Free Asylum by Jeannette de Beauvoir Page A

Julian’s colleagues around and pestering people in pain for a second time.
    “ Je sais, monsieur ,” I said. I know. “But just a few more questions…”
    He made a gesture of resignation. “Ask, then, madame .”
    I opened my notebook. “Were you and your sister close, monsieur ?”
    He shook his head; I had already sensed what the answer would be. In a room filled with books, art, and photographs, this man was simply sitting. They had had, I thought, little in common. “We would see each other for holidays,” he said heavily. “She came to Québec for Christmas and New Year’s, stayed with us a few days. She sent us cards—for birthdays: that of my wife and my sons as well as my own.” That was what Julian had said: she remembered birthdays, Danielle—her landlady’s as well as those of her family. The more I knew about her, the more I realized that she was someone I would have liked.
    Jacques Leroux was still talking, and I reminded myself to take notes. “Danielle went to university,” he said. “I never was interested. I do construction. I like working outdoors.” He looked around him again, as though startled anew to be finding himself in this room. “I’ve sent for my wife,” he said helplessly. “She’ll know what to do with—all this.”
    Julian cleared his throat. “When was the last time you heard from Danielle?” I was right: his accent when he spoke French was atrocious.
    Jacques seemed not to mind, though I wondered if Julian was having trouble following him. Even for me, the upriver accent was thick and difficult to understand. “It was in the summer,” he said. “In July. She called on the telephone,” and then, as though such an extraordinary occurrence rated an explanation, he added, “it was my son Luc’s birthday. She always called to speak to the children.”
    Too long ago to be useful, I thought. “ Monsieur , did you know of your sister’s life? Anyone who might have wished her harm?”
    He shook his head mutely, then raised his eyes to mine. “Who would?” he asked. “Everyone liked Danielle. Even when we were children, everyone liked her.”
    “Did she tell you if she was—seeing someone? Something romantic?” I hated myself for asking it.
    He nodded slowly. “Back in the spring, yes, there was a letter. She was happy, I think, about him. But she did not say a name.”
    Julian looked at me sharply; he had probably sensed my sigh of relief. All I needed was to hear that she and Richard had been fighting, or something of the sort. I wondered fleetingly if he was being questioned at that very moment. “ Monsieur , if it is not too painful for you, it would be helpful if my colleague and I could look around here. We won’t disturb anything.”
    He nodded again. “Stay if you want, I’ll go for a drink,” and he rose slowly from the fragile chair.
    He looked as though he needed one. We waited until the door closed behind him, then switched back to English. “So?” Julian asked.
    “So what? He hasn’t got a clue,” I said impatiently. “See if you can find any files somewhere around, Julian”
    “You’re obsessed,” he grumbled, but he started looking all the same. I wasn’t really sure why: the place was sealed; his colleagues had already been over it and found it so uninteresting that they’d allowed the brother to stay.
    Danielle Leroux’s apartment was only slightly more orderly than her office, but it, too, practically embraced her personality. Hand-woven fabrics were everywhere: in the wall hanging in her bedroom, in the shawl tossed casually across a chair, in the bright textures of the rugs scattered over polished hardwood floors. Colors were vibrant, from the original oils and acrylics on the walls to the books, hardcover and paperback alike, which filled the bookcases to bursting and spilled out onto chairs, tables, and the counters in the kitchen. She read in both French and English, I noted, and at one time had apparently tried to teach