“They’re hunting me like a dog. I shouldn’t have come here. . . .”
Not here five minutes, and already she wanted to leave.
“First you’re going to answer my questions,” Aimée said. “Why did you set me up, Mireille?”
Mireille’s shoulders tensed. “Set you up?”
“You’re running a scam—”
“I don’t understand,” Mireille interrupted.
“I found Azacca Benoît’s body. His ear was cut off. You lured me to rue Buffon to take the blame for his murder.”
Mireille made a sign of the cross, then raised the gold cross she wore from her neck to her lips. She rubbed the thin red thread knotted at intervals around her wrist. “You’re serious . . . mon Dieu. I didn’t know.”
“You were seen arguing with him, the flics suspect you . . . and you don’t know?”
“Forgive me for endangering you.” Mireille’s lip quivered. “I just bring trouble. Bad juju.” She rolled down the waistband of her skirt, revealing a red-pink spiral on her honey-colored hip. “The sign. I’m marked.”
“That’s just a birthmark,” Aimée said.
“Ogoun marks his warriors.”
“Ogoun?”
“That’s what my Auntie said. Ogoun’s the defender, the warrior deity. You call him Saint George the dragon slayer.”
Aimée pointed to the cross around Mireille’s neck. “But. . . .”
“I’m Christian, like everyone in Haiti, bien sûr. ” Her brow creased. “But where I come from. . . .” She paused. “The spirits, the offerings to deities, our beliefs are all woven together. Like a patchwork. The African gods aren’t separate. I grew up with these beliefs; they’re part of our culture.”
Candle wax dripped down the tarnished silver candlesticks in a slow trail of drops.
“That explains nothing,” Aimée said. “Look, you walk into the office, claim you’re my sister, tell me you have proof and want to meet. Then you bolt from the café, leaving an address on the napkin. I find a dead man, a professor of animal anatomy, there. But you want me to believe you didn’t try to frame me for his murder?”
Mireille crossed herself again. “I didn’t know where else to meet you.” Her chin trembled.
“You sent me to the gatehouse and I found his body. What’s your connection to Professeur Benoît? What do you want of me, Mireille?”
“I had the professor’s address. He came from my Auntie’s village. I was desperate and I begged him to help me. Bound by our ways, he let me stay in the gatehouse so they wouldn’t find me.”
“So who wouldn’t find you?”
“The men who stole my papers,” she said. “Benoît offered to help me get a temporary permit and a real job.”
Not according to Dr. Severat’s story. She’d said Mireille was a hanger-on taking advantage of Benoît’s kindness, exploiting a village tie.
“A staff person overheard you arguing with him in the laboratory.”
Mireille looked away, her gaze resting on the frayed edge of the Aubusson rug.
“Do you deny arguing with him?” No answer. “The flics believed her. You’re a suspect, Mireille.”
“A suspect?” Her eyelids batted in fear. “I don’t understand this. Who told the flics this?”
Aimée remembered that brief flicker in Dr. Severat’s eyes. Did it come down to jealousy?
“You didn’t answer my question, Mireille,” she said. “But we’ve got the whole night to find the truth.”
“You always pay, non? Nothing’s free.” There was bitterness in Mireille’s voice. She collapsed on the Louis Quinze fauteuil. Her fingers raked over the frayed upholstery seat. “Professeur Benoît’s a generous man . . . was. Bit of a womanizer, but. . . .” She shrugged. “Nothing unusual. When I said no, I’d find somewhere else to stay, well, he got mad. That woman must have overheard.”
“When was this?”
Mireille bit her fingernail. “Sunday, I think. But later Benoît apologized to me,” Mireille said. “He told me he’d got-ten too involved with this woman. She’d pressured
Not here five minutes, and already she wanted to leave.
“First you’re going to answer my questions,” Aimée said. “Why did you set me up, Mireille?”
Mireille’s shoulders tensed. “Set you up?”
“You’re running a scam—”
“I don’t understand,” Mireille interrupted.
“I found Azacca Benoît’s body. His ear was cut off. You lured me to rue Buffon to take the blame for his murder.”
Mireille made a sign of the cross, then raised the gold cross she wore from her neck to her lips. She rubbed the thin red thread knotted at intervals around her wrist. “You’re serious . . . mon Dieu. I didn’t know.”
“You were seen arguing with him, the flics suspect you . . . and you don’t know?”
“Forgive me for endangering you.” Mireille’s lip quivered. “I just bring trouble. Bad juju.” She rolled down the waistband of her skirt, revealing a red-pink spiral on her honey-colored hip. “The sign. I’m marked.”
“That’s just a birthmark,” Aimée said.
“Ogoun marks his warriors.”
“Ogoun?”
“That’s what my Auntie said. Ogoun’s the defender, the warrior deity. You call him Saint George the dragon slayer.”
Aimée pointed to the cross around Mireille’s neck. “But. . . .”
“I’m Christian, like everyone in Haiti, bien sûr. ” Her brow creased. “But where I come from. . . .” She paused. “The spirits, the offerings to deities, our beliefs are all woven together. Like a patchwork. The African gods aren’t separate. I grew up with these beliefs; they’re part of our culture.”
Candle wax dripped down the tarnished silver candlesticks in a slow trail of drops.
“That explains nothing,” Aimée said. “Look, you walk into the office, claim you’re my sister, tell me you have proof and want to meet. Then you bolt from the café, leaving an address on the napkin. I find a dead man, a professor of animal anatomy, there. But you want me to believe you didn’t try to frame me for his murder?”
Mireille crossed herself again. “I didn’t know where else to meet you.” Her chin trembled.
“You sent me to the gatehouse and I found his body. What’s your connection to Professeur Benoît? What do you want of me, Mireille?”
“I had the professor’s address. He came from my Auntie’s village. I was desperate and I begged him to help me. Bound by our ways, he let me stay in the gatehouse so they wouldn’t find me.”
“So who wouldn’t find you?”
“The men who stole my papers,” she said. “Benoît offered to help me get a temporary permit and a real job.”
Not according to Dr. Severat’s story. She’d said Mireille was a hanger-on taking advantage of Benoît’s kindness, exploiting a village tie.
“A staff person overheard you arguing with him in the laboratory.”
Mireille looked away, her gaze resting on the frayed edge of the Aubusson rug.
“Do you deny arguing with him?” No answer. “The flics believed her. You’re a suspect, Mireille.”
“A suspect?” Her eyelids batted in fear. “I don’t understand this. Who told the flics this?”
Aimée remembered that brief flicker in Dr. Severat’s eyes. Did it come down to jealousy?
“You didn’t answer my question, Mireille,” she said. “But we’ve got the whole night to find the truth.”
“You always pay, non? Nothing’s free.” There was bitterness in Mireille’s voice. She collapsed on the Louis Quinze fauteuil. Her fingers raked over the frayed upholstery seat. “Professeur Benoît’s a generous man . . . was. Bit of a womanizer, but. . . .” She shrugged. “Nothing unusual. When I said no, I’d find somewhere else to stay, well, he got mad. That woman must have overheard.”
“When was this?”
Mireille bit her fingernail. “Sunday, I think. But later Benoît apologized to me,” Mireille said. “He told me he’d got-ten too involved with this woman. She’d pressured
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