Read Online You Know Who Killed Me by Loren D. Estleman - Free Book Online

paper plates for those who couldn’t help themselves. I got in line behind a red-haired kid with wads of Kleenex stuck under a pair of stereo earphones, but I didn’t pick up a plate.
    â€œIs one of you ladies Amelie Gates?”
    â€œThat’s me.”
    A woman behind the scalloped potatoes swept a sleeve across her brow. Her French accent was as out of place as Dante.
    I didn’t know what to expect; a drawn-looking woman, maybe, with pinched nostrils and dark circles under her eyes. Maybe someday I’ll learn not to form conclusions ahead of evidence, and then my detective training will begin.
    The Widow Gates was small, but built to proportion, with a small upturned nose, eyes like black olives, and a delicate mouth set in a small square chin. Her figure was indeterminate under the apron and quilted coat. The checked hunter’s cap covered her hair, but it would be as dark as her eyes and probably short; I have fixed ideas about Gallic women. The smile she wore to greet me looked genuine, and entirely without regret. But everyone mourns in his or her own way. They don’t all tear at their faces and scrape their knees throwing themselves on the coffin at graveside.
    â€œYou look like you could use a break.”
    â€œWe all do. What makes me special? Where’s your plate?” She looked doubtfully at my suit and warm overcoat.
    â€œI’m not hungry,” I lied; the fare smelled like a Nordic feast, and I hadn’t eaten since Subway last night. “I’m here on business, if you’ve got a minute.”
    She glanced sideways at her fellow volunteers. “That’s just about what I’ve got, Mr.—?”
    â€œWalker.” I held out my card. “I’m trying to find out who knows who killed Donald Gates.”

 
    EIGHT
    The smile faltered a little when she read the card. She turned to the woman standing next to her. “Beverly, can you look after my station for a few minutes?”
    The woman nodded, and moved into the middle position between dumplings and potatoes. Amelie Gates ditched her apron and we left the canopy and sat down at an unoccupied picnic table. She was sweating a little from standing over the heated dishes; she unbuttoned her coat and let it hang free. She was slender and moderately busty.
    â€œThose billboards were a good idea,” I said. “People drive by them every day. They stick.”
    â€œI can only take credit for the line. Putting up signs was Michel’s idea.”
    â€œMichel?”
    â€œOur—my son. He’s ten. He remembered when our cat went missing two years ago, and we put up posters all over the neighborhood with its picture. I was crying at the time, over so little news from the sheriff’s department. He’s a sweet boy. Making the arrangements kept us busy and took our minds off our grief. He helped me pick out the photograph. It’s one of my favorites; I didn’t know, when I took it—it would be—” Her chin quivered. She looked down at her hands folded on the table.
    â€œDid you find the cat?”
    â€œNo. Does anyone ever?”
    â€œOnce, anyway. It was found in perfect health, licking the condensation off the wall of a luggage compartment in an airplane a thousand miles away from home. You never know about these things.”
    â€œThe hell with the cat. He barfed all over my best sofa.”
    â€œTell me about Donald. Lieutenant Henty said you met in Quebec.”
    â€œMy father was caretaker of a hunting lodge. He still is. The place Donald used to hunt was bought by a corporation and reserved for executive retreats. I worked the counter, checking in guests and seeing to their comfort. He was cute. He had a start on a beard—it’s kind of a uniform of the sport—but it was coming in sort of sparse and ginger-colored. It made him look younger than he was rather than the other way around. I was—I guess you could say I