Free Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness by David Casarett Page A

promptly.
    “Exactly so. We cannot do anything more to help the man, Mr. Fuller. But we can certainly help his family.”
    “But what sort of help do they need?” the girl asked. “Of course we should make them comfortable, as guests. But they are waiting, the same as us. Surely we can’t help prepare them for his death, because we don’t know if he will live or not. So what can we do?”
    Sisithorn wasn’t being argumentative, Ladarat knew. She was genuinely confused. She sighed. So clever, but she couldn’t put herself in the position of other people. She couldn’t experience true compassion.
    “Ah, but that is where you are wrong. They are in a strange place, with no one they know,” she explained patiently.
    Sisithorn nodded uncertainly.
    “Imagine… Imagine you are in… Chicago. And you are with a loved one who is very sick and in the hospital. You don’t know anybody else. And you don’t speak the language. You have no idea what is happening. What would you want? What would help you?”
    “ Gang keow wan? ” She smiled.
    Thinking back on her year in Chicago, and the sterile hospital cafeteria with its casseroles and meatloaf and mashed potatoes, Ladarat had to smile, too. A little gang keow wan would have made her year much more bearable.
    “But what else?”
    “Ah, I would want… someone to talk to.”
    “But not just anyone, yes? You would want…”
    “A friend.”
    Ladarat nodded. “Exactly so. You would want a friend.”
    Sisithorn thought about that for a full minute as she progressed from the curry to the soup.
    “But how do we find them a friend?” she asked finally. “Much less a friend who is an American like them?”
    “We don’t find them a friend, exactly. No one can do that. But we can visit often. We can help them get their questions answered. Americans, remember, want to be in control. They want information. They want people to be telling them what is going on.”
    “Even if there is nothing they can do?”
    “Especially then.”
    “That is… strange.”
    Ladarat shrugged. “Perhaps. But it is normal for them, just as it is normal for us to defer to the physician. Anyway,” she concluded, “we do what they expect. What they need. We help them get information. And slowly they will come to appreciate having us there. We still won’t be friends, but we will be helpful in that way.”
    “I see,” Sisithorn said, smiling as if to say she most certainly didn’t see. But that was all right. She would take her assistant with her to see the Fullers after lunch.
    They talked about other things—the other patients and issues and, of course, the inspections, until finally, triumphantly, Sisithorn unpacked the last item from the plastic bag at her elbow. Proudly, but nervously, she unwrapped her offering. She held out a small package, wrapped in a banana leaf.
    Ladarat’s favorite: kanom maprao . A soft, fantastically rich coconut cake made with coconut milk and shaved coconut. More like custard, it was creamy and sweet with clumps of coconut that would surprise you.
    “I know you like this,” Sisithorn said simply.
    “Thank you, you are most kind.” She took one of the three pieces and Sisithorn took the second. That was very thoughtful. And perceptive. How had Sisithorn known that the cake was her favorite sweet? Ladarat couldn’t remember ever discussing such a thing. Yet Sisithorn must have paid attention. She must have noticed. She was indeed very good at noticing things.
    Ladarat had observed that talent in the past. Like when that Frenchman last month was confused and disoriented, it was Sisithorn, and not Ladarat or even the doctors, who noticed that he got worse whenever his girlfriend came to visit. (It turned out that she’d been bringing him heroin that he’d inject into his legs.)
    “I’m so glad you like them. Please, have the last one,” the girl said.
    “No, thank you. You should have it.”
    “No, I insist.” She wrapped it up and pushed it across