The 20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(5)

Joe had told me that after a day like that, a win against Holy Cross, there’d been a sudden cold snap and a snowstorm had blown in from the west. Dave had been driving his girlfriend, Rebecca, home to Croton-on-Hudson, about forty-five minutes up the Taconic, a lovely twisting road with a parklike median strip and beautiful views.

But, as Joe had told me, on that late afternoon the snow had melted into a coating of black ice on the road. Dave had taken a turn where a rocky outcropping blocked his view of a vehicle that had spun out of control and stopped across both lanes. Dave had braked, skidding into the disabled car, while another, fast-moving car had rear-ended him.

Before it was over, thirty-two cars had crashed in a horrific pileup. Rebecca had been killed. Dave’s spine had been crushed, and the young man who was being scouted by NFL teams had been paralyzed from the waist down.

His parents, Ray and Nancy, had brought Dave home to their little winery just outside Napa, and there’d been years of painful rehab. During those years, Joe had said, Dave had walled himself off from his friends and pretty much the whole world. Lately, he kept the company books, ran a support group for paraplegics, and mourned his mother’s death from lymphoma. That was all Joe knew.

Joe opened my door, offered me his hand, and helped me out, saying, “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, Linds. Come and meet Dave.”





CHAPTER 8





DAVID CHANNING DID some show-off wheelies, pushed his chair wheels to fade back, and told Joe to go long.

He tossed an imaginary football, and Joe made a big show of snatching it out of the air, running across an invisible goal line, and spiking the ball in the end zone.

Dave laughed as Joe did a victory dance. Then he grinned shyly and held out his hand to shake mine, and I turned it into a hug.

“It’s trite but true,” he said. “Joe has told me so much about you.”

“Back at you, Dave. He can really riff on you, too.”

Joe squeezed his friend’s shoulder, said, “Shall we?”

Dave said, “I’d love to join you, Joe, but I’m just here to finally meet Lindsay, and now I’ve got to get back.”

Joe said, “Hell no, you don’t. I haven’t seen you in three years. We’re having lunch together. All of us. It’s on me.”

Dave protested. He said that this was our weekend, lunch was all set for us, he didn’t want to be a third wheel—but he didn’t have a chance versus Joe.

I heard him mutter “You’re still tough, old man” as Joe, steering us toward the restaurant and holding open the shiny blue-painted door, ushered us inside. We were greeted by the ma?tre d’, who called Dave “Davy,” and we were shown to a table, seated so that I was between Dave and Joe, Dave saying, “These folks are customers of ours.”

Joe said, “I think we’ll be having the Channing Winery Cab.”

Sounded good to me.

Claire Washburn, my BFF, had been here for her anniversary last year and had given me the CliffsNotes, saying, “A meal at the French Laundry changes your life.”

I didn’t doubt my friend. In fact, I couldn’t remember a time when she’d been wrong about anything. But I wasn’t sure that a single meal could change my life, even for a day. Joe’s lasagna was a high bar and possibly my favorite dish—in the world.

I looked around and immediately warmed to the restaurant; the main room was comfortable and homey, with sand-colored walls, a dozen round tables, a coved ceiling, and sconces between the casement windows.

Our menus arrived and Dave said, “I recommend the tasting menu. Today’s version will never be served exactly the same way again.”

Lisette, our server, concurred. A quick look at the menu laid out a journey of nine little courses of classic French cuisine with a three-star spin. And along the way there would be wine to taste.

I’m no math whiz, but it was easy to see that lunch for three was going to come in at over a thousand dollars.

Possibly well over a thousand.

Joe put his arm around the back of my chair and pulled me closer to him.

Dave apologized for not making it to our wedding, and I told him that we’d felt him there nonetheless.

“Love the wedding present, Dave.”

He laughed, said, “Not everyone loves an antique gun safe.”

Joe and I said it together.

“We do!”





CHAPTER 9





BEFORE THE FIRST dish arrived, the two old friends started catching up on who’d married, who’d gone into politics, who had passed away.

The salmon tartare was served in a little cone. Adorable. My taste buds maxed out but rallied in time to taste what Lisette said was one of the French Laundry’s signature dishes: two oysters on the half shell with pearl tapioca and Regiis Ova caviar, served in a small white bowl. I dipped a fork into the oyster shell and brought the creamy, buttery, salty aphrodisiac of foods to my mouth.

It was good. Very good. I was still thinking about the unusual textures and flavors when the next in a procession of beautifully plated delicacies arrived.

I didn’t quite get the creamed English peas and pork jowl, the marinated nectarines, the soft-boiled red hen egg in the shell that looked as though it were made of porcelain. But from the ecstatic expressions at my table and surrounding ones, I understood why the French Laundry was the gold standard for people with sophisticated taste.