Free Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness by David Casarett

responsibilities seriously? Ladarat’s stomach gave a lurch as she read that. How could Khun Tippawan think such a thing?
    Of course she took her responsibilities seriously. Did anyone doubt her commitment? Anyone, that is, except Khun Tippawan? They did not. Ladarat was certain of that. The ICU director himself came to her office to ask for her advice. Certainly that was a vote of confidence.
    And yet, her primary obligation was to the hospital. That was certainly true. To Sriphat Hospital, and of course to their patients. So perhaps it was wrong to use her time in any other way?
    So as she stood outside her door, staring at the reminder that she was a “nurse ethicist,” Ladarat was forced to admit that Khun Tippawan was correct. Her door told her exactly what she was. That door did not announce her identity as a detective. Or as a doctor. Or—most certainly—as a cook. No, it proclaimed to all the world that she was a nurse ethicist.
    So that’s what she would be this morning. She would walk into her office—the office of Sriphat Hospital’s one and only nurse ethicist—and she would review as many hospital policies as a dedicated nurse ethicist possibly could.

THE AMERICANS’ STRANGE DESIRE FOR CONTROL
    T hat firm resolve lasted until eleven thirty, when her assistant, Sisithorn Wichasak, came to get her for lunch. Ladarat looked up to find the girl peering through the door, her head protruding from the right-hand edge. Perched there, with only her head visible, she looked a little like a puppet.
    She really was pretty, but in an awkward way. Admittedly, her oversize glasses and oversize feet didn’t help. The glasses, in particular, gave the impression that she hadn’t quite grown up yet.
    And in some ways, perhaps, she hadn’t. She was so serious, for instance. Like a child memorizing her lines for a school play in which she would impress everyone. She reminded Ladarat of herself, twenty years ago. Hoping that if she worked hard enough, and attended to every detail, success would come to her naturally.
    And like Ladarat herself had always been, Sisithorn was a good listener. And a good watcher. She often noticed things that others didn’t. She would have been very good at finding hidden elephants.
    “You work too much, Khun,” Sisithorn said suddenly. “You need to take a break and clear your head. So you can be more… effective.” She knew, somehow, that would be the argument that would be most likely to have an impact. The promise that a rest now would make her more effective this afternoon. Very wise for someone so young.
    But no. She had too much to do. “I don’t have the time,” she said. “For me to go down to the dining room, and to take the time for lunch…” The hospital was counting on her. She knew that. To spare even a half hour wasn’t right.
    But Sisithorn was nodding. “I knew you would say that. That’s why I brought your lunch to you.”
    And she piled through the door, bearing plastic bags that she unceremoniously set down on Ladarat’s little desk. Without waiting for permission, Sisithorn began to unwrap and open Styrofoam containers. There was tom yum gung —the spicy prawn soup that was to have helped her be productive tonight. And gang keow wan , classic Thai green curry that would probably be a little too spicy for Ladarat.
    Ladarat sighed, pushing the pile of guidelines away from her. These would wait.
    “So tell me,” Sisithorn said, “about the American man. Will he survive?” She helped herself to the curry.
    “It is bad luck to speculate about such things,” Ladarat told her, a little more severely than she’d intended.
    She tried a couple of spoonfuls of the soup. Ahh, very good. Just spicy enough, and sour enough to make your mouth water.
    “Besides,” she said more softly, “it is impossible to know such a thing so soon. Instead, the real question we should be asking right now is…”
    “How to help the family,” Sisithorn said