LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE

The police formalities hadn’t taken long. Wiriya called a uniformed policeman who had met them at her townhouse to take a statement and filled out the paperwork that would go to the insurance company. Odd that she was saving one insurance company from paying a murderer, but she was asking another to pay her for her car. That was the way that karma worked.

While Wiriya and the policeman sifted through her title and car registration, filling out forms, she explored her kitchen, looking for something that she might be able to make them for dinner.

Nothing.

She looked again. Refrigerator? Cupboards? She turned up a grand total of a bag of raisins, a package of Digestive Biscuits, a jar of peanut butter, and a bottle of tom yam spicy sour soup mix. Oh, and five cans of cat food. She pondered for a moment the sort of meal she might be able to make from that motley collection of foodstuffs.

“I’ll be right back,” she called out to the men in the living room.

Duanphen’s cart was just closing. But she still had gang massaman—a new dish for her. From the south, it was halal chicken curry with potatoes and a brown mild gravy. Just the sort of thing you’d serve to a substantial man, she thought. And for something lighter, tom um gung—spicy prawn soup—and kai jiew moo ssap—a Thai omelet with fish sauce and pork, deep fried. And glooai tawt, of course. Finally she picked up two mangoes from the fruit cart just down the street. Crisis averted. As an afterthought, she picked up a six-pack of Singha from the corner 7-Eleven. Wiriya looked like a man who would appreciate a beer at the end of a long day. Come to think of it, so would she. Her day, arguably, had been even longer than his.

When she got back, the policeman was gone and Wiriya was out on the patio, with Maewfawbaahn on his lap. They appeared to be getting along splendidly.

Ladarat didn’t make any pretense of serving and presentation. No need for Wiriya to get the wrong impression about her. Instead, she brought the Styrofoam containers to the patio table, where she’d spent so many nights, taking plates and utensils and serving spoons from the kitchen on the way.

Wiriya smiled. “You didn’t need to go through all the trouble of cooking for me.”

“Yes, well, I’m such an excellent cook, I love to be able to show off my skills. And I’m very good at making Styrofoam food containers. They’re my specialty.”

As she opened the boxes and set them down in the middle of the small table between them, she asked Wiriya a question that had been on her mind ever since the beginning of the case. Now, she figured, was as good a time as any to ask.

“Why… did you come to me about this case? You could have come to anyone in the hospital. Or even someone in the Ministry of Health. They would have access to all of the records that I found, wouldn’t they?”

The detective thought about that as he took a bite of the omelet. Then he smiled and nodded.

“You are an excellent cook, Khun Ladarat. And so quick.” He was quiet for a moment.

Then he swallowed and shrugged. “To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure what the result would be. If it were murder, well, that’s one thing. I know how to deal with murder. But what if it were less straightforward? What if there were…”

“Nuances?”

“Exactly so. Nuances.” He seemed to be rolling that word over in his mind appreciatively.

“Like what?”

“Well, what if this woman was a victim of abuse by her husband, for instance?”

“That wouldn’t make her immune to the law, would it?”

“No,” Wiriya admitted. “It wouldn’t. Not really. But it might affect whether the law should be involved.”

“How so?” Ladarat helped herself to some of the curry. Just a bit.

“Marriage has its own set of rules,” he said thoughtfully. “Its own set of laws.”

“So if someone breaks those… laws?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But it seems to me that if there were conditions of abuse, or even infidelity, then those… laws were broken. In that case, one might be excused—at least partially—for circumventing other laws.”

“And the story that Peaflower told you—were those the sorts of nuances that you thought might exist?”

“Yes, unfortunately. In my experience, whenever a woman harms a man, the man always bears some of the blame.”

“But not exactly in this case, no? The male culprit, if there was one, was Peaflower’s stepfather.”

Wiriya agreed that this was so. “However,” he said, “these more recent men were hardly blameless. They thought they could buy a wife off the shelf. Perhaps they did not mistreat Peaflower, but they showed a disregard for her as a person that suggests that they would have. I could never imagine finding a wife in such a way. In the best marriages, it has always seemed to me, mutual respect must develop first.” He paused, toying with a piece of chicken. “Respect and… cooperation.”

“Ah.” Ladarat took a sip of Singha, hoping it would clear her head. It did not.

“Anyway. Ah… so you thought that if I looked into this first, I could determine whether there were any of these… nuances?”

“Exactly so.” The detective seemed to be relieved to be back on firmer ground. “And if there were, and if perhaps this woman were acting in self-defense, well… then I hadn’t really begun an official investigation.”

“You would let sleeping dogs lie.”

“I would what?” Wiriya looked genuinely surprised, his bottle of Singha hovering midway between table and mouth. “Why… dogs?”

“It’s an American expression,” Ladarat explained. “It’s how they say that one should leave well enough alone.”

Wiriya thought about that for a moment as he split the remaining omelet between the two of them.

“It’s wise to let a sleeping dog lie,” he said finally. “I had no idea that Americans were known for their wisdom.”

“They have their moments,” Ladarat admitted.