The End of the Dream by Ann Rule Page B

obtaining the basic ingredients and the necessary apparatus from drug-supply companies without arousing suspicion. He wasn’t anyone Kevin knew, or wanted to know.
    Scott was into another world, a dangerous world. “Scott always had to be the best at everything, “ Kevin explained. “Whatever it was sports or money or whatever. But success had to come fast for him. One time, he invested a little money in the stock market, but he had no patience, and he lost money. I think it bothered Scott that one of the guys we went to school with in Reston was a millionaire in computers while the rest of useven Scott were way behind.” Scott always kept meticulousif phony records.
    Notations of his “purchases” and “expenses” were all filed in neatly labeled folders in a cabinet in the gray house. He told Kevin that he always paid his taxes, too. That is, he paid taxes on what he declared as his income, the income of a carpenter. As far as the IRS knew, Scott’s annual income was about $24,000. He was careful never to buy a new car, preferring nondescript used models. He never wanted to be in debt to anyone, so he paid his bills punctually each month. The property on Overhulse Road was about to be transformed into a Northwest version of The Shire Plantation in Hawaii. Only this time, Scott planned to own it.
    There was the gray house, the barn, the outbuildings, and the treehouse, and Scott intended to spare no expense in his plans to remodel it all.   But the most important remodeling would be to the treehouse. The first treehouse had been only a shack compared to the one Scott envisioned. He intended to use some of the $250,000 to put a down payment on the place when the time was ripe. Scott planned to eventually rip out seventy-five percent of the original treehouse that had been built in the seven cedars. Those cedars remained, but the new and perfected treehouse would be built in and around forty-seven trees.
    There would be a working bathroom, a tub, and planked walkways that extended far back into the forest. There would be decks and ladders and look-out spots.
    Kevin suggested that Scott call his carpentry business “Seven Cedars, “ and he did. Despite everything, it was easy most of the time to pretend that Scott hadn’t changed. He drank a little more, maybe.
    Life around Seven Cedars was essentially about having a good time.
    Kevin teased Scott about the place, calling it “Peter Pan Land.” The boys who played there were growing older.
    Scott was well over thirty now, but he was little changed from the twenty-year-old who had hopped Off the bus in Hawaii. His heroes, real and fictional, surrounded him. N. C. Wyeth’s painting of Robin Hood hung over his king-sized bed in the treehouse. “He liked to think he was like Robin Hood, “ Kevin said. “But he really used his money to impress people. He spent most of it on himself, and the money he gave away was what he gave to waitresses.” Waitresses loved Scotty Scurlock. He was a big and flamboyant tipper, although he had a system. Scott would tip pretty waitresses $10 the first time they served him, even if the check was less than $15. “After that, you don’t have to tip them any more than normal, “ he would say, smiling.
    “They still remember you as that big tipper.” Scott liked Gardner’s Restaurant, Ben Moore’s, Louis’s, and the Bud Bay Restaurant in Olympia.   They were spots where he didn’t have to dress up even though he preferred to drink Dom Perignon and Cristal champagne and where he was always greeted warmly. He was, after all, “the big tipper.” Other than that, Scott’s generosity didn’t come without a price tag.
    The plane tickets, the free rent, and the vacations he gave to his friends came with implied debt. Whether it meant that his friends had to work on the treehouse, the barn, the gray house, or in the marijuana fields, whether they were expected to participate in his newest experiments or provide company for him