, she didn’t have to explain anything to anyone. She was sitting on the patio in back of the house that she owned, watching the sky above her turn from a bright white to a deep blue with the rapidity and surety of a scene change in a play. There were things she needed to think about, and many things she needed to worry over. Such was life. But she put them all out of her mind for the moment.
    It was at this time of day, though, that she missed Somboon most acutely. During the day there were distractions and work; now was the time that people should sit quietly with family and talk over their day. They should tell each other what had happened. And, she imagined, they should ask each other for advice. Sitting here with Maewfawbaahn was pleasant enough, and restful. Still, it was now more than ever that she felt as though she was missing something.
    But perhaps that was one more thing to worry about. And so she put it out of her mind, setting it on a shelf for later. There would be plenty of time to think about her future. And, of course, to worry about the upcoming inspection. And, of course, the mystery man and the murderer and her own future as a detective. For now, she would sit here savoring the last bites of her glooai tawt , with Maewfawbaahn happily on her lap, listening to the swallows argue about whatever it is swallows argue about.

THE HEALTH BENEFITS OF BUTTERFLY PEAFLOWER TEA
    A re you well, Khun?”
    Ladarat asked out of politeness, as one must. But truth be told, the man facing her across the medical records counter did not look well at all. In fact, he looked harried. His face was pale—even paler than is normal for a man who works in the windowless basement of a large hospital. And his short hair was mussed in odd, swept-back whorls as if he’d been running his hands over his head in frustration, as he did reflexively when he greeted her.
    Of course Panit Booniliang was harried. He knew, as she did, that the hospital inspectors were likely to focus very intently on their medical records. The inspectors usually asked for many charts, and when they did, they wanted them immediately. It was almost as if, despite the fact that they were supposed to be