Mystery of the Sassafras Chair (7 page)

Timor crept stealthily away, then ran, thankful that the wild rushing of the stream masked his footsteps. He did not expect to be followed, nor was he; but the experience had been unnerving. Why would anyone be out looking for something at this time of the evening, and be so strangely secretive about it?

The gloom had deepened; presently he could not even make out the trees near at hand. He kept to the center of the road now, jogging along to keep warm and judging direction by the feel of the gravel under his feet. A car passed occasionally, heading for the Forks. Each time he hid again, fearful not only of his uncle, but of the unknown searcher who undoubtedly had had some means of transportation placed out of sight in one of the timber trails.

It was a great relief when he reached the lower valley; here the mist lay above the road, and soon he was able to recognize the vague shape of a farm building close on his left. The Forks lay around the next bend. Presently he saw the dim glow of lights at Grosser's store.

A few minutes later, shivering and nearly exhausted, he was huddled by the stove in Nathaniel's back room, soaking up the warmth of a wood fire and sipping hot coffee from a mug.

“Have you had anything to eat?” Nathaniel asked.

Timor shook his head. “I—there wasn't time.”

“Eat first, then tell me about it. I know this is pretty important, or you wouldn't have walked here in the dark, and without a jacket.”

A steaming plate of hash was set before him. Timor ate it gratefully. Finally he said, “I talked to Wiley again. Then—then I had trouble with my uncle.”

“What about?”

Timor told him. “But Wiley wanted me to see you this evening, so I came anyway. He wants you to find out where Brad James and Rance Gatlin went that night after the accident, and how long it took them. Then he wants to know what Sammy Grosser did, and what time Shorty Malone and his partner came to work the next morning.” He looked up curiously. “Who is Shorty Malone?”

“Oh, a sort of jack-of-all-trades. He usually drives a truck when he can get a job.”

“Could—could he have been driving one of the gravel trucks parked by the diner that night?”

“Why, it's possible.” Nathaniel got up, frowning. “That never occurred to me, but then I seldom saw the drivers. They left the trucks here, loaded and ready to roll, and stopped by for them early the next morning. But they did that only for a few days, when they were working up your way.”

He found a telephone book, searched for a number, and lifted the receiver of the wall phone beside the filing cabinet. “Pray this thing still works. I haven't paid my last bill …”

The telephone was working, and presently Nathaniel was engaged in a long and involved conversation, most of which seemed to have nothing to do with the problem at hand. Timor, listening, realized Nathaniel was skillfully angling for information without ever asking a direct question.

Finally he hung up and looked thoughtfully at Timor. “Shorty is a talker, praise be. He's given us most of the answers. He and the other driver picked up their trucks here at six that morning.”

“Isn't that sort of early?” Timor asked.

“Not when it gives them a chance to get off early. That's how they want it.” Nathaniel poured himself a mug of coffee and stood scowling at it. “Seems a lot happened that night that I didn't hear about, being in the hospital. There was a jailbreak over in Tennessee, and our sheriff and his men had to set up road blocks and check all the cars crossing the mountains. It was a rough night for Rance Gatlin and Brad. Since they were already up on the Gap road because of Wiley, they were ordered to stay there and keep watch till morning. Shorty passed them coming back to the Forks when he took his first load up.”

Timor puzzled over this. It complicated everything.

“If your box was thrown into one of the trucks,” he said, “Rance Gatlin didn't have a chance to get it afterward—if he was the one who put it there. But maybe Sammy got it.”

“Or one of the drivers—depending on which truck it was thrown in. If it was still in the truck in the morning, anyone would be bound to notice it the moment he opened the door. But somehow I don't think it was Shorty. He's about as honest as they come. As for the other man, Jackson …”

“But—but he hasn't got it,” Timor said quickly. “Or Sammy, or anyone else. I just remembered. Wiley said he's been following people around for days, and that no one has the box!”

Nathaniel shook his head. “I don't understand, Tim. If the box was tossed into one of the trucks, someone took it out. Even if it fell on the floor instead of the seat, you could hardly miss seeing it.”

“Maybe it wasn't hidden in one of the trucks after all.”

Nathaniel sat down, his brow furrowed. He sipped from his mug, and began tapping his long fingers on the table. “Tim, just exactly what did Wiley tell you about the box?”

“Well, I asked him if he'd found out who has it, and he said: ‘Timmy, ain't
nobody
got that box.' Then he told me he'd been following everyone around, and looking everywhere, and that it was mighty queer. He was getting some ideas, he said, only he needed more information right away.”

“I see. Anything else?”

“Only—only the questions he wanted you to check for him. There was a lot I wanted to ask him, but his voice faded again.” He paused, and decided not to mention old Wiley's warning. “Is there any way you can find out what Sammy Grosser did that night?”

Nathaniel made a wry face. “Sammy will be a problem, but I'll try. Everybody at Grosser's has been talking about your chair, so I'll go over and put in my two cents worth and see what I can dig up. But first I'd better take you home.” He stood up and touched Timor on the shoulder. “I'm sorry about this trouble with your uncle, but it'll straighten out. Old army men are a little tough at times, but you can usually count on them in a pinch.”

Timor said nothing. He dreaded going back and facing the colonel, nor had he any illusions about the future. You simply couldn't explain some matters to him. From now on, things were going to be difficult.

Swaddled in an old hunting coat, he huddled in Nathaniel's battered jeep while it crept through the mist. The mist had settled like an impenetrable blanket in the lower valley. But miraculously, as they climbed higher, they broke out of it entirely and the road became clear ahead. Suddenly Timor remembered what he had seen up here earlier.

“I forgot to tell you something,” he said quickly. “I don't know exactly where I was when it happened, but it couldn't have been very far from the place where Wiley's truck crashed.”

Nathaniel slowed, then stopped the jeep while Timor told about the hidden searcher. “I—I couldn't see his face,” he said. “At first I thought it was Brad James, but he was too big.”

“Sounds like Sammy Grosser,” Nathaniel commented. “Sammy's the biggest fellow around here.”

“But what would Sammy be looking for?”

“I don't know, Tim. It doesn't make sense. Of course, it could have been someone we don't know about, someone who still thinks my tin box is up here and hasn't been found. Was the fellow wearing a cap or a hat?”

“I believe he had on a cap.”

“Then it must have been Sammy.” Nathaniel shook his head, and drove on slowly. “I don't understand it and I don't like it. I'm afraid we've overlooked something. Tim, I don't trust either Sammy or Gatlin, so I want you to be careful. You may not realize it, but most people up in these mountains are rather superstitious, even though they won't admit it. That includes scoffers like Brad James, and almost certainly the Gatlins.”

“Not Brad James!”

“Yes. If he even suspected the truth about your chair, he'd be scared to death of it. So you must understand that the guilty person may possibly begin to believe that you know much more about him than you actually do. And that could be dangerous.”

“I—I suppose so.”

At the private road leading to the bridge, Nathaniel said, “Would you like for me to come in and talk to the colonel? Maybe I can ease things a bit.”

“Maybe you'd better not—he's probably in a bad mood. Thanks anyway.” Timor got out, then added, “I don't know when I'll be able to see you again. If there's any more news, I'll have Odessa take it to you.”

A feeling of lostness came over him as he watched Nathaniel drive away. Reluctantly he crossed the bridge and approached the cabin.

The colonel was seated by the fireplace, an unlighted pipe clenched between his teeth. He looked up stonily as Timor entered, and slowly placed the pipe on the table beside him.

Odessa, hurrying in from the kitchen, glanced worriedly at Timor, and said, “Daddy, please …”

“Keep out of this,” the colonel told her shortly. And to Timor, “You took your time about returning, young man. Where have you been?”

Timor swallowed. “I—I had to see Mr. Battle, sir.”

“What about?”

“It's hard to explain, sir. I—I just had to see him.”

“If it's about Wiley, you've a lot of explaining to do. You deliberately disobeyed me. I'll not have that sort of thing.”

Timor bit his lip, and remained silent.

The colonel surveyed him, his gaunt jaws hardening. “Tomorrow, when you've thought things over, we'll have a little talk. In the meantime you're not to leave this house without permission. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Go to your room.”

7

Runaway

T
IMOR slept little that night. He dozed and wakened, beset with worries, plagued by questions. Only two more days remained, and Wiley's time would be up. How was he ever going to manage?

Once, long after the colonel had gone to bed, Odessa tapped softly on his door, opened it, and whispered, “Timmy, are you awake?”

“Yes.”

“I—I'm awfully sorry about what happened. It's my fault, really. I shouldn't have told him about our visit to the Forks. But I was so afraid. Have you had anything to eat?”

“I'm all right. Nathaniel gave me something.”

“Oh. Did you
have
to see him again?”

“Yes. Wiley had a message for him when I went back to the house, so I had to go.”

“I didn't realize.” She paused, then whispered earnestly, “Timmy, please don't be too upset over Daddy. He doesn't understand, and he had a bad day—he slipped and broke his rod on the way home, and lost his box of flies. Why don't you stay in bed in the morning, and it'll give me a chance to talk to him.”

“All right.”

After she had gone to her room he sat up and looked at the sassafras chair. In the darkness its glow was so faint that he could barely make it out. Even so, he whispered hopefully, “Mr. Pendergrass?”

Wiley didn't answer. The old man was probably far away somewhere, trying to run down a clue. And having trouble doing it, no doubt, considering he had to walk when he couldn't hitch a ride. It was all so strange …

Wearily, Timor slid his small body down under the covers and tried to sleep.

Memory of the hidden watcher held him awake. A big man with heavy shoulders … It almost had to be Sammy Grosser. Only, if Sammy were the guilty one—

It didn't make sense. As Nathaniel had said, they must have overlooked something. And it must be something very important …

Sleep finally came, but only in snatches. Twice more during the night he sat up, looking at the chair, but its dim glow remained unchanged. When he dozed off for the last time the birds were beginning to sing their dawn chorus in the hemlocks beyond the window.

Odessa awakened him late in the morning. He got up and dressed disconsolately, a growing feeling of uneasiness creeping over him.

As he went into the living room Odessa said, “I've warmed up your breakfast. You'd better eat it before Daddy gets back.”

Timor blinked at the clock over the fireplace. It was after ten. “W-where's Uncle Ira?”

“In town. He's been up for hours. He went to buy a new rod and some more flies. He—he told me to remind you that you were not to leave the house.”

He sat down and began picking at his breakfast. “Did—did you have a chance to talk to him before he left?”

“I—” Odessa sat down on the other side of the table. She looked miserable. “I really tried, but—” All at once she clenched her hands angrily. “Oh, why does he have to be this way? He's so unbending! But maybe it's because he lived alone so long. Timmy, what happened last evening after you left?”

He started to tell her, but his attention was suddenly diverted by the sight of a car coming over the bridge. He frowned at it through the window. It was a yellow sports car with the top down.

“We're getting a visitor,” he said, and wondered why the appearance of a strange car in the yard should trouble him so.

The man who got out of it was slender, youngish in spite of his gray hair, and he was wearing an expensive yellow jacket that matched the color of the car. He slung the strap of a camera over his shoulder and strode lightly up to the porch. The word
newspaperman
flashed through Timor's mind, and he felt a sinking sensation.

Odessa answered the stranger's knock.

“Miss Hamilton?”

To Timor, the voice was calculatedly pleasant, as was the smile that went with it. There was a falseness about it that added to his uneasiness.

“I'm Odessa Hamilton.”

“I'm Si LeGrande,” the caller said, bowing slightly. “Feature writer for
Southeastern News
. I'm sure you've noticed my articles in some of the papers. You paint, I understand. In fact, I believe you had a very notable exhibition in Washington recently.”

“I exhibited in Washington last winter,” Odessa admitted.