Mystery of the Sassafras Chair (6 page)

Nathaniel nodded slowly. “It would have been safe there for hours. Only—who did it? And where is the box now?”

Timor wet his lips. “Maybe,” he said quietly, “maybe Wiley can help us there. Tonight I—I'll ask him.”

The black eyes met his. “I want to see that chair. I was thinking of driving up today to look at it, but now I—I'd rather wait till tomorrow morning. Thanks for coming here, Tim. I don't know where this is going to lead, but you've restored my faith in a lot of things.”

Odessa was waiting impatiently when he returned to the station wagon.

“Well!” she began. “You should have been in the store! Did that deputy with the big chin—what's his name?—”

“Brad James. Yes, he came over to the shop and told us what Mr. Gatlin thought.”

Odessa's eyes were bright. “It was really funny—before those deputies came, I mean. I couldn't get a thing out of the Grossers at first. Such people! They'd make a clam seem like a chatterbox. Mrs. Grosser waited on me, and old Fritz and that big ape of a Sammy sat in a corner and watched. Then I mentioned the chair Wiley had made for you, and how strange it was to find it in the cabin. It was as if I'd dropped a bomb. Timmy, I wouldn't have believed it, but they're terribly superstitious. Mrs. Grosser actually asked me if I wasn't afraid to have a chair like that in the house!”

Timor laughed. “If she could have seen Wiley—”

“Please, Timmy. You don't have to—”

“You still don't believe me,” he accused.

“Maybe I do. I—I don't know. You didn't tell Mr. Battle, did you?”

“Yes, I did,” he admitted.

“Timmy! I told you
not
to. What will he ever—”

“But he wanted to know, so I told him—and he didn't even question me. He was awfully low when I went in, but he felt a lot better when I told him, and he said, ‘Bless old Wiley!'”

“I'm surprised. Just the same, I wish you hadn't let it out. I can't help it, but I feel
tida senang
about it, as if something awful could happen.”

Timor, remembering how Brad James had listened, felt equally unhappy.

“You were telling me about Mrs. Grosser and the chair,” he said. “What happened next?”

“Well, I looked around, and there was Deputy Gatlin, taking it all in. I didn't even hear him come in the store. That man! He gives me the creeps, the way he stands looking at you and chewing on a match. Anyway, I had to go over the story again for both deputies. Now, what do you think of Rance Gatlin's idea that another person was involved, one of Wiley's friends?”

Timor wrinkled his nose and pinched it between his fingers. “That's what I think of it. Nathaniel proved that Wiley didn't do it. We've figured out how it was done and we know it had to be either Sammy Grosser or—or Mr. Gatlin himself.”

“Timmy! You're not serious!”

“That's how it looks.”

Odessa's mouth tightened as he told her about it. She was silent for a moment. Suddenly she said, “I don't like this. Frankly, Timmy, I think we ought to tell Daddy about it.”

“Not yet. You know how he is. Besides, we—we don't really know anything for sure.”

“But, Timmy, you've started something. From now on, you've got to be awfully careful. It isn't Sammy Grosser I'm afraid of. He's just an overgrown lout—the sly kind. But Rance Gatlin.… Don't you see? If that match-chewing deputy did it, it makes things far worse. He not only injured Mr. Battle seriously, but he pursued an innocent man afterward, which makes him responsible for his death. One could almost call it murder.”

A little chill crept over Timor. He hadn't considered that side of it.

“So,” she added, “I believe it would be only wise to keep Daddy informed.” She turned on the motor. “What do you want to do next?”

“I don't know. I—I've got to think things over.”

“Well, let's get back and have an early lunch. I'd like to get started on my painting.”

After lunch he helped Odessa carry her equipment down to the creek, and set up her folding easel in an area of tumbled rocks below the bridge. This was their favorite spot and ordinarily he would have been eager to spend the afternoon sketching with her. He did, in fact, attempt a drawing, but his pencil refused to work. Questions played tag through his mind.

Presently Odessa, glancing at him, asked, “What's worrying you now, Timmy?”

“I don't know. I—I keep thinking about the chair.”

An invisible string was suddenly tugging at him again. He got up and hurried back to the cabin, and ran to his room.

The sun was on the other side of the cabin, leaving his room in shadow. Even so, the sassafras chair seemed to glow faintly in its corner as if it had a life of its own. Timor stared at it, then whispered hopefully, “Mr. Pendergrass? Are you there?”

There was no reply, though the chair did seem to glow a bit brighter.

“Mr. Pendergrass?” he called. Then, louder, “Mr. Pendergrass! Can you hear me?”

Very faintly now, so faintly that he could barely make it out, he became aware of the familiar voice.

“Sure I hear you, Timmy! Ding blatt it, I followed you here! Can't you see me?”

“I—I can't see you at all, sir, and it's hard to hear you. But the chair's glowing.”

“It's the best I can do in daylight. I'm plum' wore out from runnin' around, an' my juice is low. Timmy, listen to me: I'm afraid I done made a mistake.”

“W-what's wrong, Mr. Pendergrass?”

“Everything. When I asked you to help, I didn't aim to git you in no trouble. But it seems like I can't do nothin' right. Timmy, I was waitin' there at Nathaniel's place when you come in, an' I been hitchin' rides with people ever since. I just now made it back from town.”

Surprised, Timor exclaimed, “You—you have to hitch rides to get around?”

“'Course I do! I sure ain't growed no wings yet; it hampers a feller something terrible. Timmy, you've seen Nathaniel an' got things stirred up. Now I think you'd better lay low.”

“But why? Did you find out who has the tin box?”

“Timmy, ain't
nobody
got that box. I'd 'a' told you that last night if I hadn't run out o' juice. I been follerin' people around for days, lookin' everywhere. Sammy ain't got that box, an' Rance Gatlin ain't got it. An' nobody else has got it. It's mighty queer. But after hearing Nathaniel tell his side of it, I'm gettin' some ideas. Only thing is, I need a heap more information.”

“Just tell me what you want, and I'll get it for you.”

“Timmy, go see Nathaniel, an' let
him
do the gettin'. Understand? From now on you gotta keep out of it 'cept for passin' the word between us. There's more danger in this than I figgered an' you done asked too many questions already.”

Old Wiley's voice was becoming fainter. Timor said, “Can you talk a little louder, sir?”

“Ding blatt it, I'm shoutin' my head off now! Timmy, ask Nathaniel to find out where Brad James an' Rance Gatlin went after my accident that night, an' how long they was away. An' the same for Sammy Grosser. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“An' have him find out what time Shorty Malone an' his pardner came to work the next mornin'.”

“Who is Shorty Malone?”

“Nathaniel knows him. Get back to his shop right away … got a couple errands myself … dunno if I can get back … Timmy … gotta warn you …”

Old Wiley's voice was fading. “What did you say, sir? Warn me about what?”

“Tomorrow … paper …”

“W-what paper do you mean? I can't hear you! Mr. Pendergrass! …”

It was no use. Old Wiley had faded out completely.

Timor looked despairingly at the chair. It still seemed to glow a little, though maybe that was the nature of it. What had Wiley tried to tell him? Something about paper …

He stood frowning a moment, then turned and hurried from the cabin and began running toward the bridge. Maybe Odessa would take him back to the Forks.

The clatter of the creek drowned the sound of voices, and he did not know Odessa was no longer alone until he crawled down over the boulders and saw his uncle standing beside her. The colonel, still in fishing boots, was scowling at a broken rod tip.

Odessa looked upset. “Timmy,” she said quickly, “I—I've been telling Daddy about our trip to the Forks this morning. I'm afraid he doesn't quite agree—”

“I most certainly do not,” the colonel snapped irritably. “You're both getting yourselves worked up over nothing.”

Timor swallowed. “But Mr. Battle thinks—”

“I don't care what he thinks! The fellow has my sympathy, of course, but he isn't facing facts any more than you are. Tim, I cautioned you yesterday about making a fool of yourself.” The colonel paused, and his face hardened. “Now I order you to drop the whole thing and forget about Wiley. Is that clear?”

“But—but, Uncle Ira, you don't understand—”

“I understand well enough. The matter is closed, and confound it, I don't want to hear any more about it!”

Timor's chin trembled. He fought back tears that had not come since his first terrible wave of homesickness when he and Odessa had arrived in America to live with the colonel. He had always been at odds with his uncle; this seemed the breaking point.

Suddenly he burst out rebelliously, “I won't drop it! Wiley was my friend! He—he was the only friend I had in this country and I'm not going to turn against him!”

Before the astonished colonel could reply, Timor whirled away and went scrambling over the rocks, then ran for the bridge.

It was not until he was across the bridge and well down the valley road that he began to calm a little. He stopped, out of breath, and stood leaning against a tree while he tried unhappily to decide what to do next.

He couldn't go back and ask Odessa to take him to the Forks. It would only cause more trouble and make things difficult for her. As for his uncle.… The colonel was his guardian and he was supposed to obey him. But how could he with things as they were?

Timor glanced down the shadowy road. It was nearly four miles to the Forks, and already the sun was below the western ridge. Could he make it by dark? He doubted it, and he had no desire to be caught out in the blackness of a mountain night without a flashlight. But he must see Nathaniel.

Resolutely he began to walk.

6

Searcher

T
HE VALLEY narrowed a few hundred yards downstream, and the road began twisting tortuously through a wild area of national forest. Great trees crowded the slopes, shutting out the paling light from overhead. The plunging creek could be glimpsed only occasionally below the tangles of laurel and rhododendron.

Timor shivered in the growing chill and wished that he had worn a jacket. He had forgotten how quickly darkness comes in the mountains, and how the temperature can drop. It would be black night long before he reached the Forks.

Once, at a small sound behind him, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. Two deer, dim in the evening mist, had come down the slope and were crossing the road. They were so close he could have tossed a pebble at them. In the creeping mist they vanished almost as soon as he saw them.

The sight of the mist brought his first feeling of uneasiness. It was flowing slowly down the valley like a gray tide, obscuring everything it touched. He tried running for a while, hoping to stay ahead of it. The effort was wasted; he was soon forced to stop for breath, and the chill gray tide crept over him.

Timor trudged on in the deepening grayness. He was trying to estimate how far he had walked when he heard a car approaching. Suddenly fearful that it might be his uncle coming for him, he stepped behind the nearest tree and stood waiting for it to pass.

It was not a car but a truck, as he soon realized by its rattle and the louder sound of its motor. Probably some farmer from the other side of the Gap. Maybe the driver would give him a ride. He was on the point of leaving his hiding place when the swinging lights, appearing around a bend, glowed through the mist and briefly illuminated the edge of the curving road ahead. Sudden shock went through him.

He had only a second's glimpse, but it was enough for him to make out the bulky figure of a man flattening against another tree hardly a dozen feet away.

The truck swept past. Its lights vanished around the next curve, and soon all sound of it was lost in the distance. Timor stood motionless, listening, not daring to move. In the gloom he could no longer distinguish the hiding figure, nor could he hear any stealthy movement above the rushing of the creek.

Some returning fisherman? Surely not here, at this hour. And why bother to hide? He had not seen the face clearly, but the figure had seemed vaguely familiar. Those heavy shoulders—did they belong to Brad James? Still, this had seemed to be a much larger man than the deputy.

Timor had been briefly warmed by his short run, but now he was shaking with cold as the chilling mist bit through his shirt. He couldn't just stand here.

Carefully he began edging away from the protective tree, wondering if the man had seen him and could possibly be waiting for him to reappear. It was Timor's intention to circle cautiously aside before going on, but as he left the tree his eyes caught the vague gleam of a flashlight below the edge of the road on his right. The man had gone down the steep slope that fell away to the creek; now he seemed to be stooped over, playing his light along the rocks as if searching for something.

Searching for what?

Suddenly it occurred to Timor that he must be very close to the spot where old Wiley's truck had crashed. Could the man be looking for the thing Wiley had thrown away?

Timor moved closer to the road's edge. As he did so, his foot struck a loose stone, and it slid downward over an area of fresh gravel that had spilled over the slope. Instantly the searcher's light went out.