A Clean Kill Read Online Free
where Dr. Adderson had said we would meet. Whether by some flaw of character or streak of useless genius, I walked straight to the club bar and quickly found someone who I assumed was the bartender.
A muscular, ethnic-looking fellow with hollow cheeks nodded hello.
I asked where The Gun Room was.
The bartender’s face remained immobile.
I tried again, “Excuse me …”
“It’s at the other end of the building.” His deep voice was thick with accent—something like the way a French-Canadian would sound if he had learned English in Brooklyn. And it occurred to me that I’d heard that jumbled dialect somewhere before.
I said, “Thank you,” and he just held my eyes. He didn’t look angry. He looked like he was thinking deeply about … something.
I glanced back as I left the room. The bartender had vanished.
Two minutes later, I found The Gun Room and Dr. Adderson, both of which looked rather old and well built. She rose from a table covered in white linen and walked across the room with her hand outstretched.
“You must be Mr. McInnes.”
I said it was nice of her to meet me, and she said, “Nonsense. I just hope it wasn’t too much to ask you to drive way out here in this rain.”
Dr. Adderson knew full well that her club was no more than ten minutes out of my way, and I knew that she knew. But she was setting a courteous tone. Nothing wrong with that.
She turned back toward her table. “Come over here and we’ll get you some coffee or something.”
I followed and took a seat across from hers. After I had ordered a large latté from the waitress, I took a minute and looked around the room at a pretty amazing collection of fine English and American double shotguns hung from sets of brass stirrups. It was beginning to dawn on me that there probably was not a golf course out back.
I turned to the doctor. “What kind of club is this?”
She smiled. “The kind for people who agree with Mark Twain, that the game of golf is nothing but a good walk ruined. We’ve got enough land here for a course, but no one wants it. The club started out as a stable for hunters, what most people would call jumping horses. Now we’ve got stables and some riding trails, and we’ve contracted to ride on some of the adjoining properties. There’s a pool, of course. The room we’re in is a tribute to the gun group, which is where I fit in. We’ve got a sporting clays range and a kennel with some of the best pointers and retrievers in the state. Just north of here we have a tract of land under lease for quail hunting and dove shoots.”
Something was tugging hard at a childhood memory.Finally, I asked, “What’s that smell in here? It smells kind of like an old hardware store.”
Dr. Adderson smiled again. “It’s gun oil. Hoppes Number Nine. I like it.”
“Yeah. I didn’t mean it wasn’t pleasant. It’s just not your usual tea-room smell.”
“I’m not sure most of our members would like hearing this called a tea room, but … I agree it’s a nice background scent. To me, it always smells like my father’s den.” She motioned at the walls. “You can’t have all these antique side-by-sides in here without spreading a little gun oil around to fight corrosion.”
I was looking over the doctor’s head at what appeared to be a heavily engraved L. C. Smith double from around the late 1920s. “Well, I’ll give you this. You’re sure not trying to put on the poor-country-doctor act for the lawyer.”
Laurel Adderson didn’t smile. “Sheri Baneberry tells me you’re not that kind of lawyer. I was led to understand that you couldn’t care less how much I’m worth. I was led to believe that you wanted to find the truth.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that I assumed you wanted to meet here instead of your office or the hospital so I wouldn’t be tempted to ask for medical records.”
No bullshit from this one. She said, “That’s right.”
“So you’ll have to excuse
A muscular, ethnic-looking fellow with hollow cheeks nodded hello.
I asked where The Gun Room was.
The bartender’s face remained immobile.
I tried again, “Excuse me …”
“It’s at the other end of the building.” His deep voice was thick with accent—something like the way a French-Canadian would sound if he had learned English in Brooklyn. And it occurred to me that I’d heard that jumbled dialect somewhere before.
I said, “Thank you,” and he just held my eyes. He didn’t look angry. He looked like he was thinking deeply about … something.
I glanced back as I left the room. The bartender had vanished.
Two minutes later, I found The Gun Room and Dr. Adderson, both of which looked rather old and well built. She rose from a table covered in white linen and walked across the room with her hand outstretched.
“You must be Mr. McInnes.”
I said it was nice of her to meet me, and she said, “Nonsense. I just hope it wasn’t too much to ask you to drive way out here in this rain.”
Dr. Adderson knew full well that her club was no more than ten minutes out of my way, and I knew that she knew. But she was setting a courteous tone. Nothing wrong with that.
She turned back toward her table. “Come over here and we’ll get you some coffee or something.”
I followed and took a seat across from hers. After I had ordered a large latté from the waitress, I took a minute and looked around the room at a pretty amazing collection of fine English and American double shotguns hung from sets of brass stirrups. It was beginning to dawn on me that there probably was not a golf course out back.
I turned to the doctor. “What kind of club is this?”
She smiled. “The kind for people who agree with Mark Twain, that the game of golf is nothing but a good walk ruined. We’ve got enough land here for a course, but no one wants it. The club started out as a stable for hunters, what most people would call jumping horses. Now we’ve got stables and some riding trails, and we’ve contracted to ride on some of the adjoining properties. There’s a pool, of course. The room we’re in is a tribute to the gun group, which is where I fit in. We’ve got a sporting clays range and a kennel with some of the best pointers and retrievers in the state. Just north of here we have a tract of land under lease for quail hunting and dove shoots.”
Something was tugging hard at a childhood memory.Finally, I asked, “What’s that smell in here? It smells kind of like an old hardware store.”
Dr. Adderson smiled again. “It’s gun oil. Hoppes Number Nine. I like it.”
“Yeah. I didn’t mean it wasn’t pleasant. It’s just not your usual tea-room smell.”
“I’m not sure most of our members would like hearing this called a tea room, but … I agree it’s a nice background scent. To me, it always smells like my father’s den.” She motioned at the walls. “You can’t have all these antique side-by-sides in here without spreading a little gun oil around to fight corrosion.”
I was looking over the doctor’s head at what appeared to be a heavily engraved L. C. Smith double from around the late 1920s. “Well, I’ll give you this. You’re sure not trying to put on the poor-country-doctor act for the lawyer.”
Laurel Adderson didn’t smile. “Sheri Baneberry tells me you’re not that kind of lawyer. I was led to understand that you couldn’t care less how much I’m worth. I was led to believe that you wanted to find the truth.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that I assumed you wanted to meet here instead of your office or the hospital so I wouldn’t be tempted to ask for medical records.”
No bullshit from this one. She said, “That’s right.”
“So you’ll have to excuse
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