The Missing Guests of the Magic Grove Hotel, page 28
Sudchada smiled and poured more tea for Ladarat and then herself.
“Is that all you wanted to ask me, Khun? When you called, I admit I thought it was something more … worrisome.”
Ladarat was flummoxed. Here this nurse was admitting to sending patients home in order to improve her statistics. Yet she didn’t have the demeanor of someone who had made such an admission. In fact, just the opposite: She seemed proud that her cleverness was being recognized. She was not unlike a criminal who wants their genius to be appreciated and remarked upon.
“But it is worrisome, Khun. To discharge patients just to improve your mortality statistics … that is very worrisome.”
Sudchada paused in the middle of a sip of tea, her eyes growing large and frightened. The teacup clattered in its saucer as she put it down hurriedly.
“Oh, but, Khun, that’s not why we discharge patients. Not at all. That’s just a … side effect. We discharge them because they want to go home.”
“But …” This took Ladarat by surprise. Now she supposed her eyes were probably as wide at this moment as Sudchada’s were. The two nurses sat across from each other, each looking at the other with astonishment. Ladarat spoke first.
“They … want to go home? But the palliative care unit … it’s very beautiful, and comfortable. It’s set up for patients and families to be welcoming …” Ladarat paused. “So why would anyone want to go home?”
Sudchada shook her head modestly. “What you say is very kind, Khun. And it’s true that we’ve tried to make the ward as homelike as we can. But many of our patients come from many kilometers away, as you know. That creates enormous burdens for their families, who may need to take time away from their jobs or their farms to come here.”
That was true, of course. “But for the patients … don’t they get better care here?”
Now Sudchada smiled. “We like to think so, of course. But much palliative care can be done by any doctor or nurse, with the right instructions. So Dr. Taksin helped us create a checklist for when each patient leaves. It has a list of that patient’s symptoms and advice for physicians to manage them. For instance, if a patient has nausea, we’ll describe what treatments have worked and which ones haven’t. And we’ll make suggestions for what to do if that symptom gets worse. That checklist goes with the patient when the patient travels home.”
Ladarat was surprised. She’d never heard of such a thing: an instruction manual for the dying. It was a very clever idea.
“But … not all people have families to go home to, do they?”
Sudchada nodded. “It’s true, some don’t. But most do.”
“And if they don’t …?”
“Then most would stay here, Khun. But there are exceptions.”
“Was Melissa Double such an exception?”
Sudchada shook her head. “I don’t know what to make of her departure. I really don’t. She seemed very happy to stay with us. She even asked about staying … permanently. But perhaps you could visit her, Khun? Perhaps you could find out why she left so suddenly?”
“Ah …, but Khun, Melissa Double is no longer at the Magic Grove Hotel.”
Now it was Sudchada’s turn to look surprised in what was turning into a ping-pong match of confusion.
“But of course she is, as I told you yesterday. Besides, I called the hotel last night. You know the owner, Khun Delia? She said that Melissa Double was getting on very well. And the instructions for managing her pain were most helpful.”
“Yesterday evening?” Oh dear. “Have you ever been out to the Magic Grove Hotel?” Ladarat asked.
“Well, no. But my brother-in-law is the accountant for the Free Bird Café. He speaks very highly of Khun Delia. He says she is very saintly, the way she runs that hotel and makes frequent donations to charities.”
“Khun, about how many patients would you say you’ve sent to the Magic Grove Hotel in the past month?”
Sudchada paused for a moment. “Well, about one or two a week, probably. Mostly farang who were taken ill while traveling. If they’re in northern Thailand or anywhere in Laos, they come here, since of course this is the best hospital anywhere north of Bangkok. Then they go to Khun Delia’s hotel as they make arrangements to return home.”
“That’s a lot of patients,” Ladarat said. A lot of patients who were going to the Magic Grove Hotel but who, it seemed, were not leaving. She explained, briefly, what she knew about the disappearances of Sharon McPhiller and Richard April and Demian Ober.
“But what will you do?” Sudchada asked, her neglected tea cooling in front of her. “Is Captain Mookjai aware? Is he … investigating?”
“He is aware,” Ladarat said quietly. “And I—we—have a plan.” She tried to sound more confident than she felt. It was a good plan, but not a foolproof one.
The two nurses sat in silence for a minute, or perhaps more. Unsure whether there was anything left to say on the subject of the Magic Grove Hotel, Ladarat decided to turn to a topic about which she could be more confident.
“Then,” she said gently, “there is the matter of Dr. Taksin.”
Sudchada looked at her from under eyelids that had begun to droop just a little, as though her brain was telling her it would be best to go to sleep before she was confronted with more disquieting news.
“At least with regard to that matter,” Ladarat said, smiling, “I can offer you better news.”
At this Sudchada seemed to wake up, although she also became wary, as if good news was both unexpected and somewhat suspect.
“Khun?”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever heard of something called country-and-western music?”
KUMQUATS ARE NOT A SOCIAL FRUIT
Ladarat was still thinking about her strange conversation with Sudchada an hour later, as she found herself once again driving up the cool, shaded driveway of the Magic Grove Hotel. This trip, though, she wasn’t alone. Wiriya was sitting next to her, seemingly much more relaxed now that they’d reached their destination.
Uncharacteristically, he’d been very quiet, and very polite, almost formal, during the drive out. That was a sign that he was still feeling contrite about his brusque manner last night.
Another sign was the tight grip he maintained on the armrest between them and on the door handle to his right. So funny that men thought that they were concealing their feelings, even when those feelings were so obviously on public display. From his rigid posture and tight grip, anyone could see that Wiriya was feeling guilty, yet he wouldn’t admit it.
Of course he still felt a little guilty for his behavior the previous night. But she’d been able to distract him by telling him just a little about her plan.
That plan, or at least the most important part, was making his presence felt in the backseat. Chi had apparently been dreading a quiet Sunday home alone while Sukanya went to work, but now he was delighted to be liberated, and even more delighted to find himself in a car on a road trip.
He’d been bouncing back and forth in the backseat for the twenty kilometers or so from Chiang Mai’s Old City, where Ladarat had stopped to collect Wiriya at his apartment. Now, sensing perhaps that there was excitement afoot, and that he had an important role to play, Chi’s level of energy increased exponentially.
They pulled into the circular drive and Ladarat shut off the engine. She was about to open the car door when Wiriya laid a gentle hand on her arm.
“It’s been said,” he began, “that on occasion I have the social skills of a kumquat.” He smiled.
“Do kumquats lack social skills?” Ladarat was nonplussed. She’d never thought about Wiriya in that light. Nor, truth be told, had she thought of kumquats in any light at all, vis-à-vis their social skills. “I was not aware.”
“Well,” Wiriya admitted, “I don’t really know. Not really. But the point stands.” He paused, looking very intently at a point on the dashboard midway between them. “So although I felt strongly about your … unusual detective activities, I didn’t express those concerns well. And,” he added, “I didn’t show respect for your suspicions—your instincts—which turned out to be true. In fact, it’s safe to say that in the social skills department, your average kumquat would have handled this situation better than I did.”
“Well, I’ve never really thought of kumquats as a social fruit,” Ladarat admitted. “So perhaps that’s fair.”
“That is all I meant to say,” Wiriya agreed. “When you find yourself thinking that perhaps I lack social skills, I would ask that you think of a kumquat. Think of me in that light, and you may be more favorably disposed.”
“Ah,” Ladarat said. “Disposed?”
“Disposed toward me,” Wiriya added. “Not toward kumquats, which really have no need for anyone’s esteem.”
“Ah,” Ladarat said again.
Wiriya nodded and opened his door, which dialed up Chi’s enthusiasm to a fever pitch. Now he was racing back and forth across the backseat, spinning in a little semicircle at each end as if he believed himself to be on a tiny racetrack. She’d have to put an end to this soon, before he wore an oval into the vinyl upholstery.
Ladarat had barely closed the rear door after Chi when a flicker of movement caught the corner of her eye. The heavy front door of the hotel opened as if someone had been waiting for them. A moment later, Delia herself appeared on the front porch. Shading her eyes with one hand, the owner leaned forward a bit as if to get a better view against the glare of the sun on the white gravel. She took a step backward, then held up her hand again for another look.
As Delia was surveying these new visitors, Wiriya clambered out of the car, stretched, and closed the door behind himself. The sound of the door filled the open, empty space, echoing strangely off the front of the hotel as if Khun Delia were bouncing it back at them.
When Chi emptied his bladder on the roots of an unsuspecting tree, the hotel owner put her hands on her hips in a posture that was not particularly welcoming. Nor was it particularly flattering to her stocky figure, truth be told. That stance—elbows splayed and shoulders hunched—made the already large woman look a little like an elephant about to charge.
Even Chi got that message. They hadn’t even reached the steps that led up to the patio before Chi began to hang back, feigning interest in a nondescript patch of gravel under Ladarat’s left foot. Wiriya, too, seemed to delay just a little, leaving Ladarat to perform the introductions.
“Khun Delia, so good to see you.”
Delia merely nodded, offering a halfhearted wai that missed being rude by a hairsbreadth. Worse, she wasn’t smiling.
Ladarat introduced Wiriya without mentioning his role as a detective. He offered a formal wai, and then she introduced Chi, who didn’t. Nor did Chi evince any interest in Delia. He’d moved on from his fascination with that patch of gravel, but stood uncertainly next to Ladarat, awaiting developments.
Pffttt.
Ladarat had to admit that that was a pretty fair summary of the situation. She and Wiriya (and Chi) stood in the hot sun, while Delia stood on the patio in the shade, blocking their way to the front door. Not speaking, and without a change in facial expression, she looked first at Chi, then Wiriya, and finally at Ladarat. Her eyebrows rose just a little bit. That wasn’t much, but it was at least an opening.
“We were hoping to visit Ms. Double, who came here recently,” Ladarat said slowly.
Delia’s expression didn’t change. She looked at Ladarat, then Wiriya, then Ladarat again, ignoring Chi entirely. That was just as well, given what Ladarat had in mind.
Finally, just when Ladarat was starting to wonder whether this hotel owner had become deaf—or, more likely, was feigning deafness—Delia spoke. She seemed to be addressing Wiriya, though, just a few centimeters over Ladarat’s left shoulder.
“As I told you yesterday, she is no longer here,” was all she said. Then Delia lapsed into silence. Yet she didn’t turn away, nor did she step out of the way, nor did she invite them in out of the sun.
Ladarat could feel a small bead of sweat making its way down the center of her back. She turned back to Wiriya, who loosened his tie. Standing out in the sun was not wise for someone of his … density. Yet they were at an impasse.
“But I believe you told nurse Sudchada yesterday that Ms. Double was doing well?”
“I’m sure she is doing well,” Delia said. She nodded, then crossed her arms and stood perfectly still.
“And do you have a forwarding address, Khun?” Ladarat turned to see Wiriya take his small, battered flip notebook out of his suit pocket, followed by a pen. “We’re hoping that we might be able to speak with her.”
“Speak with her?” Delia uncrossed her arms and furrowed both eyebrows into a knot. “Why would you want to speak with one of my guests?”
“So she is a guest?” Wiriya asked with the practiced smoothness of a detective. “Ah, I misunderstood. I thought a moment ago you said that she had checked out.”
Now Delia looked flustered. Uncrossing her arms, she wedged her fists onto her hips as if she were trying to make them stick. Then she swung her hands behind her back and clasped them briefly. Then they crossed themselves once again on her chest. Clearly, her hands were somewhat confused about their purpose in life.
“Well, of course she checked out,” Delia said, once she’d regained control of her wandering hands. “I only meant … when I said she was my guest … that she had been one of my guests.” She paused, as her left hand snaked behind her back before she corralled it. “That’s all I meant.”
“Ah,” Wiriya said. But he kept his notebook open. “So if she was a guest, and if apparently you continue to think of past guests as your current guests, perhaps you have a forwarding address? Because, Khun, as we said, we would like to speak with her.”
This conversation appeared to be going nowhere. They were asking the same question over and over again of the same person, yet hoping for different answers. Surely that didn’t make sense. But perhaps that was what detectives did.
As Professor Dalrymple said, “Every day is an opportunity for an observant nurse to learn something new, if only we pay attention.”
Ladarat resolved to pay attention. As she did, she realized why Wiriya kept asking the same question in different ways.
“But I have no forwarding address,” Delia said, looking carefully back and forth between Wiriya and Ladarat. “None.”
“Did she leave unexpectedly?”
Delia shook her head, looking wary.
“Did she leave suddenly?”
Again Delia shook her head, in a more limited arc, barely more than a flick of her sturdy chin.
“Did she take her luggage?”
Delia’s eyes grew large, and her hands disentangled themselves, fleeing behind her back before she pinned them to her hips.
“Of course she took her luggage. She checked out, as I told you. And people who check out from hotels take their luggage. That’s the way it works.”
“Ah,” Wiriya said. “Of course. So she checked out … today? Yesterday?”
“Yesterday.” Delia nodded.
“She checked out yesterday, taking her luggage.” He paused. “All of her luggage? Nothing left behind?”
Now Delia’s hands were in open revolt, flitting back and forth in asynchronous arcs from her chest to back to hips, and occasionally colliding in midair like planes piloted by teenagers.
“No, of course not,” Delia said quickly. “Or, I don’t think so. Or if she did leave anything behind, I’m sure I don’t know about it. I’m understaffed here, and I can’t be expected to go looking around for anything that my guests leave behind, can I?”
“No, of course not, Khun. That would be too much work for one person.” Wiriya paused, glancing at Ladarat and loosening his collar a little more.
“That is all we were wondering, Khun. Thank you for your time.” He’d obviously gleaned enough information from the reluctant hotel owner. But what information?
They couldn’t leave yet. Ladarat still had a plan. It was not much of a plan, truth be told, but it was something she felt that she had to do. So, technically speaking, it was a plan.
“Would you mind, Khun, if we took a walk around the property? To give him some exercise before the drive back to Chiang Mai?” Ladarat nodded at Chi, who sat slumped in the meager shade of Ladarat’s shadow, looking like a romp around the hotel grounds was the last thing he wanted right now.
Delia’s eyebrows furrowed for a moment as she looked closely at Chi for anything resembling excess energy. She glanced behind her at the front door that yawned open and then shrugged.
“Of course, Khun. Please.”
Wiriya smiled and took a step forward toward the welcome shade of the patio, but Delia was too quick.
“Ah, no, Khun. The hotel lobby, it’s for guests only.”
Wiriya pulled up short, perplexed. He tugged at his tie, loosening it a little more. Beads of sweat had broken out on his broad forehead, and something like a frown was playing across his lips. Ladarat had never seen her boyfriend truly angry, and she had a sense that she didn’t want to. Certainly not now, when so much was at stake.
“Of course, Khun. And although we are many things, we are not guests. So we’ll walk around this way, if that’s all right?”
Ladarat didn’t wait for Delia’s curt nod and headed purposefully around the left side of the building, tugging a confused Chi behind her, and hoping that Wiriya would follow her.
He did, but Delia didn’t. In a moment they turned the corner of the hotel onto a well-marked path, and they were alone, wandering though a grove of young teak trees. Ladarat was pretty sure that if she kept straight on this path—more of a little road, actually—they would come to the open field where Delia had shown her the teak saplings that they were planting.
There was no one around. No sign of Delia or indeed of any other human. There was nothing but the sound of birds chirping high overhead and the buzz of cicadas in the undergrowth. It was oddly peaceful. Somehow that background noise became insulation against the outside world. Although the nearby road had been audible from the gravel driveway, now they were enveloped in a mushy sort of silence and gently dappled shade.
