Mystery of the Sassafras Chair (2 page)

Timor wondered about Nathaniel Battle, whom he'd never met. “Folks call him Nat,” old Wiley had said. “But his real name's Nathaniel, which he likes better. Ain't nobody like him. Knows more about gems than any feller in the Carolina mountains. Part Cherokee, same as me—only he's got more o' the blood, an' a heap more temper to go with it.”

The colonel swung into a smaller road, and they began to climb. Crowding hemlocks met overhead. Tangles of rhododendron hid the rocky stream that clattered below them. Timor shivered in the gray mist that was now creeping through the trees.

It was up here somewhere, not far from their cabin, that Wiley's ancient truck had crashed. He was watching for the place when Odessa's fingers pressed his arm.

“Behind us,” she whispered. “That car—it's been following us all the way from town.”

He looked back, suddenly uneasy. It was hard to see over the pile of luggage and supplies in the back of the wagon. But presently, rounding a turn far behind them, he made out a black car with a spotlight on the driver's side.

The black car kept its distance until they slowed for the narrow private road that wound down to the stream. Then it shot forward, followed them over the little bridge, and parked behind them when they reached the cabin.

The colonel got out, frowning. Timor stared as the driver of the black car strode up to them. It was the man he had seen in the sheriff's office, the one with the pale eyes who had been chewing a match.

The man was chewing a match now, but he spat it out before he spoke. “Colonel Hamilton,” he began softly, displaying a badge, “I'm deputy Rance Gatlin from the sheriff's office.”

The colonel raised his bushy eyebrows. “Eh? Yes?”

“If you don't mind,” came the curiously soft voice, “I'd like to have a look inside your place.”

The colonel's eyebrows went a bit higher. “Why, may I ask?”

“Want to check on a few things. Didn't Wiley Pendergrass have a key to your cabin?”

“He did. He was the caretaker.”

“Well, there were no keys on him when he died, and there were no keys hidden in his shack.”

Timor, listening, remembered how Wiley was about locks and keys. Wiley disliked keys and made trick locks for nearly everything, even his truck. He started to say something, but remained silent as he remembered how Mrs. McBane had questioned him.

The colonel said, “What do you expect to find in our place? Surely not Wiley's keys!”

“I don't know what to expect,” Rance Gatlin replied softly. “Late last night Mrs. McBane—she's the sheriff's wife—was driving by here, and she saw a light in your cabin. She supposed you were back, and thought nothing of it until this afternoon—that was when this boy of yours came in to ask some questions. Then she found out you'd just reached town.”

Timor caught a sharp glance from his uncle. The colonel drew his keys from his pocket, selected one, and started grimly up the cabin steps.

“Wait a moment,” the deputy purred. “I think you'd better let me go in first.”

2

Gift

T
IMOR followed his uncle up to the porch, and peered about him with troubled eyes while the deputy tested the door and inserted the key in the lock.

The sprawling cabin looked very different, with Wiley not here to greet them. They had made several trips up here last year, and each time they had found the grounds tended, the floors swept, the rooms aired, the refrigerator working, and the water from the spring higher on the mountain turned on. And Wiley had never failed to have a fire laid in the fireplace, and a bouquet of wild flowers on the table. Neglect showed everywhere now. In the creeping mist the place even seemed haunted.

The heavy door creaked open, but Rance Gatlin did not enter immediately. Timor saw him place another match between his teeth, and begin chewing it thoughtfully while he studied the dim interior. Finally he took a few steps inside, then beckoned to the colonel.

“See anything different in here?” he asked.

“So far as I can tell,” the colonel answered, “nothing's been touched. The only things of value we leave here are a few guns and fishing rods—but they are in that corner cabinet yonder, and it's still locked.”

“Someone was in here last night,” Rance Gatlin said. He pointed to vague muddy footprints outlined in the dust on the cabin floor. “He came in after the dew had fallen, and he must have used Wiley's key.”

Odessa, peering over Timor's shoulder, said curiously, “If nothing's been stolen, why would anyone want to come in here?”

The deputy shrugged. “I can think of one good reason. Please stay outside until I've taken a few shots of these footprints. I'd like to have them on file.”

He went back to his car and returned quickly with a small camera and some flashbulbs. When he had snapped several of the clearer prints, the colonel asked, “Wasn't Wiley mixed up in moonshining?”

“He's been caught with illegal liquor,” the deputy admitted. “And can you think of a better place than this to hide the stuff?”

The colonel made an angry sound deep in his throat. “That explains it! Some rascal's been storing liquor in here, and he came in last night to get it. He's probably taken it all out, but we'd better search the place.”

They searched the cabin carefully, looking in closets and even under the beds. They found nothing that did not belong there. And nothing, it seemed, had been disturbed. Yet Timor could not get over the feeling that there was something about the place that wasn't quite as it had been.

“Confound it,” muttered the colonel. “I'd like to know who was in here last night.”

“So would I,” murmured the deputy, his pale eyes still roving about, curious and secretive. “Do you know anyone Wiley might have lent his key to?”

The colonel shook his head. “The old fellow was pretty sly. He must have had friends, but he never talked about them—unless it was to Tim here. Tim, did Wiley ever mention the name of anyone he might have had any dealings with?”

“No, sir,” Timor answered truthfully. He could have enlarged on this statement and given an exact description of at least one person he had glimpsed at Wiley's shack. But something warned him to silence. As Wiley had once said, “Ain't always wise to tell everything you know. It's like usin' up all your ammunition before you track down your b'ar.”

Timor, by now, was convinced that he had a very sizable bar to track down, and that he had better proceed cautiously. He had learned little enough at the courthouse, but at least his visit had started something—and he had met Rance Gatlin.

He was relieved when the deputy left. There was a great deal to be done before dark. The colonel said, “If you kids will take care of things here, I'll go up to the spring and turn on the water.”

The colonel departed up the misty slope with tools and a flashlight. While Odessa cleaned, Timor connected the refrigerator and turned on the lights. The water heater, which had been drained for the winter, would have to wait until it was safely filled before he plugged it in. He was closing the fuse box when he noticed a fresh smear across the dusty cover. It suddenly occurred to him that whoever had turned on the lights last night must know the cabin well—for the fuse box was hidden in a cramped cabinet where no one would have thought to look for it.

He was puzzling about this as he brought in their luggage from the station wagon. Odessa said, “Do you think Mr. Gatlin was right in believing someone stored liquor here?”

“No.”

“Then why would anyone come in last night?”

“I—I don't know yet, but there's a reason. Something's different here.”

“I don't see anything different.”

“Well, something is.”

She shook her head. “Honestly, Timmy, I don't know what to make of you at times. Are you still convinced that Wiley didn't have anything to do with what happened at the Forks?”

“I'm absolutely sure he didn't.”

She sighed. “It doesn't make sense, but I know you too well to say you're wrong. If you feel a thing, then that's that. Timmy, wasn't there something in the paper about Rance Gatlin?”

“Yes. He's one of the deputies who chased Wiley that night. He drove the car.”

“Oh. Wouldn't he be able to give you some information if you had a talk with him?”

He shook his head. “That man wouldn't tell me anything.”

“Why not?”

“He's the kind that never says what he's thinking.”

“How about the other deputy—what's his name?”

“The sheriff's wife called him Brad. I believe the paper said his last name was James. I saw him in the courthouse. He wouldn't be of any help—not to me, anyway. When you're a stranger, and sort of a foreigner …”

“I know. Some people up here are friendly, but others just stare at you. It was that way when I was shopping.”

She shivered in the growing chill. He said, “I'd better get a fire going.”

It was nearly dark when he went outside for wood. He brought in several loads, and soon had a fire blazing cheerfully in the big stone fireplace. It transformed the cabin.

“Water's on,” Odessa announced. “I'll fix something to eat. It'll have to be out of cans—I'm too tired to cook anything tonight.”

Timor set the table, then stood frowning at the chairs flanking the fireplace. “Dessa,” he asked suddenly, “how many ladderback chairs do we have here?”

“Only two. Don't you remember? I bought them in Asheville when Daddy first brought us to the cabin. One went to your room, and I put the other by the fireplace.”

“Well, we've got three now.”

“But that's impossible!” She came in from the kitchen and looked quickly at the two chairs. “Those are the two I bought. One of us must have brought your chair in here last fall. How do you make three out of it?”

“Because there's a chair in my room. I thought it was the one that had been in there all the time—until I noticed these.”

He hurried down the hall, suddenly excited, and switched on the lights in his room. The room was too small to contain anything but a bed, a chest, a table, and a single chair. And there was the chair—a polished ladderback, placed by the table where a chair had always been.

Timor stared. Earlier he hadn't looked at it, or he would have noticed how different it was, even in the dim light. He had merely accepted it because it was there. This new chair was lower, broader, and made of a much paler wood than the others. The wood had a deep golden gleam. In fact, it almost seemed to glow.

“
Tabé!
” Odessa exclaimed behind him. “What in the world—”

“Why—why, that's the chair Wiley was making for me!” Timor burst out.

“He was making you a chair?”

“Yes. Last fall. Out of sassafras. See how yellow it is, and how it glows?”

“It's beautiful! But why sassafras? I mean, I've never heard …”

“Well, it's sort of a special wood. You see, people up here won't cut it for firewood, even when it's dead—they think it's bad luck. Wiley had found a small tree that had been knocked over when the road was being fixed, and he hated to see it go to waste. You know how he was. Always making something out of pieces of wood he'd saved.”

“I know,” Odessa said. “He was a wonderful craftsman. He could make anything. But why a chair for you—and out of sassafras?”

“It—it was just an idea he had. We were talking about woods one day, and how some kinds have properties that others don't have. Sort of magic properties, I mean. Apple is one, if it's old enough, and holly is another. Then there's hawthorn, and some kinds of willow. Witch hazel is very special, and so is sassafras. Wiley said a chair made of sassafras ought to be really—”

Timor stopped. He had been so interested in the chair that he had failed to hear his uncle come back into the house. Now he turned as Colonel Hamilton appeared in the doorway and said wearily, “If supper's ready, how about eating? What's keeping you two?”

Odessa pointed to the chair. Before she could explain about it, Timor saw something he had not noticed before. It was a small loop of rawhide on the back of the chair. He lifted it off and held it up. To the loop was fastened a brass key.

“Look!” he exclaimed. “It's Wiley's key to the front door!”

Odessa took it, frowning. “It is! Daddy, this explains how someone got in the cabin last night. He used this key, and left it with the chair Wiley made.”

“Eh? What's this about a chair?”

Timor explained. The colonel stared at the chair and shook his head. “I'll be doubly hanged,” he muttered. “Who on earth could have done that?”

They discussed the mystery while they ate supper.

“It had to be one of Wiley's friends,” said the colonel. “Tim, didn't you ever meet anybody up at Wiley's place?”

“No, sir. Not exactly.”

“What do you mean by not exactly?” his uncle demanded. “Either you met someone or you didn't.”

“I—I never actually met anyone, Uncle Ira. I do know he had visitors at times, though he never told me who they were, or talked about them. I saw one leaving once, but Wiley said he was one of those seng hunters that lived over the gap.”

“Eh? What's a
seng
hunter?”

“Ginseng hunter. They call it seng up here in the mountains. You know, it's that little plant whose roots are worth so much. Dessa and I have seen it for sale in the drug shops back home. The Chinese pay awful prices for it.”

“Oh,” said the colonel, “I didn't know people still bothered to look for the stuff. Isn't it pretty scarce?”

“It sure is. Sort of like gold, but twice as hard to find.”

And those who hunted it, Timor knew, were secretive people who never told where they'd found it, or how much. Old Wiley, he suddenly remembered, always had bunches of ginseng roots hanging in his shack to dry. Quite a lot of it, in fact. At thirty dollars a pound, Wiley should have had plenty of extra money without being forced to borrow from the colonel or do any of the other things people said he did. As for trying to steal Nathaniel Battle's gems …