Mountain Mystery, Fairfax Miasma

Chapter 1 Dred Scott turned his office chair and gazed out the floor to ceiling window at the Potomac River and the Washington skyline in the distance. Unfortunately, the tranquil setting that masked the self-centered striving of the nation’s political establishment neither amused nor puzzled him because his mind was focused on the conference room located next to his reception area. His company was in trouble, the predators aroused, and his board was searching for a scapegoat. Suddenly, the door to Dred’s right opened, and Mary Peters, his personal assistant, took three steps into the room. “I’m sorry, Dred, but the animals are growing restive,” Mary spoke softly and glanced over her shoulder at the wall behind which the nervous directors waited. Scott took a deep breath and turned his chair to face his desk. “I know, Mary, thank you.” Mary waited for Dred to rise to join her, but he did not move. Mary who had worked for the company president for ten years did not retreat. Mary stared again at the closed door that led to the conference room. Scott suddenly made a decision. He stood up, looked out the window at the view, the one thing he would miss most about this office, and turned. “I’ve decided that they will have to meet without me,” Scott declared as he headed for the door that led to the outer corridor. “What should I tell the directors?” Mary persisted. “That I’ve left.” “May I say where you are going?” “If I knew, you could, Mary. I’m sorry. I don’t know.” Dred lied. “Will you be back?” “I doubt it, but I will contact you, sometime.” Dred hurried out the door and left Mary with an astonished expression on her face. Dred drove directly to his Crystal City apartment where he hurriedly filled two suitcases, ignoring a persistently ringing phone in the process. He returned to his car and followed I-395, the old Shirley Highway, past the Pentagon to the Beltway and proceeded north to I-66, which took him to Route 123 and Oakton where he cruised slowly past his two million dollar home, which now housed his wife in solitary luxury. He saw his Jaguar parked in the driveway, cursed bitterly, resisted the urge to stop and denounce her once again, and continued to Route 123, turned right, and made his way back to Route 50. As he headed west, he pushed angry thoughts about his spouse, his home, and the failing business from his mind. His boys had outgrown him. They were selfishly preoccupied with themselves in faraway New Haven. He had been proud of the house, loved the Jag, tolerated the burdens of fatherhood, but had grown weary of the whining, ambitious spouse. The Washington metropolitan area and his manifold problems there gradually receded from his mind as he threaded his way through the diminishing traffic. Finally, he decided he had only one true regret. He should have taken the Jag instead of compromising on the damned SUV. His cheating wife, his selfish family, his sinking business, and the money-consuming house he could handle. Each mile that he crossed sensitized him to the monetary and human deprivations, but he still missed the Jag he was leaving behind him. ******** The door that led from the conference room to Mary’s office opened abruptly about fifteen minutes after Dred had departed, and Jason Caruthers, the board chairman of Scott Breweries Inc., appeared with a grim frown on his pasty face. “Will Mr. Scott be joining us imminently, Ms. Peters?” Caruthers glared at the closed door that led to the inner office. Mary hesitated before answering. “I’m not sure, Mr. Caruthers.” “Then I best ask him,” Caruthers declared as he strode past Mary’s desk. “I’m not sure you can do that, sir,” Mary said as Caruthers reached for the knob to the door. Caruthers halted, turned, and frowned at Mary as he waited for an explanation. When Mary who was privately enjoying Caruthers’ reaction despite the desperate circumstances did not elaborate, Caruthers opened the door to the inner office. “Mr. Scott, the board is waiting,” Caruthers called to the empty office. When he turned back towards Mary, Caruthers appeared to be both confused and angry. Caruthers, who led the four board members appointed by Campbell Deutschmann to represent his minority stake in Scott Breweries, was an arrogant, fat man with few social skills. Until six months previously, Scott Breweries has been a family owned business for almost a century and a half, but circumstances had forced them to go public, and the result had been a near takeover by Deutschmann and his underlings. Dred Scott still held 30% of the stock, his younger half brother Clayton Scott had 25%, and Deutschmann 45%. As long as Dred and his brother voted together, the Scott family controlled the business, but unfortunately, Mary feared, the hanging board meeting was about to change all that. “Is there a problem, Mary?” Clayton, the playboy, appeared in the doorway. “Where in the hell is he?” Caruthers demanded, looking at Clayton Scott who in turn waited for Mary to answer his question. ********** West of Winchester, Dred began to whistle long forgotten tunes. Music had always relaxed him. He smiled thinly as he thought of his prescience in buying his rustic mountain property on impulse three years ago, and he had never gotten around to admitting that indulgence to Carolyn, his wife. That oversight was proving to be a blessing. He knew when he bought it with his mother Mary’s help that Carolyn would never deign to visit it even if he admitted his moment of weakness. Carolyn was a New York City girl, the spoiled daughter of a Madison Avenue advertising flake and a superficial, society-driven mother who worked hard to conceal her upstate rural roots. Carolyn, who attacked her environmental issues with words, ignored the real thing. Dred slowed for Romney and turned towards Keyser, West Virginia. Traffic was light, and he ignored the mountain scenery. The cabin he visualized was a sanctuary, a place he could hide, not an idyllic natural retreat to be enjoyed. If he excluded his mother Mary and his assistant Mary Peters, Dred doubted that a single family member, friend, or associate even knew that Keyser existed. Certainly, Carolyn and no one at the office had ever mentioned it. A half hour southwest of Cumberland, Dred crossed the bridge over the North Branch of the Potomac and stopped at a grocery store with a functional name designed to appeal to the local residents of Keyser, the” Save a Lot.” He purchased two bags of necessities, just enough to get him through the next two days, before continuing on to Fox’s Pizza on Mineral Street. There, he bought dinner, one large pepperoni pizza with extra cheese. Back in the SUV, he continued west through Keyser. He smiled at the miserable little campus of the Potomac State College, an affiliate of West Virginia University. Leaving Keyser behind, he drove for about twenty minutes, relaxing noticeably with each passing mile, confident that not a single person among those who he had left behind in Washington could now disturb him. Suddenly, he remembered one last chore. He pulled to the side of the road, checked his phone list in his briefcase, and poked in the number of Poppy Gore. Poppy, the realtor who had sold him the cabin and the adjoining mountain acreage, had managed it during his three-year absence; Poppy lived in Keyser. “Poppy Gore,” the realtor answered pertly on the second ring. Dred hesitated; the voice surprised him. It sounded like that of a teenager, not the sixty-odd year matron with thick white hair that he remembered. “Is this Ms. Gore the realtor?” Dred asked. “You caught me,” Poppy laughed. “Ms. Gore, this is Dred Scott.” “My God, my absentee client. I wasn’t sure you were still on this planet, Mr. Scott.” Dred laughed. “I’m on my way to the cabin as we speak. I hope the utilities are functional.” “Just as you ordered a century ago, Mr. Scott.