A Beach Break

A Chonlatee Intarat Mystery

A Short Story

Chonlatee Intarat had had enough.

Enough of Margaret's knowing looks. Enough of her brother's cryptic dreams. Enough of dead bodies and grieving families and killers who thought they were doing the right thing.

She needed a break. A real break. No cases. No counting. Just peace, good food, and a splash in the sea.

So she drove to Hua Hin.

The beach was empty on a Tuesday morning. The tourists were still sleeping. The vendors were setting up their stalls. The water was flat and green, lapping at the sand like a cat stretching after a nap.

Chon spread her towel on the sand. She counted the waves. Twelve per minute. Acceptable. She counted the seagulls. Seven. Prime. She liked that.

She closed her eyes.

And then she heard the scream.

The body washed up fifty meters down the beach, tangled in seaweed and fishing line. A man, middle-aged, wearing an expensive watch and nothing else. His face was blue. His eyes were open.

Chon knelt beside him. She didn't touch anything. She just looked.

No visible wounds. No blood. No signs of struggle. But the watch was still ticking, which meant he hadn't been in the water long. And his fingernails were clean—no sand, no scratches, no evidence of trying to swim.

He was dead before he hit the water.

The local police arrived within minutes. The lead investigator was a young lieutenant named Somkid, who recognised Chon immediately.

"The woman who counts things. I've heard of you."

"Then you know I'm on vacation."

"Vacation's over." He pointed to the body. "What do you see?"

Chon sighed. "He was drowned elsewhere and dumped here. No water in his lungs—check the autopsy, but I'm certain. The watch is expensive, but his toenails are uncut. He's not used to caring for himself. Someone else did that for him."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning he had money. A wife. A staff. Someone who noticed when he didn't come home."

Lieutenant Somkid made a note. "Anything else?"

Chon looked at the man's hands. The fingers were calloused in a specific pattern—guitar strings, or something similar. And on his right forearm, a faded tattoo. A lotus flower, half-covered by a scar.

"He was a musician. Or he used to be. The tattoo is old—from his twenties, maybe. The scar is newer. Someone tried to remove it."

"Remove a tattoo?"

"Or remove the memory associated with it."

Chon stood. "I need to make a phone call."

Margaret answered on the first ring. "Darling. I thought you were on vacation."

"I am. A body interrupted me."

"Of course it did. What do you need?"

"A missing persons report for a man in his fifties, musician or former musician, with a lotus tattoo on his right forearm. Disappeared within the last twenty-four hours."

"That's specific."

"That's what I have."

Margaret called back in fifteen minutes. "His name is Prasert. He's a retired rock guitarist. Went missing from his home in Pranburi last night. His wife reported it this morning."

"Motive?"

"He was wealthy. The wife inherits. But she has an alibi—she was at a charity gala all night. Dozens of witnesses."

"Then who?"

"His brother. They've been fighting over the family business for years. The brother was seen in Hua Hin last night."

Chon hung up. She walked back to Lieutenant Somkid. "The victim's brother. He's here. In Hua Hin. Find him."

They found the brother at a seaside bar, drinking alone. His name was Somchai. He was younger, thinner, with the same calloused fingers and the same faded tattoo.

"Khun Somchai. I'm Detective Chonlatee Intarat. I need to ask you some questions about your brother."

Somchai didn't look up. "He's dead, isn't he?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Because I killed him." He set down his glass. "I've been waiting for someone to come. I'm tired of running."

"Why did you kill him?"

"He stole from me. Our parents' estate. He forged the will. He took everything. I tried to fight it in court, but he had better lawyers. So I decided to take matters into my own hands."

"How?"

"I invited him to my boat. I told him I wanted to make peace. We had a drink. I put something in his—a sedative. He passed out. I pinched his nose and clamped his mouth shut until he stopped breathing." Somchai's voice was flat. "Then I dumped him in the sea."

"The watch. Why didn't you take it?"

"I wanted him to be identified. I wanted his wife to know he was dead. I wanted her to suffer the way I suffered."

Chon nodded. "The tattoo. The scar on his arm. What was that about?"

Somchai looked at his own arm. "We got the tattoos together when we were young. Before everything went wrong. I tried to cut mine off. He tried to burn his." He laughed—a bitter, broken sound. "We both wanted to forget. But neither of us could."

The police took Somchai away. Lieutenant Somkid thanked Chon for her help.

"Vacation's still ruined," Chon said.

"Sorry about that."

She walked back to her towel. The waves were still lapping at the sand. The seagulls were still circling. The vendors were selling grilled squid and coconut pancakes.

She took a deep breath. Counted to ten.

Then she took off her shoes and walked into the sea.

The water was warm. The salt stung her eyes. She floated on her back, looking at the sky, trying not to think about dead guitarists and vengeful brothers.

But the numbers kept coming. The waves. The seagulls. The minutes until she had to go back.

She counted them anyway.

It was who she was.

THE END

Chonlatee Intarat will return.

More of Chon’s stories can be found at Amazon.