Murder in the Latin Quarter
““Madame Obin?” said the attaché. “I’m leaving.”Léonie Obin paused, fingering her worn rosary. A phone rang somewhere in the suite of offices.“Give me a moment,” she called. She breathed “Amen,” pressing her lips to the statue of Saint George, whom she also knew as Ogoun. She brushed ashes from the honte, the mimosa herb for reducing pride, into a tin, then tied a remaining grass stalk into a knot to ward off bad luck. Léonie tucked her juju, her amulet, under the silk scarf draping her neck. Sh...e was fifty-five years old, thin, light-skinned, with planed cheekbones and distinctive topaz-colored eyes. She was a mélange, a “bouquet garni,” like most of the fair-complected mixte who composed the elite ruling families of Haiti. Léonie heard muffled laughter and a murmur of conversation. Guests still lingered from the reception that had begun three hours ago. Why hadn’t they left? Lateness would jeopardize her meeting with Edouard.She smoothed down her carefully coiffed hair and hurried out.MoreLess
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