Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness by David Casarett

she liked. Unless…
    “She needed the death certificate to obtain the life insurance money. So… that must be her real name.” Because certainly she would need to provide some proof that she was actually the man’s wife in order to receive the life insurance payment. So unless she had many forged documents that would be good enough to fool a tight-fisted insurance company, then there was an excellent chance that her name really was Anchan Pibul.
    “So if that really is her name, and I can’t find her,” Wiriya said, “then she is making an effort to be hidden.”
    Which would, of course, make a great deal of sense if your hobby was murdering middle-aged men. It was not the sort of activity that cried out for a high profile.
    “Then how can we find her?” Ladarat asked. “She wouldn’t use her real name in a dating service profile, I suppose?”
    “No, people don’t use their real names in what’s available to the public. In order to find a person’s true name, they must agree to share it with you.” Again, she wondered how the detective knew such information. But perhaps it’s the sort of thing that police know.
    “Then how can we find this woman?” she asked again. They sat in a companionable silence for a moment, thinking.
    Was this what detectives did? They made some progress, and then they ran into a dense thicket that prevented any movement. And then, she guessed, there would be a breakthrough. The silence on the phone lengthened.
    Now would be an excellent time for a breakthrough to occur.
    And then, just like that, it did.
    “A matchmaker,” Ladarat said. “There might be benefits of using a matchmaker when one is searching for a spouse.”
    “Perhaps,” Wiriya agreed. “Some people will use a matchmaker. They might, for instance, if they were shy, or were anxious about meeting new people.” He paused. “But if there are hundreds of dating services, there must be just as many matchmakers.”
    “Ah, but what if matchmakers—or dating services, for that matter—specialize?”
    “Specialize?”
    “What if,” she asked excitedly, “our woman Anchan is looking for a particular type of man. A… Chinese man?”
    “I see… then she might go to a service that specialized in just such matches.”
    “And such services do exist,” she said. “I read about them. Because of the one-child policy in China, there is a shortage of wives. So Chinese men, and particularly middle-aged Chinese men, search for wives in Myanmar and Laos and Vietnam and Thailand.”
    “Exactly so,” Wiriya said. “But… how would we find this person?”
    But Ladarat had a ready answer.
    “I have…” What was the word the police used? “I have… a source,” she said.
    “Ah, indeed?” Although he knew perfectly well who her source was. “Well then, you are becoming a true detective.”
    And in that moment, Ladarat could think of no higher praise.

THE LIMITED PATIENCE OF MANGOES
    T he day wasn’t yet over, and Ladarat was a little cautious as she left by one of the hospital’s back doors. More than a little cautious, truth be told. It wasn’t yet five o’clock and she was hurrying to her car in the parking lot next to the nursing school.
    Hopefully Khun Tippawan was not watching her right now. Ladarat looked over her shoulder but saw no one. Only an empty parking lot. Still, there were the windows of the nursing school to her left. Five floors, each with a row of windows as long as a city block. Any one of them could be the lookout post of one of Khun Tippawan’s spies.
    Did that seem paranoid? Perhaps. But some paranoia was justified, was it not? The Director of Excellence seemed to have an uncanny ability to know when Ladarat was not at her post.
    Although surely people realized how hard she’d been working to prepare for the inspection? Still, it would be her luck to meet Khun Tippawan. Or… worse… the hospital director himself. He would joke about how some staff had such an easy life…
    She