I heaved a sigh of relief, then grinned back at him. "That was most of it, really." Traffic was still heavy in the courtyard and there were a few things that I didn't want overheard. "What about you? Have you been here all the time?"

"That I have," he said. "I even received the invalid's courtesy of having my statement taken in situ. Although," he added with a note of pride, "one Lieutenant Brooks did make rather a point of asking the name and address of my personal physician."

That took a minute to sink in ... with Jonathan's glittering eye watching me with relish every second of it.

Then I buried my face in my arms and indulged in a short, much-needed fit of hysteria ... which had doubtless been Jonathan's deliberate intention. "But ... but, of course!" I sputtered when I came up for air. "It's always the cripple in the wheelchair!"

Jonathan looked wistful. "Had I thought of it in time, I would have confessed at once."

With a sigh of pure relaxation, I slumped in the chair and reached to pour another cup of sherry. At times, Jonathan can be vastly irritating but he does have that rare and invaluable knack for putting things in their proper perspective. As happened so often in his company, I had a sense of suddenly entering a large, spacious room, quiet and full of fresh air ...

"Ah, well, lost opportunities." From his shirt pocket, Jonathan produced a small leather notebook. I really ought to get one of those myself, I supposed. Everyone else seemed to have them ... "Now then," he resumed, fountain pen poised. "I believe that you said that Charlie had been in and out of the maintenance room several times this evening?"

Fresh air or no, Jonathan obviously fancied himself as the armchair master-mind.

"That's right," I admitted. "At least, when I went over to ask if he'd seen Jarvis, Charlie told me that he'd been in and out 'a little'."

"So," Jonathan made an emphatic notation. "Opportunity - open! That means that the murderer could have entered the Compound while Charlie was 'out', killed Jarvis, then left the same way."

"Yes," I agreed. "Jarvis, himself, must have come back while Charlie was out. It could be," I took the possibility further, "that the murder came in with him."

"Ah, yes, of course," Jonathan added hastily. "I was just about to point that out. So, ... Opportunity - open!" he repeated impressively. "Which brings us to Means. Now, if we take Means to mean the bottle Jarvis was struck with, that too is obviously accessible to anyone. However, if we extend the term to include knowledge of how to light Steven's kiln ..."

"Always assuming," I murmured, "that the same person who hit Jarvis over the head also put the body in the kiln." I was still feeling tired and it seemed awfully early to be speculating about any of this business.

Jonathan, having been protected by his 'invalid's courtesy', was feeling fresh and gung-ho. "At this stage of the game," he informed me kindly, "the best rule is that recommended by the philosopher, William of Occam, popularly known as Occam's Razor: 'Of two or more possible assumptions,'" he quoted, "'always choose that which is most simple.' And the simplest assumption presenting itself is that the same murderer both hit Jarvis over the head and tried to dispose of the body in the kiln."

"Okay, okay," I begged mercy. "So?"

"So." Jonathan suddenly ran down. "Well, who all knew how to operate the kiln?"

Sighing, I started on another doughnut. "Well, for one, I knew," I admitted. "I've watched Steven do it a few times. There's not all that much to it - turn on the gas, light the jets, wait for them to warm up, then turn on the blowers." I considered a moment. "Charlie would know, of course. He helped Steven put the kiln together in the first place. Oliver, I'm not sure ..."

Jonathan frowned and made a notation. "If you picked it up just from watching Steven, it's very likely that Oliver would know too. Means, then, will probably not eliminate anyone ..." Jonathan carefully laid several potato chips in a line on the table.

The entrance to the kiln yard, the corridor, was next to the Needle & Haystack - where Mrs. Arriola came to sell her molas. But, surely I thought, she wouldn't have spent any time hanging around Steven's ... unless there were some reason which I didn't know about. That was the trouble, there was an awful lot that I didn't know. "It might eliminate Lucy," I offered hopefully, aloud. "She, certainly, never had a chance to see Steven lighting it."

Jonathan placed a tentative question mark by Lucy's name in his notebook. "Possibly," he admitted. "But she did grow up in the craft field and, according to the 'Newsletter' article, she's majoring in art. If she ever took a course in ceramics, she'd have picked up enough general knowledge to be able to figure it out." He added another chip to his row.

'Oh, for God's sake!' "While you're at it," I flared, "you'd better add the meter reader and you'll find the plumbers in the yellow pages! Jonathan, these are real people we're talking about - not Colonel Mustard and Miss Ruby! Lucy wouldn't kill her own grandfather!"

"Somebody killed him," Jonathan said, unanswerably. "Now, as to motive. While it is a bit early to speculate about all the possible motives that might exist for murdering Mr. J. D. Jarvis ..."

I muttered: "Add the Chamber of Commerce to your list."

Jonathan picked up his fountain pen, "I beg your pardon?"

"The Brazos City Chamber of Commerce - civic betterment."

He laid the pen down and glared at me. "... we do have one quite obvious motive here - specifically, the foreclosure. Now, just who did not know that Jarvis had changed his mind?"

That, I had to admit, was a good question. "Well, we know ..."

Jonathan nodded. "What about Charlie? He'd just been fired and evicted as well."

'But Charlie wouldn't' ... I swallowed the comment and thought back instead. "No," I said, "He did act a little more cheerful when I came back here, but I don't think he knew. I expect it was just ... native resiliency or something. That or the fact that I had a box he could carry ... When I went over to ask about Jarvis, Charlie was packing up his bicycle parts. I did ask Steven if he'd had a call to come back. He said no, he was just getting ready for his class."

Jonathan made notes, "Oliver?"

I shrugged. "Asleep in his office. I didn't ask him. Of course, Lucy could have called him there."

"In which case," Jonathan pointed out, "I rather doubt Oliver would have gone to sleep. But ... Who else did Lucy say she'd called?"

"I didn't get a chance to ask her," I admitted. "Still haven't, for that matter. But here's a funny thing. Why did Jarvis want to meet here, at my shop, instead of back at Oliver's office? Or at the apartment where he was staying?"

Jonathan considered. "As for his apartment, maybe he wanted to leave Lucy out of it again? Oliver's office . . ? Maybe he wanted to talk with us first, privately. Maybe he wanted to write a new mortgage with us as co-signers . . ? We shall," he concluded firmly, "have to ask Lucy, first thing in the morning." His row of chips had become a row of small stacks.

There were quite a few things I wanted to ask Lucy first thing in the morning. I mentally added that to the list. "About your call, did she tell you to meet Jarvis here? Or at your shop?" I didn't offer Jonathan the satisfaction of asking about the potato chips.

"That's right," Jonathan was shocked that he'd forgotten. "The call said to meet at my shop. I came here because I saw your lights on." He made another note.

"And what about the phone call Jarvis got? Don't forget that. And why did he suddenly change his mind about the foreclosure?"

"It's always vaguely possible," Jonathan reminded me, "that your threat - which was based on my research - simply worked. Perhaps he did call his backer and the backer, under our threat of investigation and exposure, instructed him to, er, back off."

I nodded. "That would make sense. Jarvis would want to talk to us right away, to call us off." And he might very well want to talk to Jonathan and me alone - without Oliver - I realized. Because once Oliver scented blood ...

Jonathan's mouth quirked. "Rather bad luck for the infamous backer," he commented. "You realize that the police will be checking any long distance calls going out on Jarvis' phone."

"But it was an incoming call," I remembered aloud. "Who would have that number anyway? For that matter, why is a telephone in service in that apartment anyway? If it's been vacant ..."

"Daisy, you may have something there. We'll check it in the morning." He made another note and added several chips to his arrangement.

Personally, I still had a number of questions. "But look here," I said, "You've been taking a lot for granted. For instance, do we know who inherits the mortgage note? If Lucy inherits, well and fine." I explained about her willingness to help Oliver. "But, do you know if Jarvis had any other family?"

"I'm not sure ..." Jonathan began but was interrupted as the front door flew open and Steven McCoy stalked into the room.

"... use your telephone," the big black man muttered, heading straight toward it. He dialed, listened a minute, then slammed the receiver down. "Damn line's busy."

Hoping for news, I motioned Steven to come and sit down. He did, picked up a styrofoam cup half full of cold coffee that David had left, stared at it briefly and drank it down. "That's lousy," he said. "Damn lawyer's line's busy ..."

Ordinarily, as a matter of self-preservation, one did not ask Steven what the matter was but this was a special occasion - so, I did.

Scowling, Steven reached for a tuna fish sandwich. "Damn turkeys locked me out of my store," he complained, "And the kiln yard."

"But why do you need a lawyer?" Jonathan asked, interested. "Do you think the police suspect you?"

"Huh? I want to find out if they can do that! I'm going to sue the bastards. I was going to fire tomorrow ... Damn turkeys chased off my class tonight, did you know that? They put a guard outside the Compound and, when my students showed up, they wouldn't let a single one in. I'm going to sue those god damn police idiots" Suddenly he banged a fist on the table, rattling everything. "Why in hell," he demanded, "did that turkey have to use my kiln?"

Jonathan and I exchanged looks. "Steven," I asked patiently, "think about it from the murderer's point of view - just for a moment. It really would have helped him if he could have destroyed the body. The way it is, the police know Jarvis was murdered and they know pretty much when ..."

Steven looked at me suspiciously. "I know that. Hell," he said, "what do you take me for?" That, I didn't answer. "But what I want to know," he demanded, "is why my kiln? What I mean is ..." Scowling, Steven made shaping motions in the air as though laboring under the unaccustomed strains of trying to imagine the mental workings of the alien creature, a non-potter. "I mean, Why? Hell, I had this class coming! At 8:30!"

I'd always known Steven was the classic example of self-centered egotism - but this, it seemed to me, was the limit. "Maybe," I suggested in my gentlest tone, "he didn't know about your class ..."

Steven boggled, assimilating this radical new concept. Then the light seemed to dawn. "Damn, that makes sense!" he said. "Because, you know, there wouldn't have been enough time. I got here early but ... the Fire Chief said there wouldn't have been enough time anyway! There weren't any blowers - I keep them inside. Ever since that turkey kid turned them on to cool things off and broke everything in the kiln, I've taken them in right after firing." With an air of having settled the question, Steven nodded to himself in satisfaction.

Jonathan and I looked at each other in wild surmise. "Steven," said Jonathan, "do you by any chance mean ..."

Finally, we go it out of him. Jarvis - according to Lucy - had left their apartment at 7:00. As an expert on that particular kiln and its heating time, Steven had been allowed in on the conference between Lt. Brooks and the Fire Chief. Some tentative conclusions had been reached.

Steven's students were due to arrive at 8:30. Allowing for all possible speed and efficiency on the part of the murderer, the body could not have been placed in the kiln much earlier than 7:15. "And he said that 45 minutes wouldn't have been enough time," Steven explained with elaborate gestures which - I supposed - were intended to indicate the Fire Chief's hat. "For the body to burn up. That kiln takes hours to reach 1000 degrees without the blowers. Even turned on high to begin with, it wasn't but 350 degrees. He said ..." Steven gestured again, "there wasn't no way that body could have burned up even by 8:30."

"I wonder," Jonathan mused, "suppose the murderer had, if you will pardon the expression, pre-heated the oven ..."

Steven shook his head violently. "They talked about that too. I left that kiln at 6:00 to go to that damn Tenants' Meeting. Even if the turkey had snuck in and turned it on right then, there wouldn't have been enough time. Not between then and class time. Damn!" he added wonderingly. "Didn't know about the class . . ?"

"Steven," I asked very softly and gently. "Who did know about the class?"

But Steven was already heading back for the telephone to try his call again. "Huh? Damn, I dunno. But I had a sign posted! In front of my shop!" His voice rose as this new enormity occurred to him. "He could have read it ..." He dialed, grimaced, slapped the receiver down, then stood there, indecisively chewing on his thumbnail.

"Well, Steven," I said in a tone of dismissal, "ah, thanks for coming to the Tenants' Meeting anyway."

"Huh?" He looked up. "I wish I never heard of that damn meeting. Damn turkey!"

I was confused. "Which damn turkey?" I asked impatiently. "You mean Jarvis?"

Steven nodded. "Yeah, Jarvis, after that meeting. Trying to tell me ..." Suddenly he stopped, looked back at the phone again, then strode out the door.

It took a minute for me to realize the implications. I jumped up and trotted to the door but Steven has long legs and can move very fast when he wants to. I stood in the doorway for a moment, trying to decide if I should follow him or no.

The decision was taken out of my hands when David Bell appeared from the direction of the maintenance room escorting Ginger and Ronnie.

The Hartleys' expressions looked even more vague and sullen than usual. Catching sight of me, Ginger spoke to Ronnie in her usual breathless whisper, "It's okay, Ronnie. There she is." Then, slightly louder, she addressed me, "What did you want with us, Mrs. Carson?"

I questioned David with a sharp look. His answering expression was the innocence of a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Why don't we go inside," I invited, improvising rapidly. "Er, I suppose that you two know what happened here tonight . . ?"

Ginger nodded, wide-eyed. "The police said ... Mr. Jarvis . . ?"

Ronnie was looking offended, as if he were wondering if this sudden invasion of the Compound by the Establishment Police might give him grounds for breaking his lease.

I hoped that the Hartleys' hadn't been storing anything too illegal on their premises but I wasn't sure how to ask - not while David was present. "Well," I mustered myself, "Oliver is, ah, unavailable and I need to know if there's been any damage to Compound property. Er, is anything missing? From your shop, I mean."

Ronnie was less helpful than usual, giving his head an economical shake. "Don't know. Haven't been there. Yet."

"We had a call to come back," Ginger volunteered. "They said Jarvis had changed his mind and wanted to meet us here. We ... we'd just pulled into the parking lot when the police came."

David's pen was poised - as was Jonathan's. "Who called you?" David asked.

Ronnie wasn't saying anything. Arms folded and standing silent, his face was closed and impenetrable. He looked very out of place in the midst of all my shiny plastic.

Ginger responded to David's question by screwing up her face, giving the impression of a kitten about to 'Phffft!' "That f...ing little bitch Lucy Jarvis!" she spat, the obscenities sounding doubly shocking in her whispery, little-girl voice. She laid a proprietary hand on Ronnie's bicep ... which he ignored.

I ignored the expletives. "Where, exactly, did she tell you to meet Jarvis?" I asked. "Were you supposed to come to my shop?"

Ronnie gave Ginger a dark look, then rolled his eyes to the ceiling, focusing somewhere among the piņatas and mobiles hanging there. His hands were forced deeply into the pockets of his levis.

Ginger glared back at him. "Oh, all right! So it was my fault!" She sighed and turned to face me. "Mrs. Carson, I took the call and ... I guess I wasn't really listening. She said something about Jarvis changing his mind and we should meet him at the Compound right away. Then I asked 'Who is this?' and she said that she was Lucy Jarvis and I ... I told her what I thought of her and she hung up."

Ginger paused but Ronnie was still letting her carry the ball. "Okay, so when we got here, we didn't know exactly where to go. So, we sat out there in the van for a few minutes - to see if anyone else showed up. Finally, we came in through the maintenance room to ask Charlie. He wasn't there, so we went back to the van and that was when ..." She broke off as Ronnie suddenly laid a hand on her shoulder. "I mean, when the police came."

The Hartleys knew more than they were telling but Ronnie's sullen silence was like a physical barrier which I could only carefully feel my way past. "Ah, how long were you waiting?" I asked.

Ronnie shrugged and condescended to speak, "Maybe ten minutes."

Which they had spent watching the only open exit from the Compound while - doubtlessly - Charlie and I were busy discovering the body. I decided on a frontal attack, directing myself at Ginger, "Who did you see slipping out of the Compound, honey?"

Ginger started to answer but Ronnie's grip on her shoulder changed the reply to a sudden shake. "We've already told the fuzz all we know, Mrs. Carson," Ronnie's voice was flat and final. "You've got a key if you want to look around our place."

"Did you tell the police?" David pounced.

"What?" Ronnie seemed to have forgotten the reporter's presence. Maybe David'd intended it that way, using me as a stalking horse . . ?

"Who you saw leaving!" David returned.

"We didn't see anyone! We told you that!"

"Then I can quote you? WITNESSES WATCH - SEE NO-ONE LEAVE!" David spoke in headlines.

Ronnie and Ginger ignored his query. "You have a key, Mrs. Carson." The blank curtain was firmly in place on both their faces now.

Admitting defeat, I waved them away. When the door closed behind the young pair, I shook my head vigorously to clear the cobwebs. Then I turned to David who had instigated this confrontation. "Now what was that all about?" I demanded.

"As I was going up the stair," he began, "I met a man who wasn't there, He wasn't there again today, Oh how I wish he'd stay away."

I tapped my foot and gave him the look reserved for naughty children but said nothing.

He grinned. "Daisy," he pronounced pontifically - for a moment sounding like his uncle, "there speaks a happy marriage."

"Huh?" I blinked.

"Your marriage, I mean," David explained with the caustic wisdom of youth. "I guess you've forgotten what it was like to fight with your husband when you were first married. I interrupted those two in the middle of a knock-down-drag-out and they can't wait to find some privacy so that they can have at it again."

Jonathan was regarding his nephew with faint disapproval. "May I inquire precisely whence comes this font of knowledge from which you draft these deep deductions?" he demanded.

"No deduction," David said smugly. "I heard it. I, er, just happened to be in the maintenance room when they came through on their way out. They were going at it pretty strong before they saw me. I couldn't catch much except the tone of voice but she was accusing Ronnie of protecting somebody for Lucy Jarvis' sake."

Lucy's sake . . ? "Who?" I asked. 'Mrs. Arriola?' I wondered.

"Hell, I don't know," David was disappointed. "I was hoping you'd find out!"

Jonathan's thoughts appeared to parallel my own as he added another potato chip to a stack on the table. "That's six against Mrs. Arriola," he announced as the stack teetered and fell, "and four against Oliver. Conclusions?"

"Pass the dip," I answered. "I wonder if Mrs. Arriola will keep her appointment to see Roland Smith tomorrow?"