The Missing Guests of the Magic Grove Hotel, page 1
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by David Casarett, M.D.
Excerpt from Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness copyright © 2016 by David Casarett, M.D
Cover design by Lisa Marie Pompilio
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Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:
Names: Casarett, David J., author.
Title: The missing guests of the Magic Grove hotel / David Casarett.
Description: New York : Redhook, 2017. |
Series: Ethical Chiang Mai Detective Agency ; 2
Identifiers: LCCN 2017025896| ISBN 9780316270694 (softcover) |
ISBN 9780316270663 (ebook) | ISBN 9781478977018 (audio book downloadable)
Subjects: LCSH: Missing persons—Investigation—Fiction. | Women
detectives—Thailand—Fiction. | Nurses—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION /
Mystery & Detective / Police Procedural. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective /
Traditional British. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. |
FICTION / Urban Life. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3603.A833 M57 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017025896
ISBNs: 978-0-316-27069-4 (trade paperback), 978-0-316-27066-3 (ebook)
E3-20171026-JV-PC
Special thanks to all of my hospice and palliative care colleagues, who make my work exciting and challenging and meaningful. And to Claire, for reminding me that there’s life outside of work.
Contents
COVER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
Wan jan: MONDAY
CHAPTER 1: A WOMAN, POSSIBLY CRYING
CHAPTER 2: WHAT WOULD PROFESSOR DALRYMPLE DO?
CHAPTER 3: GREEN SNAKE (ARTIST UNKNOWN)
CHAPTER 4: THE PARROT GANG
CHAPTER 5: A SAD FAILURE OF CHOPPING
CHAPTER 6: THE SADNESS OF HALF A HOUSE
Wan ang kaan: TUESDAY
CHAPTER 7: AN UNACCOUNTABLE ENTHUSIASM FOR DEATH
CHAPTER 8: THE WELL-KNOWN DANGERS OF LEECH NURSES
CHAPTER 9: FARANG DON’T KNOW HOW TO SMILE
CHAPTER 10: THE PLEASURES OF A SOLITARY MEAL
CHAPTER 11: SLEEPING IS AN INVITATION TO THIEVES
CHAPTER 12: ENTHUSIASM IS THE SECRET INGREDIENT
Wan put: WEDNESDAY
CHAPTER 13: PAWS TO SEE CHIANG MAI
CHAPTER 14: THE HAZARDS OF FORTUNE-TELLING
CHAPTER 15: A POSSIBLY DISAPPEARED MAN
CHAPTER 16: “DO NO HARM”? DOCTORS ALWAYS DO HARM.
CHAPTER 17: THE PHILOSOPHY OF BREAKING EGGS
Wan pareuhatsabordee: THURSDAY
CHAPTER 18: A VERY THAI SORT OF CRIME
CHAPTER 19: THE POWER OF JAI DEE
CHAPTER 20: THE TRUTH ABOUT INFIDELITY IS NEVER AS BAD AS WHAT WE IMAGINE
CHAPTER 21: THE DANGERS OF VANITY FOR THE COMMON CRIMINAL
Wan suk: FRIDAY
CHAPTER 22: SO MANY WAYS FOR A PLANE TO CRASH
CHAPTER 23: HOW NOT TO CARE FOR A GUEST’S LUGGAGE
CHAPTER 24: THE IMPORTANCE OF GETTING ONE’S MONEY’S WORTH
Wan sao: SATURDAY
CHAPTER 25: ENOUGH SLEEP FOR TWO
CHAPTER 26: THE CLUE OF THE FALLEN LEAVES
CHAPTER 27: THE DESIRE NOT TO LIVE
Wan aathit: SUNDAY
CHAPTER 28: AN INSTRUCTION MANUAL FOR THE DYING
CHAPTER 29: KUMQUATS ARE NOT A SOCIAL FRUIT
CHAPTER 30: A CRIME THAT DOESN’T SEEM LIKE A CRIME
CHAPTER 31: ALL DECISIONS BENEFIT FROM THE WISDOM OF KANOM MAPRAO
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
MEET THE AUTHOR
BY DAVID CASARETT
A PREVIEW OF MURDER AT THE HOUSE OF ROOSTER HAPPINESS
NEWSLETTERS
Wan jan
MONDAY
A WOMAN, POSSIBLY CRYING
The frail woman sitting alone below in the courtyard was sad. That much Ladarat Patalung could see. Ladarat could also see that the woman wasn’t Thai. She seemed to be European, or American, or at least not Asian. She was in her fifties, perhaps. Luminous blond shoulder-length hair and a simple pale-blue cotton dress with oversize buttons down the front paired with a plain gray cardigan made her seem doll-like, especially when viewed from Ladarat’s office window, two stories above. And like a doll, this woman was almost perfectly still. But every once in a while, after a surreptitious glance at the doctors and nurses and families around her, she would raise a fingertip to the corner of her eye—sometimes the right but more often the left—as if she were brushing away a tear as casually as she could.
“Khun Ladarat?” The gruff but amused voice gently interrupted Ladarat’s musings.
“There is something interesting out there in the courtyard? More interesting, perhaps, than the situation we were discussing a moment ago?”
Ladarat shifted slightly in her chair so she would be less tempted to sneak glances at the sad woman. The possibly sad woman.
Her visitor was correct, of course. However important a possibly sad woman might be, she could not be as important as the matter at hand. So Ladarat turned her full attention to the heavyset man who was sitting on the little wooden chair facing her desk.
As the nurse ethicist for Sriphat Hospital, the hospital of Chiang Mai University, Ladarat received many important visitors, on many important errands. Indeed, it had been almost three months ago that this very chair had been occupied by the heavyset man who occupied it now. And just as it had then, once again the little chair meekly protested the bulk that it found itself supporting.
That bulk belonged to Wiriya Mookjai, a forty-two-year-old detective in the Chiang Mai Royal Police. She knew Khun Wiriya’s age to the day because they had very recently celebrated his birthday together with a meal at Paak Dang, perhaps the nicest restaurant in Chiang Mai, perched on the banks of the Ping River. Just as her late husband Somboon used to, Wiriya had an astonishingly expansive appetite. Their ability to consume vast quantities was disconcertingly similar. And at that birthday dinner, Wiriya had sampled a dozen delicacies for which Paak Dang was justifiably famous, including their kao nap het—succulent roast duck over rice, drizzled with intensely flavorful duck broth.
And meals like that had perhaps given him a bit too much bulk. Her little chair was right to protest. It was far more accustomed to the weight of the nurses who more typically sought her counsel. But Wiriya was handsome and … solid. That was the thought Ladarat had whenever she saw him. That he was solid. Solid and dependable.
Ladarat pulled her attention away from the window, and as she did, the old wooden office chair that supported her slight frame made the meekest of protests. Hers was not a figure that would tax even the most tired and worn article of furniture. Short, thin, and bookish, Ladarat Patalung knew she lacked a presence that was either appealing or commanding. But for the work of an ethicist—and, occasionally, as a detective—an unassuming appearance proved to be quite useful.
As it had when, three months ago, her visitor had come to ask her help when he had a suspicion—no more—that a murder might have occurred. And not just any murder, but a series of murders. Something unheard of in this quiet, sleepy city in northern Thailand.
But his suspicions had in fact been correct, which surprised them both. And they had solved the case—together—with Ladarat acting as a detective of sorts. Which surprised them even more. An “ethical detective” was what the Chiang Mai Post had called her.
Then she and Wiriya had become something of a couple. More a couple than not a couple, if that made any sense. And now he often made social visits to her new office, which had been given to her because of her sudden fame and, perhaps, her new unofficial job title as nurse-detective.
But today’s was not a social call. Khun Wiriya was here on business. Possible business.
Ladarat looked down at the pad of yellow lined p
It would be a shame to waste a fresh page, so she wrote “Situation?” in small letters in the upper right corner of the page, as a way of making some sort of progress in her note-taking, yet without giving undue weight to that single word. Then she added a second question mark, and then a third.
Indeed, the situation that Wirya had mentioned seemed exceptionally vague and uncertain, even more uncertain than the possibility that the doll-like woman sitting alone on a bench in the courtyard was, in fact, crying. So on the far left side of the page, she wrote “Woman, crying.” Then three question marks, just for the sake of symmetry. So far, the left side of the page seemed to be drawing ahead of the right, as far as plausibility went.
“And this … situation?”
Wiriya shook his head, then shrugged. “I honestly don’t know what to think. Murder? Suicide? Kidnapping …? All we know with certainty is that over the past three months there have been at least eight people, all foreigners—farang—who have received entrance visas through Suvarnabhumi Airport, but who haven’t left the Kingdom of Thailand through official entry and exit ports.”
They came, but didn’t leave? It seemed a stretch—a very pessimistic stretch—to think of these people as potential victims of a crime simply because—
Phhtttt.
Ladarat looked around, startled. And even Wiriya—normally unflappable—jumped just a little, causing the little chair underneath him to register yet another futile protest.
She had forgotten that they weren’t alone. A small bundle of wiry white-and-brown fur lay curled at her feet, with the approximate shape of one of those annoying piles of dust that seem to find refuge under sofas and beds and other large, immovable pieces of furniture. On occasion this ball of fur would assume the shape of what could charitably be described as a dog of an indeterminate breed. A little bit of terrier, perhaps. And beagle. And who knew what else.
Every so often, Chi—that was the ball of fur’s name—would emerge from whatever dreams were entertaining him, raise his head, look around, and utter a sound like a wet sneeze. That phhttt seemed to summarize his deep disappointment with his present company, which was clearly inadequate for a dog of his great intellect. Then he would go back to sleep, biding his time until he was blessed with company that was more appreciative of his considerable talents.
Chi was a therapy dog. Not an exceptionally talented therapy dog, truth be told. And he was rather fat, thanks to the doting attention and treats lavished on him by nurses and patients and especially the food stall vendors lining the sidewalk in front of the hospital. He was also quite lazy. So, as therapy dogs go, Chi was not an outstanding specimen. But he was inarguably Sriphat Hospital’s only therapy dog. That was what earned him the dubious right to wear his bright yellow vest, which identified him to any security guard and earned him the unquestionable right of entry. And that uniqueness—compounded by the added status conferred by his bright yellow vest—had perhaps led Chi to overestimate his importance and thus to underestimate the amount of work he needed to do to continue to earn his keep.
Ladarat was caring for him this afternoon, since his owner, Sukanya, a pharmacist, wasn’t allowed to take him to the hospital pharmacy, where she worked. So Chi was shuttled back and forth between them, with other hospital staff stepping in to take him for walks and on rounds to see hospitalized patients whose days might be brightened by his appearance in their doorways, although sometimes it was difficult indeed to imagine why or how he could have that effect on anyone.
Phhtttt.
It was easy for dogs to feel they were special. Being a special dog didn’t necessarily come with special responsibilities. Chi just had to wag his long, fringed tail frequently, looking cute. As position descriptions go, that would be very easy. Easier than being a nurse. Or an ethicist. Or a detective. And certainly much easier than trying to be all three.
Speaking of which, Ladarat was supposed to be at least one of those things right now. She looked down at her notes, such as they were.
“So perhaps they are still here?” she asked. “These tourists?”
It wasn’t unusual, Ladarat knew, for people to fall in love with her country and to stay longer than they had planned. Perhaps that was what had happened to these people. They had just found a quiet bungalow in the mountains of the Golden Triangle, or on a beach on Koh Tao, or any one of a number of small, largely untouched towns and villages. They had found a new home, a new life, and perhaps a Thai spouse, and an embarrassingly cheap standard of living, and they had forgotten to leave.
“Ah, perhaps. But if they have made that decision to stay, they don’t seem to be telling their families of their plans. Indeed, it’s been the families of eight people, or”—he corrected himself—“the families of at least eight people so far, who have called various embassies to inquire about their whereabouts.”
“So you suspect … foul play?”
Wiriya grinned. “A detective is never so lucky as to stumble across two such enormous cases of foul play, as you put it, in one career. That would be unheard of. And greedy. No, I’ve had enough fame for a lifetime.”
And Wiriya was not being modest. If Ladarat had become a minor celebrity, Wiriya had become the toast of the town, as they say. He was given his own investigative division on the police force and a promotion. Now he was Captain Mookjai. And—as he was today—Wiriya often wore suits that were neatly pressed, several steps up from the rumpled trousers and shirts that had been his previous nondescript uniform.
But the best evidence of his fame, and by far the most treasured, was a letter of commendation from King Bhumibol Adulyadej himself. Ladarat knew that Wiriya kept that letter framed in his office for everyone to see. But she also knew that he kept a miniaturized version folded up in his wallet and with him at all times.
“But,” he continued, tapping a pen nervously on his knee, “I’m worried.”
“Worried?”
“Yes, these people are all well-to-do foreigners, not your wandering backpackers. They’re all wealthy, with homes and families and jobs. These are not the sort of people to disappear. At least, not the sort of people to disappear without a trace. And certainly not the sort of people who would disappear without any contact with their families.”
Dutifully, Ladarat wrote “Disappeared. No trace” on the right side of the page. Then she added a single question mark.
“No trace? No trace at all?” She thought for a moment, also tapping her pen. “But surely they stayed … somewhere? Perhaps somewhere in Bangkok?”
“It is difficult to trace the paths of these people,” he admitted, shaking his head head slowly, like a dog worrying a bone in slow motion. “Very difficult. Even finding where they might have stayed in Bangkok … well, it’s a challenge. But we do know that at least three of them—two Americans and one man from Germany—flew directly to Chiang Mai from Bangkok. We were able to get passenger manifests from Thai Airways so far. But for others who flew other airlines, or those who took a train or a bus …”
“Would a farang really take a train or a bus? That is so slow and uncomfortable. Most tourists want to … get where they’re going.” Ladarat herself had thought of taking the bus to the ethics conference in Bangkok she would be attending on Friday, but she had balked at the time required. That was something better left to the young backpackers.
Wiriya smiled. “It’s true, that’s the case for many visitors. Tourists, as you say. But some tourists want to save money, and a bus from Bangkok to Chiang Mai costs only two hundred baht. And others consider themselves travelers. They take the most difficult routes, by the most inconvenient modes of transportation.”
“And you know this because …?”
“I know this because they often get lost, or lose their money foolishly, and show up at a police station in Thma Puok or Ang Thong or Kanchanaburi, asking for a ride home to New York City, or wherever they came from.”
Ladarat smiled. Yes, people traveled in Thailand with far more adventurousness than they did in many other countries. There were few dangers, and Thai people were generally very friendly and welcoming. So that led many travelers to take risks they wouldn’t take in, say, India or Cambodia.
