Phhtttt.
Ladarat looked around, startled. And even Wiriya—normally unflappable—jumped just a little, causing the little chair 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 the ball of fur would assume the shape of what could charitably be described as a dog of an indeterminate breed. A little terrier and beagle and who knew what else.
And every so often, Chi—because 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 phhtttt 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 his talents would be appreciated.
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 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 Chiang Mai University Hospital’s only therapy dog. And that uniqueness 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, 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 needed 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 village, 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 either families, 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 foreigners. 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 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. Very difficult. Even finding where they might have stayed in Bangkok is 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 foreigner 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.
“But you don’t think these missing people got lost?”
“No, we would have heard from them. Or their families would have. It’s true, one person just arrived in Thailand last week. She might phone her family any day now, perhaps saying that she was sick with a stomach infection and that she’s been in a hospital somewhere. But the first person on our list, he vanished three months ago. It is unlikely that he will suddenly reappear.”
Ladarat thought about something else. “These are all foreigners? Western foreigners?”
Wiriya nodded.
“Eeey. That is bad.”
And it was. Not just bad for tourism, but bad for the image of Thailand as a friendly, welcoming, and above all safe country. And Wiriya admitted as much.
The way he said that explained much of Ladarat’s feelings for this kind man. He did not say this in a boastful way, as many people might. Not: “The director asked me personally, because I am so important.” But rather: “I must do this because I’ve been asked. And I must do it conscientiously.”
Thinking about the implications of the Department of Tourism’s involvement, Ladarat wrote “Very bad for tourism” underneath “Disappeared. No trace.” Unsure of where this was going, she thought perhaps the result might become one of the strangest haikus ever written.
“And,” Wiriya added, “there is one more thing. One more… fact.”
Ladarat waited, her pen poised to record this fact, whatever it might be.
“The most recent disappearance? The one a week ago? It was an American woman. From San Francisco.”
“And?”
“And she was in this very hospital for several days, before she checked out, apparently against her physician’s advice.”
“What was she in the hospital for?”
Wiriya shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t have access to those records. But you, I suppose, could—”
“I could do nothing of the sort. Looking up the medical records of a patient? What if the hospitalization was not related? That would be a breach of privacy.”
Wiriya looked down, suitably chastened. “Of course, of course. I only asked because… well… I thought it might be a simple matter.”
And of course he asked because her explorations of medical records were what had helped them to catch the last murderer. But not this time. At least, not yet.
“Do you know where she went?”
Wiriya reached into the chest pocket of his suit and removed a folded piece of paper. He smoothed it on the desk and slid it toward her.
On the paper in uneven letters in smudged blue ink was a name: Sharon McPhiller.
And: Nong Chom Village, San Sai District.
Then: The Peaceful Inn of Last Resort.
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CONTENTS
COVER
TITLE PAGE
WELCOME
DEDICATION
WAN JAN: MONDAY CHAPTER 1: IT IS KNOWN THAT POISON IS OFTEN A WOMAN’S METHOD
CHAPTER 2: THE TRAGEDY OF THE AMERICANS
CHAPTER 3: THE ETHICAL RIGHTS OF A BAREFOOT VISITOR
CHAPTER 4: THE YIM SOO SMILE OF THE FEMALE SEX
CHAPTER 5: THE SADNESS OF HALF A HOUSE
WAN ANG KAAN: TUESDAY CHAPTER 6: THE HEALTH BENEFITS OF BUTTERFLY PEAFLOWER TEA
CHAPTER 7: THE AMERICANS’ STRANGE DESIRE FOR CONTROL
CHAPTER 8: TOMORROW IS NOT USUALLY ANOTHER DAY
CHAPTER 9: THE CONSIDERABLE BENEFITS OF A MATCHMAKER FOR THE SHY PERSON
CHAPTER 10: THE LIMITED PATIENCE OF MANGOES
WAN PUT: WEDNESDAY CHAPTER 11: A BRIEF BUT ILLUMINATING CONVERSATION
CHAPTER 12: THE STRANGE EPIDEMIC OF FAIR SKIN
CHAPTER 13: ANOTHER ASPIRING DETECTIVE
CHAPTER 14: THE VALUE OF CHOIE IN HANDLING SURPRISING NEWS
CHAPTER 15: A REPORT FROM THE CHIANG MAI MEDICAL RECORDS CRICKET LEAGUE
CHAPTER 16: A HIGHLY INEFFICIENT WAY TO CATCH A CRIMINAL
CHAPTER 17: SABAI SABAI!
WAN PAREUHATSABORDEE: THURSDAY CHAPTER 18: WHAT WILL HAPPEN WILL HAPPEN
CHAPTER 19: THE JAI DEE DETECTIVE
CHAPTER 20: THE VERY LOW PRICE OF GENUINE HAPPINESS
CHAPTER 21: THE $30 RAMBUTAN
CHAPTER 22: THE CASE OF THE FROWNING DURIAN
CHAPTER 23: ONE SHOULD NOT BLAME FRUIT FOR OUR DISAPPOINTMENTS
WAN SUK: FRIDAY CHAPTER 24: THE LEAPING PEN
CHAPTER 25: THE NATIONAL THAI SLOGAN
CHAPTER 26: A VERY SAD SITUATION
CHAPTER 27: THE IMPATIENCE OF STEPPING-STONES
CHAPTER 28: THE HOUSE OF ROOSTER HAPPINESS
CHAPTER 29: LOVE IS THE EXPRESSION OF SIMPLICITY IN EMOTION
CHAPTER 30: THE POISONER’S ART
WAN SAO: SATURDAY CHAPTER 31: NOT SOMEONE YOU WOULD EVER EXPECT TO COMMIT A CRIME
CHAPTER 32: THE POWER OF GOOD NEWS
CHAPTER 33: AN ANTICIPATED DEATH THAT IS NEVERTHELESS UNEXPECTED
CHAPTER 34: A HUNCH
CHAPTER 35: THE ELEPHANT’S MIND IS THE MAHOUT’S MIND
CHAPTER 36: ONE MUST ALWAYS NEGOTIATE FROM A POSITION OF POWER
CHAPTER 37: WHEN DEATH DOES NOT BRING PEACE
CHAPTER 38: GIVE MEN EXACTLY WHAT THEY EXPECT
CHAPTER 39: THE PROTECTION OF JAI DEE
CHAPTER 40: LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE
WAN AATIT: SUNDAY CHAPTER 41: AN ELEPHANT APOLOGIZES
WAN JAN: MONDAY CHAPTER 42: HOW TO CARE FOR AN AGED CAR
EPILOGUE: A SMALL GIFT TO THE BOON LOTT ELEPHANT SANCTUARY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
MEET THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY DAVID CASARETT, M.D.
A PREVIEW OF MERCY AT THE PEACEFUL INN OF LAST RESORT
NEWSLETTERS
COPYRIGHT
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 © 2016 by David Casarett, M.D.
Excerpt from Mercy at the Peaceful Inn of Last Resort copyright © 2016 by David Casarett, M.D.
Cover copyright © 2016 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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First ebook edition: September 2016
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ISBN 978-0-316-27064-9
E3-20160708-JV-PC