Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness Read Online Free PDF

they need. Somboon had been like that. Relentlessly upbeat, he always expected the best, and usually received it. Up until the very end, he’d been irrepressibly cheerful. And even hopeful.
    But she, Ladarat, was not one of those people. Doors seemed to open for her grudgingly, as if they had better things to do with their time. And people, too, did not step out of their way to help her as they did for Somboon. They didn’t hinder her, exactly. It was more that she wasn’t… noticeable. Ah well.
    She and the director discussed their strategy as the elevator took them from the basement up to the ICU on the sixth floor. They would see the man first, they agreed, and review his case. Then they would go to see the wife.
    “Together, yes?” she clarified.
    “Yes… of course, Khun. Together.”
    A moment later, the elevator doors opened onto a different world. Where Ladarat’s basement office was dark, with just a small window close to the ceiling, the hallway that led to the ICU was broad and light-filled, as was the waiting room at the far end. Tall windows offered spectacular views of the mountains that began just a few kilometers to the west, and Ladarat knew that if you looked up and to the left, from some of the waiting-room seats you could see the Doi Suthep temple perched on the mountainside. That must be such a comfort to many visitors, in this Buddhist country.
    There were hardly any visitors today, though. It was still early, and many friends and family members needed to travel from the countryside. Chiang Mai was really just a small city in the midst of rich farmland and—to the north and west—endless forests. Visitors might take an overnight bus, arriving midmorning, if they could come at all. They’d pay their respects, and then return home in time to work the next day.
    Many patients came from small villages, where people earned money only if they worked. The fields wouldn’t tend themselves, and if people didn’t work, they didn’t eat. So the waiting rooms were often empty, except if a patient came from very close to Chiang Mai, or was in the city itself.
    This morning there was only one man in the waiting room, in the far corner, with his back to the wall that separated the waiting room from the ICU. Despite the fact that there was a wide field of empty chairs in front of him, the man was squatting on the floor, his arms cantilevered out over his knees. He was rocking back and forth very slowly, in time to some rhythm in his head.
    The man’s posture reminded her of the people from the hill tribes where she’d grown up, near Mae Jo. Coming into town for the day to buy or sell or trade, they’d avoid chairs and benches, preferring to squat as this man was doing. As if there was safety and security in being as close to the ground as possible.
    Ladarat looked more closely at the man but was careful not to stare, which would be rude and inhospitable. He was a guest, after all. Moreover, he could be here only because of a serious tragedy, so he deserved her compassion.
    She followed Khun Suphit across the waiting room, turning to admire the view. As she did, she glanced over just long enough to see that, in fact, the man did have the long face of one of the Karen hill tribe people. Their light skin was distinctive, too. He was probably from a small village along the border of Thailand and Myanmar, perhaps even on the other side of the border. Most of the hill tribes didn’t care about borders—they’d lived here long before anybody thought to divide the Golden Triangle into the territories of Myanmar, Laos, and Thailand.
    The man noticed Ladarat looking at him, so she stopped, of course, and greeted him formally as one should greet a guest. Startled by her attention, he got to his feet, revealing very thin arms and legs, with prominent veins and corded muscles. He appeared to be in his forties or fifties but was probably much younger. His body and face had been weathered and molded by a difficult