The 20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(6)

Three hours later, when we were sipping our coffee and sampling the wondrous variety of sweets, we convinced Dave to talk about himself.

“Joey knows this, Lindsay, but my mom passed away just before you two got married. My dad and I were always close. But working together has really given us a—I don’t know what else to call it—a deep friendship.”

Dave sighed.

Joe put his hand on Dave’s arm and asked him what was wrong.

Dave said, “Dad’s sick, in the hospital, and I’m very worried.”

“Why? What happened?” Joe asked.

“He has a thoracic aortic aneurysm brought on by high blood pressure. It’s grown to the size that might require surgery. His doctor prescribed him beta-blockers but says he’s got age-related system breakdown. But I’m not buying it. He’s seventy-two. He’s never been sick before.”

Joe said, “I’m sorry to hear this, Dave.”

“If you have any time, Joe, I know he’d like to see you. He was our biggest fan.”

Joe looked down at the table. I’m pretty sure he was flashing back on those college football years, their families screaming from the stands.

Joe lifted his eyes, looked at his friend, and asked, “When would be a good time to see him?”





CHAPTER 10





AS WE PULLED out of the parking lot, I told Joe, “He’s great, Joe. I feel bad for him.”

“It was good to see him. Hey, you’re sure it’s okay?”

“Of course. You go see his dad and I’ll go to the spa.”

Joe nodded, said, “I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

“Perfect,” I said. I was thinking of a massage, some kind of exotic wrap. Freak out the guys at work by getting a manicure. I could almost hear Brady saying, “What happened to you, Boxer?”

I grinned, but when I turned to share my joke with Joe, he was in deep thought.

He saw me out of the corner of his eye and said, “I can’t help but think about what his life might have been but for that bad turn in the road.” And then, “I think that a lot of guys who play pro ball have broken lives. Not just physically, but the fame and money and disappointments, all of that. I’m just glad he’s the Dave I know.”

I nodded my agreement.

He said, “And you, sweetie? How was your lunch?”

“It was fabulous, the best meal I’ve ever had, and you know why? Because you thought of it, Joe. You made this great plan in a split second. You called Dave and got it done. You spent a bundle on lunch.”

“What about the food? You didn’t mention the food.”

“Well, may I be honest? I’m sure that I’m crazy and I should have loved the farm lamb and that steak thing and the green-pea puree and the whatever, but you know what I liked the best?”

“Let me guess,” Joe said. “That little glazed donut at the end. Like a mini Krispy Kreme.”

“Come on. How’d you know?”

“One, you’re a cop. And two, you were making some very sexy noises.”

“Huh. Maybe I was thinking about you.”

“You were not.”

“And since I’m going to the spa, I should be very relaxed and dreamy and smelling like flowers when you get back.”

“Hold that thought,” said Joe.





CHAPTER 11





THE MILLIKEN CREEK Inn is perched on a terraced hillside with views of the Napa River.

I came back from the spa to our room with its balcony view of the river, its fireplace, and its huge bed with a novel feeling. I felt no stress whatsoever. No rush. No hurry. No worry. Nowhere to go and nothing to do—but rest.

I dressed in a white robe and a pair of socks, then climbed aboard the California king with its down comforter and regal headboard. I woke up to Joe calling my name, flipping on the lights in the darkening room.

“Sorry, Linds. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What time is it?”

“Seven something. Seven twenty. When we came back from seeing Ray, Dave and I got into a pile of yearbooks and photo albums, and then, of course, I told him everything Julie has said and done since she was born.”

I said, “Oh, man. All caught up now?”

Joe laughed, asked, “Do you want to go to the restaurant for dinner?”

I shook my head no. I was so comfortable.

“Me neither. I want to clean up and get into bed. But wait,” he said.

He sat on the side of the bed and phoned room service, ordered cheese and fruit for two, basket of bread, bottle of Channing Winery Sauvignon Blanc, concluding with, “You got some candles? Good. Twenty minutes would be great.”

He hung up the phone, shucked his jacket, came back to the bed, and kissed me.

“God,” he said. “You do smell like flowers.”

I showed him my newly polished fingers and toes, and he kissed me again, lifted a few strands of my hair away from my eyes.

“I’ll be back,” he said.

I fluffed my pillow, gazed out through the sliding doors to the balcony as the glow left the sky, and listened to Joe singing an old rock-and-roll hit in the shower. That oldies station we’d driven to must have gotten stuck in his head.