For a moment, I just stood there blinking while I tried to think of a suit-able reply. 'Cheer up, maybe it's all in your head' would hardly be reassuring. 'Perhaps it's just some misunderstanding' seemed, well, a bit weak ...

My indecision, luckily, was interrupted. The private, side door to my shop opened and a familiar voice called, "Daisy! Are you still here?"

Mrs. Arriola rose abruptly. "I must go now. Thank you for the coffee. Is very good."

"No, un momento," I said hastily. "That's just Jonathan. Jonathan Bell, from the bookstore next door. He's a very good friend of mine. Maybe he could recommend a fortuneteller ..."

"I say too much ..." Mrs. Arriola was skeptical but permitted my hand on her arm to restrain her. After a moment, she resumed her seat with her bag resting on her lap.

I hurried around behind my counter and through the bead curtain that screens my storage room. Moving a half-unpacked box of Celestial Seasoning Herb Teas out of the way, I opened the door wide to admit Jonathan's wheelchair.

Jonathan Bell is not quite fifty but, what with his paralyzed legs and his profession - old and rare books, fancy custom bookbinding - he considers himself entitled to the manners of an irascible old curmudgeon. "Daisy, did you leave your phone off the hook again?" he charged.

I looked below the counter. The receiver was resting on the shelf - I returned it to its hook. "Well, I had to go to the bathroom earlier," I explained, "and it kept ringing every time I tried to leave the room."

"I wish you wouldn't do that!" Jonathan was plaintive. "Oliver just called me trying to get hold of you. He's called a Tenants' Meeting in his office at six and he wants to talk to you first. He sounded extremely upset."

Oliver Fulton was the owner of the Craft Compound - the picturesque little shopping center, formerly a motel, that housed Jonathan's bookstore along with my own gift shop and a number of other small, more-or-less craft-related businesses. Since I managed the rentals for Oliver whenever he was on a trip to New England to buy antiques for his own shop, I wasn't surprised that, whatever was bothering him, he'd want to brief me first. As to whether it was important or not - importance was solely a function of Oliver's mind. "Kind of short notice," I remarked absently, my mind still on Mrs. Arriola. "Am I supposed to call him?"

"No, he said he'd be over here in about half an hour," Jonathan informed me. "Something about some New York fellow who has the mortgage on the Compound."

"Okay, I'll see Oliver then," I said, dismissing it. Oliver Fulton tended to get very fluttery very easily and I made it my habit not to worry in advance very time he hollered "Crisis!" Besides, Oliver loved setting Tenants' Meetings. He called them Democracy In Action; complete with the capitals. Privately, Jonathan and I thought they were just the only time Oliver had a chance to preside at anything.

With the ease of long practice, Jonathan was maneuvering his wheelchair around the counter and over to the coffeepot. I hurried after him to make introductions.

"Yes, of course," Jonathan was saying, taking Mrs. Arriola's hand with his usual exaggerated gallantry. "We met once last year. It was at the Needle and Haystack Shop, I believe. If I recall correctly," - he did of course, Jonathan never recalls incorrectly - "you were delivering a batch of your exquisite molas." Jonathan's as American as I am but - for some reason, maybe because he grew up on the east coast - he likes to go around talking as though he were wearing a beret and sipping Pernod under a blossoming chestnut tree along the Champs Elysees.

"Si, I make the molas," Mrs Arriola replied , unimpressed.

I had seen them, too and they were lovely. Molas, if you haven't seen them, are colorful cloth mats about the size and shape of a pillowcase, made of several layers of different colors of cloth. Holes are cut in to expose the underlying colors and the edges are neatly stitched down - producing an effect rather like appliqué in reverse. The designs used are traditional South American Indian motifs, squarely-stylized birds and beasts.

I had supposed that the Needle and Haystack - a small shop near the west end of the Compound that sold fancy yarns and supplies for macramé and needlepoint, as well as all kinds of finished textile craft items - was importing the molas from Panama where that art form had originated. "How long have you been selling through the Compound?" I asked Mrs. Arriola as I took my chair again. "It seems odd that we haven't met before. Do you live around here?"

She nodded. "Si. Two years now, I live Belair Apartments across alley. I not go out much. I sew in my room. I watch the TV. I walk the grocery. Every month, I bring the molas to store." She sent a bright, interested gaze around the room. "Before this, I have not needed any ... miscellaneous."

Jonathan gave a considered nod of approval. For a moment, I feared that he was going to wax lyrical about the beautiful simplicity of a lifestyle reduced to its bare essentials - probably with emendations from Thoreau - but, instead, he confined himself to: "True, Daisy does tend to stock the superfluous. But, if I may ask, just what sort of miscellaneous has finally attracted you to our side of the courtyard?"

Mrs. Arriola looked at me doubtfully.

"Jonathan has been a very good friend of mine for many years," I vouched for him. "I really think you ought to tell him your story. I promise he's not, er, superstitious."

The old woman pointed knowingly at me, at Jonathan, then back at me. "He is ... you two are ... confidential?"

The tip of Jonathan's nose turned red ... to match his ears.

"Oh, yes," I assured her hastily. "Jonathan is definitely cleared for secrets. Er, I mean, he is a very confidential friend indeed."

Jonathan, in relief, began to expound. "I never interfere," he said, raising a pontifical hand. "I am the watcher from the shadows, the friend by the side of the road, a spectator whose shade falls where he acts not. It is my singular destiny to sit at the sidelines, a mere spectator of la comedie humane. And, occasionally," he added, running down, "I sell books about it."

"Sell, not write," I amplified, just to make everything clear.

But Mrs. Arriola had already made up her mind. With the air of one humoring a pair of harmless lunatics, she proceeded to repeat her story even more succinctly than before. Listening, Jonathan frowned like a bulldog, raised his eyebrows and blinked intelligently.

When she had finished, he nodded profoundly, "Ah, yes, very interesting." Which meant that he had no ideas what-so-ever ...

But I was getting a glimmer. "Mrs. Arriola," I asked, "what exactly do the voices say? Can you recall the exact words?"

She frowned in concentration. "At first, I try not to listen. But then they say," she hesitated, searching for words, "tirar, furor ... That means they shoot at someone, they are angry, they are ... rabieta, they have the angry fit."

"Ahem," said Jonathan. "The voices speak Spanish, of course?"

The old woman shook her head. "Sometimes ... But mostly they speak English. It is too soft, too fast to ... to comprender. I cannot understand, only a few words in Español." She waved the matter away. "But this, it is at first. These last few days, they speak the English, yes, but it is louder and slower. They say 'We've got to kill him. Very soon now. Murder! Is the only way!'"

"They?" I asked. "Is there more than one voice?"

"Quien sabe?" She shrugged. "At first, may be. Hard to tell!"

"But is it a real voice?" I persisted. "I mean, could you recognize the person talking if you heard it again? On television for instance?"

She shook her head impatiently. "No! No, is not like that! With a real voice, you know who is talking, man - woman, sure. But the ghost he not have, how do you call it, pitch of voice. Is only words - the ghosts, they sound all same."

Jonathan was still keeping quiet and looking profound. I continued, "Do you hear them any particular time of day?"

"But yes," she nodded. "In evenings mostly. Eight o'clock, ten o'clock. Only these last two days, very late, after midnight."

Umh-hum - "Mrs. Arriola," I ventured with a glance at Jonathan, "this may sound kind of silly but ... do you wear false teeth?"

Jonathan's look of profundity changed to one of disgust so I knew he'd finally caught on to my theory. Mrs Arriola looked like she thought I was just plain crazy but she nodded assent.

"Is it a full plate, or a partial one?" I asked. "I mean, does it have metal? Wires in it?"

That took some explaining to get across but, finally, she nodded. "Wires, yes. Four new teeth and wires to hold them in. You want to see?" she added dubiously, raising her hand to her mouth.

"No, no," Jonathan bellowed. "That will not be necessary."

"Listen, Mrs. Arriola," I said. "You may not need a fortuneteller at all. You may need a dentist."

The wrinkles around her eyes deepened as she regarded me. Her expression said that her doubts about my sanity had been confirmed.

"Because," I continued, "sometimes metal like that, wires like that, can pick up radio waves. Or television, I forget which. Those wires on the teeth ..." In my effort to explain, I heard myself mimicking her accent. "... they are like a television antenna. You know, rabbit ears. They pick up the vibrations out of the air ..."

Mrs. Arriola was gazing at me with total incomprehension if not to say disbelief. I abandoned my attempt at a technical explanation and, instead, went behind the counter and dug today's paper out of the trash. Shaking off a dusting of ashes and cigarette butts, I folded it open to the TV Guide section and showed it to her.

Jonathan, by now, had the idea loud and clear. "The salient point, you see," he said leaning toward her, though it was obvious that she didn't see, "is that all this is happening in Prime Time ..."

Mrs. Arriola blinked at him.

I tried again, "Look, I'll bet you're just picking up crime shows. That's what's usually on. It fits because mostly the characters speak English but sometimes there are Puerto Rican characters that speak Spanish. And, after midnight this week, look ... Starsky and Hutch, Kojak ..."

Mrs. Arriola's skepticism was not alleviated. "No, no," she was very patient. "The spirit vibrations, they are not like that. The ghost, he does not talk on the radio, he does not come through the metal. The Padre, he explain this. Ghost's voices, they come thru the, how did he call it, subconscience mind."

I sighed, "Jonathan? How can we check this out? A dentist?"

Jonathan shook his head, forgetting to look profound now that he had a grip on the problem. "No, that would prove nothing. We might adjust the bridgework and eliminate the voices but ... she would always be left with the doubt. And besides, why is she only receiving in Prime Time?"

"Less street noise, maybe?"

"It's possible," he admitted. "But why only crime shows? One would think that she'd get at least an occasional commercial." I could just see it, a ghost selling detergent - or deodorant. "Mrs. Arriola," Jonathan addressed her, "do you ever hear anything this way besides talking? Any music? Other things?"

She shrugged. "Some funny noises, si. And, si, some music. Is not so good music, all funny."

"There you are," I said. "And as for the crime shows, for one thing, it's words like 'murder' that would stand out. 'Murder will out'," I grinned at Jonathan - it wasn't often that I got to pun a quote at him. "Seriously, they'd really catch your attention and we're all used to ignoring commercials already. Nobody listens to the commercials ... and modern title music is pretty bad.

"Besides," I offered my clincher, " where do you ever see Spanish characters on TV except on crime shows?" Despite our local Hispanic population, our televisions stations remain unrepentantly English.

"That," Jonathan admitted dourly, "is all too true ..."

Before he could get started on politics, sociology, racial stereotypes and the other foibles of the human condition, I asked hastily: "So, how can we get some real proof?"

Jonathan considered the matter. "Perhaps," he offered - in that tone that meant 'here is the only sensible solution', "the best procedure would be to consult someone knowledgeable in broadcasting. Since we have no way of knowing what frequency - or frequencies - Mrs. Arriola might be receiving, it would be helpful to begin with a series of controlled transmissions on different frequencies." He paused for a moment's thought, then continued. "Not, I think, a commercial radio or television station. They'd hardly have the time to spare for one, and, secondly, they're normally only set up to transmit on single frequencies. FCC requirements, you know. Perhaps a ham radio operator or a CB'er."

"Of course," I jumped on it. "Roland Smith - he's perfect!" Roland was a former tenant of the Craft Compound. Retired military - Air Force, I thought - he'd had a small shop across the courtyard where he sold stereo and CB equipment and customized electric guitars - whatever that means. I'd never known him very well but I recalled that he'd also had a passion for amateur radio. Some of the other tenants had complained that the maze of antennas on top of his cottage detracted from the Craft Compound's earthy, non-technological image. "He's living out by the lake somewhere," I instructed Jonathan. "You speak technicalese - I don't. Would you call him? See if you can make an appointment for us?"

Mrs. Arriola still regarded us with a skeptical expression - obviously, her English did not encompass even my mild brand of technicalese. While Jonathan made the call, I tried to explain to her - slowly and non-technically - what we had in mind. Finally, Jonathan rolled back to rejoin us. He wore an expression of 'how do I get into these things' as he announced: "Smith says that he'll give it a try. Nine o'clock tomorrow, if that's all right."

She nodded agreeably. "Sure, I come here nine o'clock tomorrow. We try to get a ghost message from your friend." She tsk-tsked sympathetically. "Poor Mr. Smith. I meet him once, very nice man. When did he die?"

I took a deep breath preparatory to explaining again but just then we were interrupted by a staccato knocking on the door joining my storage room and Jonathan's book shop. Jonathan looked at his watch. "Oliver," he predicted with the assurance of a gambler making a bet on a sure thing.

I went around behind the counter, through the bead curtain into the store-room and opened the door.

Oliver Fulton - slightly pudgy, long-haired and wearing his customary two and a half pounds of turquoise and silver jewelry - looked even more flustered than usual. With him were a close-shaven elderly man dressed in an expensive three-piece suit and a pretty, delicately built brunette girl in her late teens. She was wearing a brown wool dress and, I noticed professionally, a beautiful hand-batiked scarf in all shades of gold and brown.

Rapidly blinking his lashless blue eyes, Oliver Fulton spoke mechanically: "Daisy Carson, this is J. D. Jarvis from New York and his granddaughter Lucy. ... Daisy, are you busy?"

I supposed that we had things more or less settled with Mrs. Arriola and I could clear up her misunderstanding in the morning. "Er, no, I guess not," I said. "Come in. Would y'all like some coffee?"

The girl gave me a shy smile but the older man barely acknowledged the introductions. "I haven't got any time for coffee," he said crisply. "Fulton, let's get on to your office. I want to see those square footage figures."

Behind me, through the bead curtain, I heard hurried movements, a thud and the rattle of the knob on my front door. "Excuse me," I pardoned myself to Oliver and the Jarvises and made my way back to the front of the shop to see what was happening.

Mrs. Arriola, the tall sturdy woman who took spirit voices and murder more-or-less in stride, was fumbling with the front door-knob in a near panic. Jonathan was struggling to disengage his right front wheel from the bentwood rocker which, it appeared, she had overturned in her haste. "Let me out!" she hissed. "I must go now!"

I unlocked the door and Mrs. Arriola scuttled away into the shadowed court-yard. "What was that all about?" I asked Jonathan.

Still struggling with the rocker, he replied sourly: "Quien sabe! Maybe she had to go to the bathroom."

I stopped to help Jonathan with the rocker - which annoyed him consider-ably. By the time I returned to the storage room, Oliver alone remained. Jarvis and his granddaughter had left. "Jarvis was in a hurry," Oliver offered vaguely. "I said we'd meet him at my office. Daisy, are you busy? I've got to talk to you!"

"So, come on in!" I sighed.

Silent, Oliver made his way around to the coffee corner, dropped - or collapsed - in the chair which Mrs. Arriola had just vacated and began mixing himself a cup of chamomile tea.

"Well, Oliver," Jonathan said impatiently, "what is it this time?"

Oliver gave him a reproachful stare. "Mr. Bell, this is no time to be abrasive ... But, that's right, you don't know." Deflated, he broke off to stare mournfully into his teacup.

It seemed to be my day for other people's troubles. I asked gently, "Oliver, what is it?"

Oliver looked wistfully around the shop, then heaved a great sigh. "Daisy, Mr. Bell, I've lost the Craft Compound ..."