Mountain Mystery, Fairfax Miasma

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

About the Author

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 had 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. I admit it seemed a terrible waste to me to have that cabin just setting there without a human to entertain it.

My office has kept your management revolving fund liquid?

No problem there, Mr. Scott. The check has come in once a year just like clockwork. I personally visited the cabin and kept an eye on it for you. If you find anything not working or out of place, just give me a ring.

I thank you for the professional effort, Scott said, now anxious to end the conversation.

If you like, I could drop by tomorrow morning to take care of any oversight, Poppy said.

I’m sure that will not be necessary Ms. Gore, Dred said. I don’t want to ruin your weekend. I do have something I want to discuss with you, he admitted. Early next week, Monday or Tuesday, if convenient, would be soon enough.

No problem, Poppy responded brightly. Tomorrow would be best for me. Weekends are working days for a realtor.

If it is not an imposition.

I’ll see you tomorrow, around ten, Poppy said.

After terminating the call, Scott turned and impulsively tossed his cell phone into New Creek, effectively terminating, he thought, the last connection with his old world.

Dred relaxed even more when he reached the small track that led from Route 220 upwards. The winding climb and condition of the overgrown trail quickly reminded him of why he had too graciously taken the SUV with its four-wheel drive instead of his precious JAG, which Carolyn coveted. He had assumed the SUV would take to the mountains almost as much as Dred Scott anticipated he would enjoy the respite and tranquility of their isolation. Dred cautiously guided the SUV over the rocky and foreboding track that led to his retreat. It was a log cabin, not of the original settler variety, but a modern one with all the necessary conveniences. The local entrepreneur had built it to be an all weather retreat for wealthy city dwellers. Except for his mother Mary who had assisted with the financing, Dred had kept his purchase secret for almost three years, a hedge against everyone, including, particularly including, his spouse. A mild mannered man—some called him a mother’s boy, he knew--Dred was not stupid. His mother had warned him about Carolyn, and he had heeded her tart cautions, but still he had felt it necessary to try to make the marriage work for the twins’ sake. Although he had not visited his mountain since purchase, its very existence had given him a most necessary solace at times of intense familial stress.

Dred halted the SUV in front of the cabin and studied it from his seat behind the wheel. The shuttered windows and heavy front door projected an inhospitable ambiance, and that pleased Dred. It appeared formidable and warned intruders to beware. The weathered exterior and the encroachment of the forest enhanced the illusion of mountain omnipotence, an image that Dred could not have created if he had tried. Dred got out of the SUV, took a deep breath, and mentally crossed his fingers, hoping that Poppy had indeed followed his instructions to the letter. A cautious man, he had just wanted a viable escape option. As it turned out, that was exactly what he required.

Dred pushed his key into the lock and was surprised when it turned without sticking. He pushed open the door and stepped inside. Because of the shutters, his only light came from behind him through the door. The air was stale and musty, moot testimony to the cabin’s solitary existence. Dred felt for the light switch that he assumed was to the left of the door. He flicked it with his fingers and nothing happened. Before he panicked he remembered the generator. He cautiously made his way to the kitchen, flicked a switch, and somewhere behind the cabin a generator kicked into action. Poppy apparently was as good as her word. To his relief three lamps in the family room flickered and then greeted him. Dred conducted a quick inspection to make sure that the long neglected cabin was ready for an occupant. Cold mountain well water came from the tap, a little rusty at first, but it cleared, and warm then hot water came from the other faucet. Next, Dred flushed the john in the master bedroom and turned on more lights and the television connected to a satellite disk. Everything appeared functional, and Dred made a mental note to thank Poppy with an extra gratuity.

He opened the windows and shutters and let the cool November air flow through every room. The accompanying chill led Dred to the fireplace where he found logs in place with kindling waiting for a match. Dred was checking the thermostat when a voice startled him.

Christ, this shitty place suits you.

What in the hell are you doing here? How did you find me? Dred challenged when he recovered from the surprise.

Got a present for you, the intruder said, reaching into a shopping bag.

Get the hell out of here, Dred lost his temper.

The intruder lifted a large pistol, braced it in two slender hands, pointed it at Dred, and pulled the trigger before he could react. Flames spurted from the ugly snout, and it rose off target. The shooter calmly re-aimed and fired, three more times. The noise in the confined space was loud, but Dred did not hear it. He slumped to the floor, and the shooter stepped back with ringing ears.

Christ, that damned thing is heavy, the shooter complained, dropping the pistol, warm barrel and all, back into the shopping bag.

Goodbye, Dred, the shooter said softly.

The shooter checked each room in the cabin before returning to the porch.

Seated in the car, the shooter glanced at the cabin, noted the open doors, windows, the still burning lights, and thought about the mountain’s marauding wild animals.

Let them have him, the shooter said as the car started to move.

Chapter 2

Chairman of the Board Jason Caruthers hesitated at the closed door to the boardroom. He stood with his back to Mary Peters, Dred Scott’s wide-eyed but silent assistant, and tried to compose himself. His master, Campbell Deutschmann, had made one thing perfectly clear. Deutschmann had purchased shares in Scott Breweries Inc. because it was a company in trouble but one with a profit potential worth exploiting, and Caruthers had but one simple task, make sure that the company fulfilled the West Virginian’s expectations. It had not taken Caruthers long to identify the problem, CEO Dred Scott and his impulsive plan to give the family a more socially correct image as the maker of a designer beverage that appealed to the better classes. Caught between Scott and his ill-conceived plan and the stubborn Deutschmann who held Caruthers responsible for guaranteeing an unreasonable return on his investment, Caruthers had improvised. He had misrepresented the situation.

Caruthers had assured Deutschmann that Clayton Scott and his twenty-five percent of the shares agreed with Caruthers’ assessment of the problem, shares that when combined with Deutschmann’s forty-five percent could be used to temporarily shift control from Dred Scott to a new CEO, Caruthers. When questioned by Deutschmann, Caruthers had claimed that Scott Breweries under his leadership could quickly return to profitability if the company concentrated on producing the product for which it was known, the working man’s reasonably priced beer, a result that would benefit the Scott family and the millionaire.

Admittedly, Caruthers had misrepresented his relationship with the younger Scott, but Caruthers was confident he had the playboy in a box. Clayton Scott needed a million dollars, and he needed it now. Caruthers knew that to be a certainty because he held Scott’s IOU’s. Using two local henchmen, Caruthers had set up the high stakes poker game and over a three-month period had engineered Scott’s entrapment. Just two weeks previously, Caruthers had sprung his trap and had informed Clayton that he now held Scott’s paper, giving the shaken playboy two simple options: either pay the money forthwith, or vote his shares as Caruthers dictated. As Caruthers anticipated, the shaken younger man had chosen the latter option, fearing bankruptcy and public humiliation more than his half brother’s private wrath.

Caruthers was unsure how the younger Scott would react to his half brother’s sudden non-appearance. There was no question in Caruthers’ mind that Clayton Scott was desperate. Scott, a shallow product of a greatly diluted gene pool, had been shortchanged when character and native intelligence had been dispensed. Self-indulgent and corrupted by the ready availability of family money, Clayton had been spoiled at every turn by his mother, a second wife who in her own way was a child in a family who resented her very presence. Now, thirty-five years of age and thrice married, Clayton had two ex-wives burdened with a total of four children and a new bride of twenty-two with expensive tastes to support. Given that he had no job, just an office in the Scott Breweries administrative center that he seldom graced, and dependent on trust-controlled shares he could not sell, Clayton indeed had serious money flow problems, a situation that made him susceptible to Caruthers’s plotting.

Unfortunately for Clayton, his father had presciently anticipated the likelihood that succeeding Scott progeny might pose a threat to the family empire, and he had taken the precaution of placing a caveat on his heirs’ ability to dispose of their shares in a way that threatened family control of the company. Henry James established a blood trust that controlled the allocation of the company shares to his male descendants and made Mary Scott, his first wife, the trust executor for as long as she lived. In the instance of his sons, should either brother be tempted to transfer his shares--30 percent in Dred’s case and 25 percent in Clayton’s--the other sibling had several options to be considered at a family caucus and adjudicated by the trust executor. The caucus was currently composed of Dred, Dred’s mother Mary, and Clayton. Mary was the trust executor and Clayton’s mother Sally was excluded because the old man had eventually concluded his second wife was not morally qualified to be a Scott. Thus, Clayton did not stand a chance of getting permission to sell his shares over Mary’s objection, which was a given. Voting the shares was something that the senior Scott in his dotage had not considered. The old man had thought a family caucus would resolve all problems under Mary’s stern leadership. Unfortunately, the oversight had left the boardroom door ajar and facilitated Caruthers’s manipulations.

Is my brother the CEO going to honor us with his presence or not? Clayton querulously and with bravado greeted Caruthers.

Caruthers answered with a silent scowl. He needed the intemperate Clayton Scott’s vote, but Caruthers did not conceal the fact that he disliked the weaker man. Caruthers sat down at the head of the table and arrogantly ignored the others as he tried to decide what to do next. His options were limited. He had assured his master, Deutschmann, that he would finalize the takeover today; that Dred Scott would turn coward and run had not occurred to him. Yet, with Clayton Scott’s vote in his pocket, Caruthers considered the outcome a lock.

Circumstances were not on Dred Scott’s side, and Caruthers like the others at the table knew it. The near term prospects for the brewery were dismal. The timing of Dred’s impulsive decision to shift to a designer beer had been ill considered. Still, Dred had not hesitated. For decades Scott Breweries had thrived by focusing on the working man’s market. An active member of the country club set, all of Dred’s friends had belittled his family’s product. Designer beer is the future, they had counseled, and unfortunately, Dred, the product of his protected upbringing, had listened. He had made what he thought was the right decision, unfortunately at the wrong time, and Scott Breweries’ bottom line had plummeted into the red.

Dred had made the mistake of thinking he could ignore the general economy’s periodic downturn. He had grown up listening to his elders expound a simple theory; in difficult times, beer is the exception; that is when the average man tempered his worry with drink. Dred had assumed that Scott Breweries sales would increase if the CEO made the right decisions, and to his mind the shift to designer beer was really right. In this economic downturn, the better classes were untouched by the recession. Unfortunately for him, Campbell Deutschmann, the son of an old friend of his mother’s who Mary and Dred had brought in to provide the capital the company needed to effect the desired change-over, had agreed with his crony Caruthers’s conclusion that Dred’s decision-making process was flawed. Regrettably for the Scott brothers, even if they worked together, which was highly unlikely, they did not have the wherewithal to carry their family company through the current general economic downturn and have it emerge strong enough to prove Deutschmann wrong. Since the death of their father, both brothers, spoiled and self-indulgent, Clayton more than Dred, had maintained lifestyles that had dissipated the accrued wealth of previous Scott generations.

Your brother will not be joining us, so we might as well deal with the one item on the agenda and terminate this meeting. It has gone on too long as it is, Caruthers forced a thin smile.

What do you mean? Clayton Scott asked. He didn’t like Caruthers any more than Caruthers liked him. The meeting hasn’t even started.

Yes it has, Mr. Scott. I just tabled the motion. Need I spell it out?

Where is my brother? Clayton asked. There is no way he would willingly miss this meeting.

Well he has, Mr. Scott. Your brother is not in the building; in ten seconds we will vote, and this meeting will adjourn.

Clayton hesitated before blurting, You did not answer my question.

I do not know where your brother is at this moment, Caruthers said. And it simply does not matter. We have a duly constituted quorum. I hereby move that Mr. Dred Scott be removed as Chief Executive Officer of Scott Breweries, and that I, Jason Caruthers, be appointed in his stead.

But … Clayton Scott started to protest before falling silent.

Caruthers smiled, assuming that Scott had finally realized that his half brother’s absence made this meeting a pro-forma exercise. Caruthers’s vote for forty-five percent of the shares easily carried over Clayton’s twenty-five percent even if Clayton resisted the gambling blackmail. Yes, Mr. Scott? Caruthers said.

Clayton decided it would be easier to point the finger of blame for the loss of family control of their company at his brother than it would be to risk personal ruin and humiliation by trying to bluff Caruthers with a losing hand. He shook his head, saying nothing.

I second the motion, James Parsons, one of Deutschmann’s four board members declared.

The motion has been made and duly seconded, Caruthers declared. I now put the issue to a vote. As duly charged by Mr. Deutschmann and speaking for his forty-five percent of the outstanding stock, I say, yes. After speaking, Caruthers turned to Parsons who sat on his immediate left."

I vote yes, Parsons declared immediately.

Yes, yes, yes, Deutschmann’s three other board members declared in turn.

Caruthers then turned towards the three board members who had been appointed by Dred Scott. Horace Boardman, an octogenarian, a peer of the senior Scott who had once served as the brewery’s legal counsel, opened his mouth, ostensibly to protest but did not speak. He glanced at his two companions. The younger man on his immediate left, a contemporary of Dred’s, shrugged and shook his head.

Present, Boardman declared. Despite his age, Boardman recognized that Dred Scott’s unexplained absence and Clayton’s Scott’s silence in the face of Caruthers’s challenge rendered any protest futile. If Clayton opted to vote with Deutschmann’s obnoxious representative, any protest by Boardman’s small bloc was meaningless. Thus, he chose to neither support nor confirm the motion.

Present, present, the two Dred Scott loyalists followed Boardman’s hollow gesture.

Caruthers ignored the token protest and turned to Clayton Scott who did not immediately react. Clayton with a frozen expression on his face sat rigidly in his chair staring blankly at the wall opposite. Only his tapping fingers revealed his inner turmoil. To vote yes on the motion would solve all the immediate problems that were tormenting him. At the same time that vote would spell the end of family control of a local institution that his great grandfather had created, but taking the Scott out of Scott Breweries Inc. did not trouble him. His mother Sally Jenkins Scott was a third wife, and the extended family had always made it clear that they considered Clayton a lesser Scott, an attitude promoted by his father Henry James Scott who had treated Dred as his real son and Clayton as an inconvenient, almost foster adjunct to the family. Despite the fact that Dred’s unexplained absence denied him cover for voting for the sale, and fully cognizant that Dred and his mother, the spiteful Mary, would blame him for the family’s loss of the business that was responsible for their community stature, Clayton took a deep breath and made his irrevocable decision.

I vote yes, Clayton declared.

The motion is carried, and this meeting is over, Caruthers smiled. He stood up and marched from the room followed by his three subordinate board members.

Horace Boardman and his two loyal supporters sat in stunned silence and waited for Clayton to explain.

I didn’t have a choice; I don’t know where Dred is, Clayton tried to assign the black stigma to the real Scott.

Boardman did not react. He stared at Clayton and waited for a more detailed explanation for the half brother’s defection and betrayal.

Unable to think of a single excuse to justify what the others obviously considered a disloyal sell out, and he could not blame them for he felt the shame, Clayton stood up and silently departed. As he closed the door slowly behind him, Clayton heard Boardman declare, Like his father, I never considered that weak, sniveling shit to be a true Scott.

Chapter 3

Poppy Gore was smiling when she turned her mud splattered SUV off Route 220 and commenced the steep climb that led to the overgrown track that provided access to the isolated cabin that her client apparently considered a refuge. Poppy had difficulty visualizing Scott; she was sure she could pass him in the Cumberland Mall and not recognize him, but she still contemplated the name with fond recollection. That austere cabin and its isolated mountain had marinated on her listing for almost five years before the city dweller appeared and impulsively purchased it after a single, brief viewing. Poppy still considered the sale one of her most noteworthy accomplishments. Local residents, even the most naïve teenagers searching for a starter home, had taken one look and declared their disinterest. Before Scott, Poppy had shown the place to a handful of flatlanders who had naively ventured into Mineral County in their quest for picturesque mountain retreats, and not a single one of them had asked for a second viewing.

Although she had talked telephonically with Scott exactly twice since the closing, Poppy had not seen Scott in person since that eventful day. On his instructions, Poppy had managed the property for her absentee client with his office manager in Fairfax serving as her primary, her only point of contact. She dutifully visited the cabin every couple of months and contracted for any repairs that were required, a loose shingle, an askew shutter, a faucet leaking rusty water, but she had never seen any sign that the owner had spent any time there. Given the fact that this visit would be her first physical contact with Scott in three years, Poppy was looking forward to verifying that indeed the man still existed.

Poppy stopped behind the Lexus SUV, which was parked in front of the cabin, and paused to admire it, pleased that its very existence confirmed that this call was not a waste of time. The fact that the front door of the cabin stood wide open puzzled her. November in the mountains carried a chill that challenged even the most adventuresome naturalist. She hesitated to consider that oddity as she waited for the owner to appear, hoping that the sound of her SUV had alerted Scott to her arrival. While stalling, she noticed that all of the shutters of the windows in the front of the cabin had been thrown back and the windows were wide open. Poppy shrugged, assuming that Scott was a fresh air buff who was just diluting the inevitable stuffiness from the long ignored interior.

Finally, Poppy climbed the front steps and paused at the front door.

Mr. Scott? She called.

Getting no response, Poppy repeated the name a second and third time. Finally, her curiosity aroused by the ominous silence, the open door and windows in the brisk, late November weather, Poppy cautiously entered, more concerned about foraging mountain wildlife than nonexistent neighbors with criminal tendencies.

Mr. Scott? Poppy called again, this time with a tinge of apprehension in her voice. Only silence returned her greeting.

Just inside the doorway, Poppy stopped and stared at the crumpled form lying near the fireplace.

Mr. Scott. Are you all right? Poppy asked.

Silence reigned.

Worried, Poppy with eyes wide studied the room.

Is there anyone here? Poppy asked with a noticeable quiver in her voice.

Only the soft flap of the faded drapes blowing in the November breeze answered. Poppy slowly approached the unmoving body. Standing directly over it, prepared to run if necessary, Poppy stared. Finally, she recognized the frozen features of the pale death mask distorting the once handsome face of her client. With her mouth open wide, ready to scream, she studied the large pool of congealed blood staining the carpet and the obvious wounds in Scott’s chest. Poppy gasped and slowly backed away, not stopping until she was safely seated in her SUV with the doors locked and the engine running. She took out her cell phone and dialed 911.

Sheriff Billy Jones was sitting behind his desk chatting with his young deputy, Sam Larkin, when the phone rang in the outer office. Miriam, his clerk who managed everything, including Billy, answered. Billy heard the sound of Miriam’s voice, but he did not trouble to listen. Mornings were a quiet time in Keyser, and Miriam was always chatting with her friends.

Sam was telling Billy a funny story about a couple of drunken teenagers from Pot State, Potomac State really, a small junior college on the hill, when Miriam appeared in the doorway.

What can I do for you, Miriam? Billy smiled at Sam as he waited for Miriam to ask if he wanted another cup of coffee before she took her morning break.

Sheriff, Miriam spoke formally, signaling that the call was official because she usually addressed her superior as Billy, something she had done since they had started kindergarten together almost sixty years ago. I just had a 911 call from Poppy.

Sheriff Billy Jones, now alert, sat up straight, at least as straight as his sixty-five year old spine allowed.

I hope that big ole car of hers hasn’t broken down again on some mountaintop, Billy said.

Jones winked at his deputy. Their days were usually filled with boredom, the checking out of minor incidents of teenage vandalism, the assuaging of complaints of mal-behavior by inebriated Pot State students returning from nearby roadhouses, and the issuing of speeding tickets to local drivers who tended to take their half of the road out of the middle. Local residents had a love/hate relationship with the students of the hilltop junior college, an appendage of the state university. The residents liked the money that the students brought to their small town, but the students’ behavior was difficult to cope with at the best of times. West Virginia University had national renown as a social college, and that was a polite way of saying the students drank beer, shot pool, and attended a lot of movies when they were not booing loudly at sporting events. The residents were convinced that the Pot State students were determined to outperform their peers at the parent institution in every way, particularly in the per capita consumption of 3.5 beer.

This is a serious call, sheriff, Miriam said. Poppy is calling from her SUV parked in front of one of her management properties off Route 220. She says there is a body in the cabin; all the doors and windows were standing wide open when she arrived, and she’s scared stiff. She wants help.

What?’ The good old boy sheriff stopped smiling. Is that all she said?"

No, she said somebody named Scott has been shot several times in the chest.

Is the shooter still there? Why does she need help?

Poppy has locked herself in the car. She doesn’t know anything about the shooter, and she asks that you get there immediately.

Did she say where exactly?

She said Scott Mountain.

I never heard of it, Billy said. He looked at his deputy, Sam, who shook his head negatively as he tightened his belt buckle and checked his holster.

Poppy said it’s exactly twenty miles along Route 220 from the city limits. Watch your odometer, and turn on the first track on your right. Come to the top of the mountain, and you’re there. She said, hurry; she’s in the first SUV, the one behind the Lexus.

No one around here drives a Lexus, Sam said.

That’s all you know? Billy asked Miriam, ignoring Sam. His deputy was young, still learning the job, and usually focused on the irrelevant.

That’s it. I’ve got Poppy’s cell phone number. Do you want it?

I have it, Billy said. Give Poppy a call and tell her to stay in the car with the doors locked and her hand on the starter. If she sees anyone in the area, she should get the hell out of there. I’m on the way. You call the Smokies and tell them the same thing you told me. I’ll meet them there.

Sheriff Jones grabbed his equipment belt and headed for the door with a wide-eyed deputy hurrying along behind.

You’re about to deal with your first murder, son, Billy called over his shoulder as he rushed towards his SUV.

Billy spoke the truth. The last murder to occur in Keyser had been committed in 2001 and resulted from a domestic dispute. Most crimes in this modest city of 6,000 souls were directed against property and community peace and order. The town’s nine-man police force spent most of its time coping with the some eight hundred enthusiastic Pot State students, the town’s twenty-five foreign-born residents, and the recalcitrant rednecks, an appellation that applied to almost everybody. Local residents prided themselves on Kaiser’s self-selected slogan, The Friendliest City in the USA. Sheriff Billy Jones who policed the county outside of Keyser had no argument with that description if Saturday nights were excluded.

With siren screaming and lights flashing, the racing sheriff’s vehicle attracted a modicum of attention but encountered no obstacles on its race to the mountainous crime scene. In fact the climb up the mountain proved so arduous that Sheriff Jones turned off the lights and noise.

We don’t want to alert the perp that we are nearby, Jones smiled at his young deputy who was nervously double-checking his weapon. And please put that thing away, son, Jones said. We don’t want it going off by accident.

Sam Larkin slid the weapon back into its holster. Even though his hands were shaking, it was not from fear. He was excited. This could be his first real confrontation with a dangerous criminal.

And please make sure the safety is on, Jones ordered.

Sam carefully extracted his weapon from its holster and was embarrassed to find the safety was in the off position. It clicked when he slid it back into lock. Sam glanced at the sheriff to see if he had noticed and was dismayed when Jones nodded approval. Jones smiled but did not comment; he remembered what it had been like to be a young deputy on his way to what could turn out to be his first major crime.

After an arduous climb up the mountain, the sheriff turned right on the first track he encountered.

This is it. That’s Poppy’s SUV parked in front of the cabin, the sheriff said, stopping his cruiser as soon as he spotted the waiting realtor. He turned to his deputy. We don’t know what’s going on here or what has happened. When we stop, we’ll get out like it’s a routine call, but stay alert without overreacting.

Should I take my weapon out?

Take in off safety and put it back in your holster. Keep your eyes open and your hand on your weapon but do not draw it unless the situation requires.

You mean if a perp appears?

If you need your gun, you’ll know it, the sheriff chuckled.

While they were talking, Poppy got out of her SUV and hurried towards them. Sheriff Jones immediately opened his door and joined her.

Thank God, you’re here, Billy, Poppy said as she threw both arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.

Sheriff Billy Jones reciprocated while he quickly scanned the area over her shoulder.

Are you alone? Billy asked.

I think so, Poppy said. Just me and Mr. Scott inside, and he’s not moving.

Jones guided Poppy to the front seat of his SUV while he spoke to his deputy.

Sam, you take a look around outside. Poppy, you wait in my vehicle, and I will check out the cabin.

Poppy, still struggling to control her emotions, took a deep breath. Do you want me to come inside with you, Billy?

I think it best if we treat this as a crime scene. Did you touch anything in the cabin?

Not today, but I’ve been checking it every month or so for Mr. Scott for three years, Poppy said.

That’s all right, Jones said as he guided Poppy into the front seat. Let us take a look around, and then we can chat. The Smokies are on the way, so just send them in when they arrive.

Yes, Billy, Poppy said as Jones closed the door.

As he made his way to the cabin, Billy had a slight smile on his face. This was really the first time he had ever seen Poppy even look docile. He glanced at the Lexus SUV parked in front of Poppy’s, noted the Virginia tags, and continued to the front door. As Poppy had reported in her phone call, the door and all the windows were wide open.

Billy cautiously halted at the threshold and called, Hello, in a loud and firm voice. Receiving no answer, he said, This is the sheriff, and I’m coming in.

Billy drew his weapon, flipped the safety, and entered. Dust particles floated in the sunlight that streamed through the open windows, and three lamps were shining brightly. Despite the breeze coursing through the cabin, a dank odor permeated the air. If there is anyone here, please come out and identify yourself, now, Billy ordered.

Only the flapping curtains broke the ominous silence. Billy glanced at the crumpled body on the floor in front of the fireplace and then ignored it while he searched the remainder of the house. In the kitchen he glanced at the two bags of groceries from the Save a Lot and a Fox Pizza box. He checked the open back door before returning to the main room and where he quickly inspected the two adjoining bedrooms, one of which was set up as a study/office, the bathroom, and the closets. The desk in the study was bare, the bathroom had no towels, an empty soap dish, and a stained cabinet devoid of medicines, and the bed lacked sheets and blankets. It didn’t even have a pillow. The place looked unlived in.

There’s nothing outside, sheriff, Sam greeted him from the front door. Need help in here?

The place is empty. Put your weapon back on safety and return it to your holster, Billy answered. Young deputies with cocked guns always worried him, particularly in stressful situations. He had been around too many years to allow himself to be removed from this earth by accident.

Is that the victim? Sam Larkin asked.

Billy did not bother to answer. He walked over to the body and studied it for the first time. He carefully stepped around the large pool of congealed blood, clear testimony that the man had been dead for several hours. Billy studied the four bullet holes in the chest and then appraised the victim. Billy estimated that the man was middle aged, probably closer to fifty than forty, and he wore an expensive, tailored suit.

I spoke with Mr. Scott last night about six, Poppy said from the doorway.

Please don’t come in, Poppy. This is clearly a crime scene, Billy concealed his irritation. Let’s all go outside and chat, Billy said, glancing at his deputy to make sure he understood that the suggestion included him. He didn’t want Billy touching the body or handling everything, leaving fingerprints everywhere.

Billy started for the door where he hesitated to let Sam precede him. Let’s all sit in my vehicle, Billy said as he led the way off the porch. We don’t want to contaminate any evidence the shooter may have left behind.

Is this our investigation? Sam asked.

We’ll just have to let that sort itself out, Sam, Billy said. He limited his response because he knew Sam was asking if he was going to be involved in it or not. Billy assumed that this could develop into a high profile case, one well beyond the resources and experience of his small office, and he planned to dump it on the West Virginia State Police or the Federal Bureau of Investigation if necessary.

After they were settled in the car, Billy turned to the now calm realtor.

Poppy, did you meet this gentleman in person or did he phone?

Like I said, he called me on my cell last night about six, Poppy said.

Billy was tempted to point out that was not what she said, but he knew it was self-defeating to quibble with a witness, particularly not Poppy, who had never been wrong in her life, at least not since their first day together starting in kindergarten. Tell me again what he said, Billy said, trying to sound good-natured.

He just called to tell me he was in town and heading out to his property. He thanked me for looking after it and asked if his office had promptly paid my expenses.

You sold the property to him?

Yes, three years ago, but I haven’t seen him since the closing. I don’t think he ever visited the place. At least I never saw any sign of it. I don’t know why he bought it in the first place, but what’s that to me? I got my commission, and he paid my property management fees promptly. An ideal client. Not like some, all complaints and tight fisted.

Poppy, what was his name? What do you know about him? Billy asked.

Dred Scott. Can you believe that? His daddy must have been an evil person, naming him after that old slave.

What slave? Sam Larkin blurted.

That Civil War slave, Poppy stared at Sam. Don’t tell me, Sam, that you never heard of Dred Scott, the slave whose owner almost caused the Civil War singlehanded.

Please, Poppy, let’s save the history lectures until later, Billy frowned at his deputy, trying to tell him with his eyes to keep his damned mouth shut. Poppy, what do you know about this Scott? Where was he from?

He’s a big time businessman from Fairfax. I’ve a file on him at the office. He owns Scott’s Brewery. I’m sure you’ve heard of that Billy, given your well-known taste for beer. Poppy let Billy know she didn’t appreciate the remark about history lectures.

Did he ever say why he needed a mountain cabin? Billy ignored Poppy’s waspish tone.

Like I said, Billy, I don’t know why he bought it. You should listen to what a person says, sometime.

Who was with him?

When? Last night, he didn’t say.

No, when he bought it.

Just him.

Whose name is on the deed?

Just his.

Is he married?

I don’t know. Billy, I told you all I know about him.

Sheriff Billy Jones took a deep breath. Already, he knew this investigation was going to be impossible. The victim was from another city, another state, and nobody locally knew a thing about him. If the killer had left no identifying signs behind, like a name card or something, and if no one locally had seen the victim and the killer, which was unlikely, given the locale on a mountaintop, this case would provide nothing but heartburn, particularly if the victim was a person of status in Fairfax. For all Billy knew, he could have been a drinking buddy of the president. If that proved true, the media would make this case a nightmare.

How did he pay for the cabin? Billy asked.

I’m sure he paid by check.

What information do you have on him in your file? His home phone number? His address? Where he works? Jones let his exasperation show in his tone.

Of course. Don’t get sharp with me, Billy Jones, or I’m out of here.

Don’t you get your back up, Poppy Gore. I apologize if I came on strong. We have a murder here, and you are the only one who has met him or knows anything about him.

Before Billy could continue, the loud shriek of sirens sounded in the near distance. That’ll be the Smokies, Billy visibly relaxed.

Then, I’ll be going. I don’t have anything to tell them that I haven’t already told you, Poppy said as she glared at Billy, making it perfectly clear that she still resented his questioning. And I’m tired of repeating myself.

Poppy, Jones sighed. You are a material witness to a murder, and you have to stay here and talk with the State Police who will be investigating.

Like hell I will, Poppy said as she opened the SUV’s door and climbed out.

Deputy, put the cuffs on Ms. Gore and lock her in the back seat, Billy ordered as he climbed out of the SUV on his side.

Sam jumped out also and cautiously approached the volatile Poppy, not sure that the sheriff had been serious about the cuffs.

Don’t you touch me, Sam Larkin," Poppy said as she opened her purse and pulled out a can of pepper spray.

Now put that away, Poppy, Billy said. You are only making matters worse.

Worse? I’m a law-abiding citizen who has just done her duty. You can be sure, Billy, you just lost a lot of votes for your next election. I have many friends, Billy, and you damned well know it. Everybody is going to hear about how you abused me, Poppy said as she aimed the pepper spray at Sam.

Poppy and Sam were both staring at Billy when the cruiser with the flashing lights and wailing siren skidded to a stop behind the sheriff’s SUV.

A uniformed officer jumped out and approached the trio with a hand on his holstered weapon and a broad smile on his face.

Well what do we have here? The officer said. Don’t tell me that Poppy popped a client, and you caught her in the act? He laughed. Looks like you need some assistance, sheriff.

Don’t get carried away, Jeff, Billy smiled at the handsome young officer. He had known him since his rambunctious days as a tackle on the Kaiser High School football team. In fact, Billy on more than one occasion had kept Jeff Adams and a couple of his inebriated teammates overnight in the county jail after an injudicious night of celebration at the Green Lantern or the Am Vets in Westernport. Ms. Gore was just explaining to us how she found one of her clients expired on the floor of that cabin there.

Then why, Billy, is she waving that weapon at you and young Sam here? Adams continued to smile. Her client didn’t happen to expire after inhaling an overdose of pepper spray, did he?

You always were a wiseass, Jeff, Poppy glared at Adams.

Poppy, you put that damn can back in your purse, and you, Billy pointed his gnarled finger at the waiting Smokie. Turn off that damned siren. There’s nobody on this mountaintop that you are going to impress with the racket.

While the still smiling state policeman was turning off the lights and siren in his cruiser, and Billy, Sam and Poppy waited, two more West Virginia State Police cruisers with sirens and lights blaring pulled in behind Adams. Two more husky ex-football players in immaculate uniforms, accompanied by an older officer with a paunch and graying hair, joined the waiting group. Surrounded by all the uniformed muscle, Poppy discreetly put her pepper spray can back in her purse.

What’s up, Billy? The older officer asked.

Let’s you and I go inside for a look-see, Billy suggested to Lieutenant Craig McPherson, the commander of the local State Police Barracks. The two men had known each other for almost fifty years. They had attended Kaiser High School together, and they hadn’t liked each other then. As Mineral County’s primary police officers, they tolerated each other’s presence, and that’s all.

Hi Poppy, how’s tricks? McPherson smiled at the frowning realtor.

Now don’t you start, Craig McPherson, Poppy said. One smart aleck in uniform is more than I can stand.

McPherson winked at Poppy and followed Billy into the cabin.

McPherson glanced around the main room, approached the body, studied it briefly, and turned towards a silent Billy.

No witnesses? McPherson said.

Billy shook his head negatively. Poppy found the body, and called us.

A client of Poppy’s?

Billy nodded.

Not a local, McPherson said.

An out-of-towner, Billy confirmed.

Maryland?

Virginia, Billy said, frowning as he saw where McPherson was heading.

You and the Feds have a problem, McPherson smiled as he started towards the front door.

Wait a minute, Billy ordered.

Let me know if we can be of any help, McPherson did not stop.

This is obviously a state case not mine, Billy followed him out the door.

What makes you think that, Billy? McPherson asked as he moved towards his cruiser.

You’re better equipped to handle a murder investigation than I am, Jones said.

Try that line on the Feds, Billy, McPherson laughed as he climbed into his cruiser.

A frustrated Billy watched with a scowl on his face as the three State Police cruisers circled and departed.

Are we going to handle the investigation, sheriff? Sam asked. His expression made it clear that the prospect excited him.

Sam, just take things one step at a time, Billy finessed the answer. Right now, I want you to accompany Poppy back to her office and get the file she has on Mr. Scott.

Right, Sam said. Will you be investigating while I’m gone?

I’ll be right here, Sam, waiting for an ambulance to arrive and do right by the victim.

Can I come back and help you investigate? Sam asked.

You can come back and listen while I negotiate with the Bureau, Billy said.

The Bureau? Sam hesitated. Christ, who knows when they’ll get here. We should investigate before the trail gets cold. They say most killers are caught in the first twenty-four hours, and the clock is ticking.

Sam, you watch too much television. As soon as you get busy doing what I told you to do, I’ll phone Martinsburg and give Special Agent Ms. Joyce Rankin a heads-up. I’ll light a fire under her strong enough to have her here in two hours.

We don’t need that candy ass, sheriff. We can handle one little investigation, Sam said.

You two are going to need all the help you can get, Poppy joined the conversation. Scott was some kind of big deal.

What makes you say that? Billy asked

I know you two, Poppy smiled.

Don’t be a smart ass, Poppy. What makes him a big deal?

You drink beer, don’t you? Poppy turned and started for her SUV.

Don’t let her out of your sight, Sam, Billy ordered.

Sam hurried towards the sheriff’s SUV.

Wait, Billy called. I want the evidence camera from the back.

That comment made Sam smile. You are going to investigate, aren’t you?

Poppy started her SUV and headed down the mountain without waiting for Sam.

Sam grabbed the camera, tossed it to Billy, and gunned his engine. Billy, a smile on his face watched. To his dismay, Sam turned on the flashers and siren in a futile attempt to make Poppy slow down.

Take it easy. Slow down or you’ll break an axle, Billy called, worried about his official SUV. He had only had it a year, and the county manager had made it perfectly clear it had to last for ten.

Sam, of course, didn’t hear him.

Three hours later Sam and Billy were sitting in the cabin main room silently waiting for the arrival of the FBI. The presence of the body inhibited casual conversation. Both had independently conducted superficial inspections of the cabin and Scott’s SUV. They had each scanned Poppy’s file on the cabin sale, and neither had found a single clue that pointed at the identity of the shooter.

The only thing we can say with certainty is that the victim is dead, Sam opined.

We can assume that Mr. Scott had just arrived. The pizza, obviously his dinner, was untouched, and he did not even have time to put the perishables he had purchased in the fridge, Billy said.

He found the cabin stuffy and opened all the windows and the front and rear doors, Sam said.

He was probably standing over there near the fireplace waiting for the air to clear before turning on the heat when a visitor arrived, Billy said, now enjoying himself. It might have been someone he knew because there is no sign of a struggle.

Nor of congenial hospitality. No drinks, nothing, Sam said.

It doesn’t look like there was a struggle, Billy repeated.

The visitor just walked in and shot him where he stood.

Four times. What does that tell you Sam?

The shooter certainly wanted to make sure that Mr. Scott was dead.

Maybe they argued, Billy said.

What makes you say that? Sam asked.

I am just hypothesizing, Billy said. They either argued or the visitor arrived with just one thing in mind.

It obviously wasn’t just a friendly chat, Sam smiled. They were acting like real detectives.

Do you see any sign that robbery was a motive? Billy asked.

The victim still had his wristwatch, wallet, and the SUV is parked out front.

That means the shooter had his own means of transportation, Billy smiled at his deputy’s eagerness.

And all the cars coming and going have obliterated any tracks that his vehicle might have left, Sam nodded.

Before either of them could think of another thing to say, the sound of an arriving car caught their attention. Both went out on the porch and watched as a large black sedan pulled to a stop behind their SUV.

The Feds have arrived, thank God, Billy said. He turned to Sam. Now you let me handle this. We’re going to dump this little problem on the Feds and then get the hell out of here.

Hey sheriff, can we pick up the stiff now? One of the two paramedics who had been sitting in their ambulance called.

We won’t be long now, Billy answered. We have to let the Bureau get a firsthand look, don’t we?

Firsthand look at what? A frowning, overweight female dressed in a rumpled pants suit asked as she climbed out of the sedan.

It’s good to see you again, Agent Rankin, Billy smiled at the woman who served as the FBI’s Resident Agent in its Martinsburg office, which covered eight local counties including Mineral County.

I believe you know Special Agent Antonio Bachus, the dumpy woman nodded at her companion, a young man about Sam’s age who was dressed in a tailored, pinstriped suit.

Pleased to meet you, Special Agent Bachus, Billy said as he offered the young federal officer his hand. And this is my deputy, Sam Larkin, Billy said.

While the two junior officers were shaking hands, Special Agent Rankin took charge. Now, sheriff, she ordered. Tell me what is so important that it was necessary for me to re-arrange my schedule and come rushing up here to this godforsaken place. Did you find a still or something? Rankin smiled thinly, indicating to the others that she had told a joke.

We’ve got a really bad one here, Billy said. He didn’t really like having Rankin on his turf any more than she enjoyed being there.

The really bad thing hereabouts, sheriff, is that road, Rankin turned and stared at the trail that led down the mountain to Route 220. We damned near tore the undercarriage out of the Ford. You should have warned me.

You’re going to have to get yourself a SUV, Billy smiled.

Lead the way, sheriff, Rankin turned a fat palm in the direction of the cabin door.

The crime scene is exactly as we found it, Billy said as he guided his entourage into the cabin. We haven’t touched a thing. Billy stopped just inside the door.

Rankin pushed her way past the country sheriff and approached the body. She leaned over, spent about ten seconds studying the remains of Dred Scott, and then she stood up and looked with disinterest about the cabin.

No weapon? She asked.

No, ma’am, Billy answered, forcing himself to ignore her brisk demeanor.

Looks like a 9mm, she said. Tell me what you know, sheriff, Rankin ordered, her tone making it clear that she doubted the local bumpkin knew much.

The victim’s name is Mr. Dred Scott.

How do you know that?

That’s what his wallet says, Billy answered. And Poppy who sold him this cabin confirms the identification.

Who the hell is Poppy? Rankin demanded.

Poppy Gore, a local realtor. Poppy is the one who found the body and called us.

Where is she now?

Sam and I debriefed her, and then I sent Poppy and Sam back to her office to retrieve her file on Mr. Scott. We kept it here for you to review.

Was Poppy his local girl friend?

Poppy is a mature local woman. Her relationship with Mr. Scott was strictly professional.

Are you sure?

I’ve known Poppy since grade school. I’m sure.

That comment made Special Rankin smile. Oh, Poppy is a senior citizen, then.

Some might think so, Billy reacted sourly. He was tempted to respond a little more sharply, but he needed to avoid antagonizing