I didn't have the vaguest idea what she was talking about.

"Mrs., ah, Balrymple, I believe that there must be some confusion. There are no furriers in the Craft Compound." And never would be - not as long as Oliver had anything to say about it.

I'd heard stories about the early days when the Craft Compound was a sink-or-swim proposition - and seem to be sinking - Oliver had forcibly evicted a tenant who had begun offering a line of 'exotic leather crafts', the 'exotic' referring to the origins of the leathers. And, later, there had been a well-known furrier who had offered handsome terms for a lease ... that had been one Tenants' Meeting that was not "Democracy in Action"! The Hartleys had argued in favor but, during discussion, Oliver's usual mild manners had vanished as he spoke with the fervor of a Disraeli. The vote had been against the furrier but, had the vote been otherwise, I felt certain that 'Disraeli' would have become 'Napoleon'.

"I think you must have been given the wrong address or something ..." I explained.

"Mrs. Carson, I am not going to accept any excuses. I want my furs and I want them found now!" As she spoke, she was advancing in a manner reminiscent of a steam-roller. "Now, there's no good denying it. The police told me where they found my jewelry and my Wedgwood teapot which is in shards and I don't suppose that the insurance will pay more than a fraction of what it worth and one of my rings is missing and I will not brook any more of this nonsense. I want my furs back and I intend to get them."

Finally, this was beginning to make a little bit of sense. The Wedgwood teapot must have been what was in the package Steven found and Mrs. Balrymple would be the 'big wig' the police had mentioned ... No, it was Charlie who had said that. And the costume jewelry Charlie had mentioned - that would be what she was wearing. He'd been right, it was gaudy. But - I still didn't know anything about any furs.

I told her as much. "If you wouldn't mind calming down for a moment," I suggested, "you could begin by explaining a few things. For one, what was your what-you-may-call-it teapot doing here? I understand that there was some jewelry found?"

"There most certainly was, young lady. It's no good you denying it." I didn't think the 'young lady' was a compliment and she certainly had a one-track mind. "Now, I want this place searched - no excuses! I want my furs!" She finished with a stomp of her foot.

"Ah, yes," I hesitated. "I believe I heard something about this - something about a burglary, was it?"

"Well! I should think so! They most certainly were! And as I told Chief Rankin, I want the thief found and no excuses! And I want my furs back!" Her sentences were punctuated with sharp raps from her shoe. "I told Chief Rankin to send his men down here and search this place from top to bottom. I have never in my born days been so insulted! More important things, he claims. Some foolishness about somebody having been murdered. I ask you now, have you ever heard the like?"

The like of what I didn't ask. "You said that your furs had been stolen?" I asked. "Would you mind telling me when?"

"Well, as if ..." she began ... but stopped when I glared at her. "Wednesday. Wednesday morning. That two bit gardener of mine took them and this is where he brought them - don't deny it - the Wedgwood teapot that my Greataunt Mattie brought over from England was found right here - and broken as well! Humph, servants today just can't be trusted."

I wasn't sure where this was leading but Wednesday had been a very busy day ... in a lot of ways. "Are you sure of that?" I asked.

"Am I sure . . ? Well! That's a fine thing to ask! I suppose you think I'm in the habit of being robbed, young lady? I think I would know when I've been robbed."

Mrs. Balrymple was not making much sense. The gist of her irate discourse held that a gardener named Emilio Rodriguez had vanished simultaneously with the disappearance of her jewelry, furs and - lest we forget - her Wedgwood teapot.

The jewelry and the smashed teapot had been found here or, at least, within the confines of the Craft Compound. The location of the furs was still unknown.

I wasn't really interested in her furs - not right now - but the simplest way to get rid of her seemed to be to try to satisify her - which wasn't simple. I finally settled for writing a note to the other shop owners asking then to let Mrs. Balrymple take a look around. Having convinced her that the furs she described could hardly be easily concealed, I hoped that she could satisfy herself that they were not on the grounds.

Once I was rid of Mrs. Balrymple, since the sign was already up, I did close for lunch. I needed it.

Thursday afternoon was relatively quiet - relatively allowing for a record number of customers and two visits from police detectives - all punctuated several calls from Jonathan's nephew, David, wanting to know if there was anything that he should know. Between these interruptions, I tried a couple of calls of my own - trying to reach Lucy at her apartment. She didn't answer.

The customers were mostly curiosity seekers hoping for some inside gossip or a look at the scene of the crime. Since the police had the kiln yard sealed, many of the curious were disappointed. Even so, P. T. Barnum was correct and my receipts for the day set a mild record.

The first visit from the police was a routine inquiry - had I recalled any other details about Wednesday evening's events. I hadn't - at least nothing I was planning to tell.

And that nothing was the next item I was asked about - Mrs. Arriola.

No, I hadn't heard the news, I explained, and, no, I didn't know her well - she was a casual acquaintance and had been in the store a few times, I lied. I'd offered to give her a lift to the bus station this morning - she'd said that she was going to see some friend. No, not the Greyhound station - the city bus line - the city busses only come by here every hour and she've had another 45 minutes wait at the station for a transfer. And, no, I didn't know who she was going to see.

The plainclothes lieutenant didn't question my answers - just filled a page of his note book and asked if I would mind coming to the station later to sign a statement. I agreed ... and breathed a great sigh of relief when he left. I was strongly tempted to ask Jonathan for a dose of his sherry - medicinal, of course.

I didn't - because the officer who had taken my statement was now next door taking Jonathan's. That and another flurry of customers requiring attention kept me 'in situ' until the second police visit, two hours later.

The second detective identified himself as "Detective Lieutenant Brooks," and offered his identification. The name was familiar - it took a minute but I recalled Jonathan's mention of a Lieutenant Brooks who had taken his statement ... and had made a point of asking the name of his physician.

"If it's about Mr. Bell," I began, "I've known him for five years and he's been confined to a wheelchair during that time. Didn't his doctor tell you ..."

"Please, Mrs . . , er, Carson, I'm not chasing Mr. Bell. Ah, as a matter of fact, no, I haven't had time to check with his doctor - I really wasn't planning to ... unless there's some reason?" He answered my slightly blank look with a reassuring grin. "Sorry, professional habit - what I wanted to ask you about ... would you mind looking at a couple of photographs?"

"Er, sure," I replied, "but why?"

"I'll explain if you wish," he said, spreading a series of photographs on the counter, "but, first, would you mind telling me if any of these persons are familiar?"

I looked at the glossy prints. Each was a young male and each was, according to contemporary usage, Chicano. None of them were familiar to me. "I'm sorry. Should I know any of them?"

"You're certain that you haven't seen, for instance," he tapped one of the prints, "this man hanging around any of the shops here?"

"No, I haven't. Who are they?"

"Thank you for your time." He gathered the photos and started to leave.

"Just a moment, young man," I stopped him by pulling rank - age if you prefer. "You did offer to explain ..."

"Yes, m'am," he grinned. "I suppose I did."

"Would you like some coffee?" I gestured at the pot and chairs.

"Er ..."

"If it's that old hangup about accepting gratuities," I offered, "I'll be glad to charge you a dime for it."

He grinned again, then took a chair and accepted the cup I filled for him. "I'm investigating a burglary now," he explained. "I don't always work homicide."

"Mrs. Balrymple!" I sighed.

"I see. Then, she's been here too."

"And the photograph is the man who was her gardener?"

"Yes but you said that you didn't recognize him. Second thoughts?"

"No. Just a guess - a rather obvious one," I assured him.

"We're looking for him and checking on his whereabouts - the usual routine. And there may be a connection - hell - pardon the expression - there probably is. But, it could be coincidence."

Personally, I agreed - but I couldn't see what it was. At the moment, everything seemed to be coincidence! "If you don't mind my asking," I asked regardless, "where did the photo come from? I'm sure you don't have mug shots on everybody?"

"Like you said - a mug shot." He extracted the photo again to show the label stuck on the back. "I get more answers without the booking plate showing."

"And more honest ones," I guessed, "by using several photos?"

"Yeah, one of them's my brother in law - the other's a patrolman with the department. You'd be surprised how often he gets fingered."

The lieutenant finished his coffee and left to ask the same questions of the rest of the tenants.

David continued to call periodically - with nothing to report. According to him, Mrs. Arriola had simply disappeared ... and, yes, if she had been found, his sources with the police would know and would have told him and did I have my story for him yet and was I sure I could get it because if he waited much longer and his editor found out ...

Friday was mostly business and what wasn't business was mostly David.

In spite of my brave - and repeated - promises to David, I hadn't been able to get in to see Lucy Jarvis either. Each time I visited or called the apartment - Oliver had supplied the number - the phone would be busy or she was with the police or on her way to meet with a lawyer or she had to go down in the mop room to interview a new maid - from which I deduced that she was at least planning to stay in Brazos City for a while and to assume her grand-father's responsibilities.

Oliver, who had managed to see her for a short time, seemed quite relieved that this was the case. "Daisy, you just don't know," he told me over the phone, "what all is involved. Why, you have to get building inspections, you have to get security deposits and the tenants want me to sign leases."

I wasn't feeling very patient at this point. "Well, you had to go through all that starting the Compound, didn't you?"

Oliver sighed nostalgically. "Oh, that was different. It was all with friends of mine and everybody just scrounged lumber and traded out for everything. But here we're having to do it legally and use money. But Lucy's handling it okay. She's helped her grandfather with things like this before."

Lucy had seemed sympathetic before but she was her grandfather's granddaughter and I couldn't help feeling a bit suspicious. "Ah, just what is she going to do about the mortgage?"

Oliver's reply was total innocence. "Oh, my lawyer's handling all that. She said she wouldn't foreclose. She just wants to make sure the apartments get off on the right foot - to protect her investment there."

For Oliver, once bit was obviously not twice shy.

"You know, Daisy," he continued in a wondering voice, "that Lucy is really something. Just as sweet as she can be and smart too. And her batik, that's real art. Why, I didn't know girls could be like that."

I coughed - to cover my involuntary start of surprise. Somehow, I had assumed that Oliver was the sort that wasn't interested in girls at all ... "Well, ah," I said, "... I really need to see her myself, sometime. There are, er, some things I need to find out about. Could you arrange it?"

"Gee, I don't know, Daisy. She's awfully busy. Why, I've just barely been able to see her myself. Mostly we've been making arrangements by phone."

To Oliver, the telephone is a sacred channel of communication and he spends hours with the instrument firmly planted against his ear. The usual problem was getting him off of it. Since Oliver had been so busy with his lawyer, this was my first chance to talk to him. "Hey, listen," I said, "what was that business about Steven wanting to sue Lucy?"

Oliver sniffed. "Oh, that? My lawyer took care of that, all right. He told Steven right out that you just can't sue somebody just because their grandfather threatened to do something."

"Had Jarvis really threatened Steven?" I demanded.

Oliver became confidential. "Well, we really shouldn't speak ill of the dead, Daisy." I was about to explode when he continued. "It was at the craft show, last summer, remember?"

Yes, I assured him, I did remember.

"Well," he continued, "everybody was talking about Jarvis and what all he used to do."

"Do? Like what?" If Oliver had been present rather than at the other end of a phone line, I would have been tempted to strangle him.

Finally, Oliver settled down to dishing out the dirt. "It seems that Jarvis had this habit. He just couldn't see anyone else making money in one of his properties without wanting to cut himself in on it. You know his Treasure Galleon outlets carry just about everything. Anyhow, Jarvis'd buy up a craft center like this and then he'd go around to the more successful craftsmen there and tell them that if they were going to compete with him, they'd have to give him a percentage to keep their lease. And that's what he'd threatened Steven with!"

'Whew!' I could just imagine Steven's reaction. "That fits," I murmured. "Charlie said he'd heard Steven and Jarvis arguing and it was something about percentages."

"So Steven wanted to sue Lucy about that," Oliver continued, sounding satisfied. "But my lawyer said he wouldn't have a snowball's chance in Hell."

- Neither did Jarvis! - I remembered but didn't say it. "Is that where you've been all this time," I asked. "With Steven at your lawyer's office?"

"Of course, Daisy," Oliver was plaintive. "Not with Steven, I mean. That's all settled. I told you, everybody wants me to sign leases and ... Do you understand anything about liability?" Oliver asked.

"No, I don't!" I informed him and hung up.

Then it was back to business as another wave of customers arrived.

Friday's receipts were a definite record!

It wasn't until Saturday morning that I finally caught Lucy. And then, it was by simply showing up at the apartment and insisting on seeing her. Lucy's face showed the strain of the last two days and, although her manners were as sweet and polite as ever, her attitude toward me seemed a bit guarded. "Come in, Mrs. Carson," she greeted me. "I'm sorry, . . I've been so busy lately."

She led me across a white shag rug to an enormous, chunky-modern sofa covered in a knobby off-white material which sat behind a coffee table of smoke colored plexiglas. The walls of the room, which still smelled of new paint, were yet another shade of off-white, sparsely decorated with reproductions of Picasso black-and-white charcoal drawings. Behind the couch, one full wall of the long room was covered with bold black geometrical designs. Having seen Lucy's own colorful batik shawls, I was certain that the decor reflected the tastes of her late grandfather rather than her own.

"Would you like some coffee?" the girl asked politely.

I shook my head. "Not coffee - maybe a brandy Alexander, if you'll join me?"

She blinked. "I think there's some brandy ..."

"Fine," I responded. "Not too strong though ..."

Lucy went into the kitchen to comply with my unexpected request - I'd asked for brandy Alexander because they were complicated, not because I liked them - not at this hour. While Lucy was busy preparing the requested drink, I snooped around peeking through doors. Three opened to reveal innocent, luxurious off-white bedrooms and bathrooms ... The fourth, at the far end of the deep-carpeted hall, was locked. From behind it came a faint sound that could have been a television set.

I knocked softly but got no answer.

I stayed where I was and let Lucy find me. She nearly dropped the tray of brandy Alexanders. "Ah, if you're looking for the bathroom," she began, "it's ..."

For the safety of the carpet, I took the tray and led the way back to the living room couch. When we were seated, I asked, "Is your grandmother all right? We were afraid she might have caught cold out by the lake."