Not even Oliver at his fondest could have described that night's Tenants' Meeting as a success.

The trouble began as we treaded our way along the brick walk curving through the crepe myrtle trees, en route from Jonathan's and my shops on the north side of the courtyard to Oliver's on the south. Angry voices were filtering though the shrubbery. When we neared the portico of Oliver's shop, the purple stained-glass Tiffany lamp over the door revealed a thin-lipped, enraged J. D. Jarvis confronting his granddaughter Lucy.

"I will not have it," he was saying with icy authority. "You are not to see that ... young man ... again - socially or otherwise - and that is final."

"I assume," Lucy's retort was controlled but stubborn, "that by 'socially' you mean 'romantically' and what you mean by 'otherwise', I will not speculate. But you're wrong. It wasn't like that!"

"What was it then?" the old man demanded. "Sulking around in the bushes?"

Lucy took a deep breath. "He's just a friend. A good friend. I had a problem and I needed someone to talk to. That's all!"

He glared at her. "What kind of problem? Why don't you talk to me about it?"

She shook her head, troubled. "Granddad, I'm sorry. It's something ... I just can't ..." Catching sight of us, she blushed, then turned and walked quickly away into the shadows.

Mr. J. D. Jarvis seemed not at all disconcerted to know that his personal quarrel had been overheard. By his manner, we might as well have been three animals trotting up or - maybe - three anonymous, mute servants ... "So, Fulton," he spoke crisply to Oliver, not deigning to acknowledge Jonathan's presence nor my own, "let's get on with it."

Oliver, complying wordlessly, opened the door and led the way into his own rococo-decorated office. The only other tenants in evidence were Steven McCoy - absorbed in the examination of a grey crackle Dedham Ware vase - and Charlie Ruggles. Charlie is a tall, cadaverous old man with bushy white hair and bright blue eyes. Dressed in oil-stained kaki work clothes, he looked very out of place seated on Oliver's curly-backed Louis XIV sofa couch next to the marble-topped zebra wood coffee table.

Oliver made his introductions with an air of subdued excitement, then plopped on the free end of the couch in the manner of one whose duty has been done and resumed his whistled rendition of 'Stout Hearted Men'.

"So, Fulton," Jarvis repeated himself while surveying the ornately cluttered room with visible distaste, "Where do you keep the files on this place? I want to see the tax records, the lease figures ..."

"I'm waiting for the other tenants to arrive," Oliver interrupted him serenely. "We're having a Meeting."

Recalling the normal turnout percentage from other Tenant's Meetings, I suggested hastily: "Look, Oliver, why don't we go ahead? Four witness ought to be enough."

"Oh, well, all right," Oliver philosophically abandoned his hopes for a full-scale sit-in demonstration. Rising from the sofa, Oliver produced from his pockets the stack of money we'd collected and spread it on the glass tabletop. "There it is! And I'll thank you for a receipt!"

Jarvis spared a scant glance at the money. "Sorry, Fulton, you're a day late and a dollar short."

Oliver resumed his seat with a smug, "Count it yourself."

Jarvis snapped: "According to our contract, you've been in default for more than a week. That means that the complete balance outstanding is now due and payable. If I recall correctly," he added in a voice which meant that he was quite certain, "that comes to $74,976 plus interest to date. Have you got that much?"

Oliver looked wildly at the rest of us.

"We've got nothing to talk about, Fulton," Jarvis continued and tossed a business card onto the table. "I hired Harold Ingals today to handle the foreclosure. If you have any questions, talk to him."

Open-mouthed and blinking, Oliver again stared around the room as though unable to believe what was happening. Despite my earlier suspicions, I wasn't sure I believed it either. Only Jonathan's seamy face showed disgust rather than surprise. "Look here, Jarvis ..." Jonathan spoke in an unusually deep and resonant tone - which made Steven McCoy, who alone had been paying no attention to the conversation, suddenly return the Dedham vase and mutter, "Huh?"

Fixing Jarvis with an intense gaze, Jonathan continued: "Let's have this clear, sir. You are saying - before witnesses, mind - that you refuse to accept the payment tendered? The correct amount in properly legal tender plus any penalty or interest. You are saying that, in spite of Oliver's willingness to pay, in cash, you are determined to foreclose by virtue of this ... this technicality?"

For the first time, Jarvis seemed to notice that there were other people in the room. As he turned toward Jonathan, his face automatically assumed an expression of smooth authoritarian professional condescension. With a voice to match and an air of patiently humoring the incompetent, Jarvis answered: "Well, I'm not sure how I could be any clearer, Mr., er ..."

"Bell," Jonathan supplied a bit more loudly than necessary.

"Oh, yes, ... Bell's Books and Candles," Jarvis' tone dismissed the bookstore as if it were a street-stall. "Well, Mr., er, Bell, Mr. Fulton here signed a contract. Since then, he has failed to comply with the provisions therein. I'm sure that you, as an intelligent business man, can understand. If one of your customers signed a layaway contract ..."

Jonathan, who passionately hates manipulative bullshit, took a deep breath - preparatory to an explosion. But Charlie Ruggles, with an air of pouring oil on troubled waters, got in first. Slowly and awkwardly, the gentle old man stood, joint by joint. "Now see here, Mister," he spoke softly, looking down at Jarvis. "I think you need to do some careful study 'bout what you're doing here. This ain't fair and you, in your heart, know that. Now, Oliver here, he was late this one time. Now he's offering to pay you and, if there's more interest owing, I reckon he'll pay you that too."

Oliver nodded in eager agreement.

"Now, sir, Mister Jarvis," Charlie went on, "I don't believe for one minute that you're going to stand here and tell me that you don't know that what you're doing ain't right!"

I felt like applauding. Oliver very nearly did. Mr. Jarvis remained unimpressed. "You're Ruggles, the handyman, that right?" he said.

"That's right, sir."

"Well, Mr. Ruggles," Jarvis said smoothly, "I appreciate your concern but we won't take up any more of your time right now. I'm sure that you'll be pretty busy in the next few days finding a new job."

Charlie blinked, speechless.

"Now look here!" I spluttered. "Charlie's worked here for five years! You can't fire him just for expressing an opinion."

"Now, Mrs. Carson, I'm not dismissing this man for his opinions," Jarvis said. "I'm just giving him notice that he's being replaced. I assure you, this is no hasty decision. Some days ago, after careful considerations of the maintenance needs of these structures, I decided that Mr. Ruggles should be replaced. I believe that this decision is to the benefit of the Compound as a whole. As the new owner, I feel that it is my obligation to provide all of the tenants, yourself included, with the very best maintenance service possible. Wouldn't you agree with this, Mrs. Carson?"

'Oh, for God's sake' . . ! I thought.

At which point Jonathan did explode! "Ah, Mr. Jarvis," he began, "I would like to point out the fact that all of the people in this room are responsible adults and well over - indeed, quite well over - twenty-one. There is no need what-so-ever for your compounding injury with insult by talking like an illiterate encyclopedia salesman."

I think that Jarvis' speech and manners bothered Jonathan as much - or nearly as much - as his intended actions. What Jarvis would have replied I don't know, because Charlie Ruggles brought us back to earth with "What about the bicycle shop? I never had no lease. I been just sort of trading out with Oliver ..."

"I'm sorry but I'm afraid I'll be needing that space too," Jarvis informed him smoothly. "You understand, Rugg - er, Charlie, this is nothing personal. It's a decision I've had to make for the good of the other tenants. You do understand, don't you, Charlie?"

Charlie took a long breath before replying: "I understand plenty."

Jonathan reared back his shoulders, preparing for more oratory, and even Steven McCoy scowled and started to speak. But they were both interrupted. Just then, the door burst open and Ronnie and Ginger Hartley, proprietors of the New Age Mercantile, hurried into the room.

"Are we late, Oliver?" Ginger asked breathlessly. "I was making some brownies for the meeting but I forgot and ate one and ..." Ginger's voice, soft and whispery at the best of times, faded to total inaudibility as she looked around the group. Ginger and Ronnie - who did excellent work in, respectively, stained glass and custom jewelry - were in their early twenties. As both of them had long, frizzy red hair and boyish figures and they habitually wore each other's levis and denim shirts, they appeared more like bother and sister than husband and wife. They shared the habitual air of vacant-eyed detachment common among those whose primary relaxation is the indulgence in recreational drugs but the tense atmosphere filling the office was sufficient to penetrate even their perpetual daze.

"Ginger, Ronnie," Oliver greeted them automatically.

"What's the matter?" Ginger whispered, looking awkwardly around for a place to set the foil-covered plate she was holding. Ronnie, his face sullen and wary, folded his arms and leaned back against the doorframe.

"Why nothing at all, Mrs. Hartley," Jarvis was cordial, already playing the host. "I have just acquired this property - subject to filing the proper papers, of course - and we were discussing some improvements I have in mind which we are agreed will be to the mutual benefit of all of you fine tenants of the Craft Compound."

Ginger looked uncertainly toward Ronnie. Eyes heavy-lidded and watchful, he made a slight motion with his hand: 'Be quiet. Listen.'

I'd had it up to here with Jarvis' oily manners - not to mention his misstatements. "Shut up, Jarvis!" I snapped, surprising him so much that he actually did for a moment. "It might interest your mutual benefits," I sputtered, "to know that we have been talking to Los Angeles and New York and we know all about you and your mysterious backers. And, if you go on with this foreclosure, we're going to ... raise some dust!"

"Now, Mrs. Carson," Jarvis was being patient. "There are many legitimate investors who prefer to maintain confidentiality in their transactions. I'm sure that, as an intelligent businesswoman you can understand such matters. And I believe that they have the right to such confidentiality. You, Mrs. Carson, wouldn't want strangers coming into your house and intruding into your personal privacy now, would you?"

"You mean like the IRS? Or the police?" I snapped, looking around the room for something that wasn't too expensive to throw at him.

Surprisingly, Ronnie drawled from the doorway: "I think Mrs. Carson's got a good point there, Mr. Jarvis. Are you sure that your backer would still want to foreclose under these circumstances? Maybe you'd be better advised to wait until you've had a chance to talk to them."

Jarvis regarded him from below lowered eyebrows. "I've had my instructions and I'm proceeding with them. And I'll tell you something, young man." He deliberately shifted his gaze to include Ginger as well. "I saw you fondling my granddaughter in the courtyard half an hour ago. A married man!" The words carried icy contempt. "If you ever dare to come near her again ..."

Ginger started. "What?" The thinly-built girl seemed to grow taller by all of two inches - like a kitten dropped into a room full of dogs - as she spun to face her husband. "Ronnie! You didn't! You promised me . . !"

"I know what I saw," Jarvis added with finality. "But you're not going to have another chance, Hartley. I've changed my plans. Lucy and I are flying home tonight."

Ronnie's face was sullen and impenetrable. Ginger looked back and forth between the two men. "But what ..." she whispered.

"Mrs. Hartley, I'll deal with you two on a financial basis," Jarvis informed her sharply. "But, in the future, you just be sure that your husband keeps his filthy hands where they belong."

Perhaps luckily, Ginger seemed too stunned to examine that remark literally.

"Forget those papers, Fulton," Jarvis snapped, turning to Oliver. "I don't have time to argue with you about it. Ingals will be out first thing in the morning." He rose and surveyed the room as if checking to see if any parting shots were required. His eye fell on Steven who was perched on the arm of the sofa, listening open-mouthed. "McCoy ... You run the pottery shop here, that right?"

Steven's eyes bugged. "Nassuh, nassuh," he said hastily. "I'se jus' ol' Cholie Ruggle's helper. I be gon' a th' mawin, suh, don't you fret."

I hadn't known Steven had it in him.

Jarvis turned on his heel and strode out of the room, shoulders erect, as the rest of us collapsed in various sorts and degrees of hysteria. For the next few minutes, all was confusion. Ginger was telling Ronnie, in breathless obscenities, his duties as a husband - I was telling Oliver and Charlie that Jarvis' actions were probably unconstitutional and first thing in the morning we would find a lawyer who was in town - Ronnie was telling Ginger that it was all a mistake - and Jonathan was telling each of us what we ought to have said - only Steven wasn't saying anything. He couldn't, he'd left shortly after Jarvis' departure.

After that wasted half-hour, we all went our separate ways - Jonathan and I back to our shops to lock up. After Jonathan left, I drifted about my shop for a few minutes worrying about Oliver's plight - then, finally, I locked my door and started across the dark courtyard.

As I neared the tile fountain - already drained for the winter - two indistinct figures, who had been sitting in close conference on the rim, jumped up precipitously. "... luego," I caught an indistinct female voice. One person hurried away into the shrubbery, the other came hesitantly to meet me. "Hello, Lucy," I said when she was within recognizing distance. Poor girl - I thought - she seems to have a positive talent for getting discovered in her assignations.

"Hello, Mrs. Carson," she responded sadly. "I ... I wonder ... Could I talk to you for a minute?"

I sighed. It had been a long day already ... but none of this was Lucy's fault and the girl looked really troubled. "Sure, honey," I resigned myself, "would you like to go over to my shop?"

"No," she shook her head, "Granddad might come looking for me. He ... he told me to go back to the room. We're staying in the Bonneview, the apartment house, you know, across the alley."

No, I hadn't known. "What, the one Oliver's remodeling?"

"That's right," Lucy confirmed. "Some of the paint's still damp but every-thing works. The units will be ready to start renting next week ..."

My feet hurt and Lucy seemed unable to take the plunge into whatever was troubling her. I asked bluntly: "Are you really carrying on with Ronnie Hartley?"

Her smile seemed genuine, if rather rueful, amusement. "Everybody seems to think that ... except Ronnie and me. But I'm ... we're really not. He's just a friend. I met him a few months ago, when ... er, at a craft show." She dismissed the subject. "Mrs. Carson," she took a deep breath and continued, "don't tell Granddad but I was listening at the window ... to what went on at the meeting. Is what he's doing really going to hurt you people so much?"

Her concern was evident and I felt sorry for her but there was no point in glossing things over. "Yes, I'm afraid so," I said. "Oh, Charlie can do his repair work out of his home and he can probably find another job. But it's going to be a real blow to Oliver. He cares a lot for this place."

"What about the rest of you?" Lucy asked.

"I don't know," I said. "Your grandfather didn't say anything about the rest of us. Do you know ... is he planning other changes?"

She grimaced. "I'm afraid so. He's planning to put in a Treasure Galleon outlet here. He hasn't decided whether to evict some of the tenants and use the existing buildings or to put a whole new building in the middle of the courtyard."

Oliver's cottonwood trees ... "Well," I said, controlling myself, "I suppose most of us could survive - even if we have to move out." 'Oh, damnation', I was thinking as I looked around at the beauty of the courtyard. "Lucy, is that definite?"

"I'm afraid so. He's already talking to his contractors about prefabs."

We walked in silence for a minute, then Lucy said suddenly, "Mrs. Carson, I don't like this. I've heard that some of the things Granddad does are ... kind of shady. He ... he's always tried to keep me from finding out and I guess I didn't really want to know anyway. But this is different. It isn't really, I guess, but this place ... you people ... are special. I ... I wish there was something I could do!"

My tired mind clicked back in gear. "Maybe there is, Lucy," I said. "What do you know about your grandfather's business associates, anything?"

She shook her head. "No, not really, I've been away at school most of the time - I'm afraid I never paid much attention."

"Well," I considered, "if you could try and find out ..." I explained Jonathan's and my idea of trying to track down the backer who had provided the money for the mortgage on the Compound.

"I don't know," Lucy said when I finished. "I've never tried to find out about anything like that. I really don't know how I'd go about it."

I didn't know either. "Snoop through his mail? ... Look here, if you really want to help, give me your address in New York and, after we've talked to a lawyer, we may get in touch with you."

I rummaged through my purse for pencil and paper and Lucy, in a surprisingly firm and characterful script, wrote the name, address and phone number of a select New England art academy. "Call me there, any time," she instructed. We shook hands on it. "Really, I mean it," she added.

She was very young and very concerned. "Was this the problem you were talking to Ronnie about?" I ventured, wondering how to tell her not to take things so hard.

"No, I only found out about this when ... when I eavesdropped on the meeting. I was talking to Ronnie about ... something else," she added repressively - then, with a wan smile, "This seems to be my week for problems, doesn't it?"

I thought the same thing. "Well, cheer up," I counseled. "Maybe our lawyer will come up with something." Then I added a second thought, albeit an unlikely one, "Or maybe your grandfather will change his mind about foreclosing."

The girl's smile vanished. "No," she said slowly, "I'm beginning to think Granddaddy never changes his mind - about anything."