Free Mystery of the Sassafras Chair by Alexander Key

in the morning, and it’ll give me a chance to talk to him.”
    â€œAll 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?”
    â€œIn 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?”
    â€œI—” 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.
    â€œWe’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.
    â€œMiss 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.
    â€œI’m Odessa Hamilton.”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œI exhibited in Washington last winter,” Odessa admitted.
    â€œIt is a pleasure to meet such a talented painter,” Mr. LeGrande went on. “Sometime I must do a special feature on you. At present, however, I’m working on a mountain series. Strange stories, legends, that sort of thing. Yesterday I was visiting the editor of the local paper, and I was told that one member of your family has come into possession of a most unusual chair. Would you mind if I took a picture of it?”
    Odessa stood speechless for a moment. She glanced with stricken eyes at Timor, who was now