I slept late and woke up feeling vaguely disoriented. There was something I should be able to remember ...

Mrs. Arriola! I slipped on a housecoat and went in to check on her. She was still asleep, her breathing smooth and regular. I took her wrist and checked her pulse. Normal. While I was doing this, I noticed the time. Ten-thirty - it was late morning.

I went to the kitchen, turned on the TV, started a tea kettle, flipped through the channels and settled for the cable news channel. Anything was better than an assortment of video-evangelists. I kept the sound low while I caught up on events outside of Brazos City. The rest of the world seemed like a pleasant fantasy in contrast to our local turmoil.

I was brewing my second cup when I remembered the phone. I put the receiver back on the hook and, almost immediately, it rang.

"Daisy," it was Jonathan. "Are you all right?"

"Of course. Why shouldn't I be?"

"I've been trying to call you for nearly an hour," Jonathan complained. "Your line's been busy! I was afraid something might have happened!"

"I just woke up," I explained. "It's been off the hook."

"I suppose I should have guessed," he admitted with resignation.

Poor Jonathan. For all his insistence on logic and rational consideration, he is sometimes plagued with an overactive imagination. I could see him repeatedly trying to call and, getting no answer, being torn between imaginary fears that Mrs. Arriola had somehow done me in and knowing that he would appear the complete fool if he came rushing over to check on me. "Would you like to join me for breakfast?" I offered. "Would crepes sound good?"

Jonathan agreed with only a moment's hesitation. I was right - he had been worrying.

I dressed quickly and had the batter mixed, the pan hot and the table set when I heard Jonathan's car roll into the driveway. Mrs. Arriola was still sleeping.

Jonathan and I had been friends for several years but this was the first time we had shared a breakfast table. For that matter, it was the first time in several years that I'd had anyone sitting across the table at breakfast.

Our conversation was not about the Jarvis and Smith murders. Jonathan seemed determined to avoid the subject entirely, instead regaling me with stories of apocryphal literary works. "The most famous such," Jonathan informed me, "is a volume titled the 'Necronomicon' - supposedly a volume devoted to arcane mystical secrets. Since its original mention in H. P. Lovecraft's 'Cluthu' mythos, the 'Necronomicon' has acquired a fictional existence and a fame exceeding that of its literary parents. You're familiar with the 'Antiquarian Bookman'?"

The reference was to a weekly trade publication devoted to the affairs of used and rare bookdealers - the largest part of its weekly 100+ pages being devoted to ads listing out-of-print and rare volumes wanted by dealers across the country. To anyone except a bookman, the weekly magazine was slightly more exciting than an out-of-town phone book. I nodded in response to the question.

"Well, the 'Necronomicon' has, in the past, been something of a trade joke. Several times each year, some dealer - unaware of the fictional nature of the request - will include the title in his 'wants' listings. As I said, it's always been something of a joke."

"What happened?" I grinned. "Has somebody asked you to find them a copy?"

"Er, not quite." Jonathan poured himself another cup of coffee. "It was something that happened a few months ago ... I was asked to handle the sale of an estate library. While I was cataloguing the contents, I happened to find a rather lovely leather-bound volume, in excellent condition, almost mint ... The text was in a language and alphabet which I'd never seen before and the title was obscure, written ... Well, it isn't important. The point is that the book was a copy of the 'Necronomicon'."

"But you said ..."

"That it was an apocryphal title," Jonathan confirmed. "It was until a few years ago. It took me a bit of work to uncover the origin of the volume ... and, after calling several of my colleagues around the country and asking questions about it, I was also beginning to feel rather foolish. Of course," he grinned, "I had the last laugh when I did find out and included it - with background history - in my next catalog."

"So? Where did it come from?" I had to ask.

"It was created by fans of Lovecraft's stories. A special alphabet had been designed and the text was created by a computer according to linguistic rules set by the programmers. Only a limited number of volumes - I believe it was limited to 1000 - were printed and sold to other Lovecraft fans."

"I see," I tried to beat him to the punchline, "it was a 'Labor of Lovecraft'."

I firmly maintain that Jonathan's reaction was prompted by the fact that he had not thought of the pun. "That was not the point, Daisy," he informed me severely - after recovering from his coughing fit. "The point is that it isn't what you don't know that is important, it's what you do know ... that isn't so!"

"Just what is it that we do know that isn't so?"

"That, my dear, is what I have been wondering ... I must confess, I do not know. I am hoping that, before too long, we find out."

Breakfast was a nice change - I wondered if it would be too forward of me, some Sunday morning in the future, to call Jonathan and invite him over. Then I had to grin at myself - acting like a school girl at my age. I hid the grin while stacking the dishes in the sink ... and then the phone rang.

This time, it was David. "Daisy, have you heard anything from Uncle Jonathan? I've been trying to call him and nobody answers. He generally isn't out on Sunday mornings and I was wondering if he might have told you ..."

"He's right here, David," I told him. "We were just finishing breakfast." I heard something between an "Oh!" and a gulp from the phone ... which reminded me that, to David, Jonathan and I were both the older generation. I wondered if he were blushing. "Would you like to talk to him?" I asked.

While Jonathan was conversing with his nephew ... or, maybe, defending his honor - I grinned to myself again - I took the Sunday paper to the living room and left him in privacy.

The photos of Roland's trailer had received a prominent display on the front page. The story below, with David's byline, offered nothing that I had not already known. The final paragraph was a routine statement from the police department - inquiries were being vigorously pursued. Nothing was said about results.

A sidebar story was headed by the coroner's verdict - coronary resulting from pacemaker malfunction - with the rest of the story devoted to a non-technical review of pacemakers. The byline belonged to a local surgeon specializing in coronary disorders and the article appeared to be devoted more to reassuring pacemaker users of the rarity of the possible hazards than providing any realistic information to the reader.

There wasn't much else I cared to read about - no offense to David. Which suggested a possibility.

Jonathan looked up when I returned to the kitchen, then spoke into the phone, "Just a minute, here she is now," then addressed me. "Will you speak to the child?" he asked while covering the receiver with his hand.

I took the phone without comment - it was obvious that Jonathan had become aware of his nephew's misconceptions. I decided that discretion was the better part of valor and ignored Jonathan's glowering expression. "Hi, David," I picked up the conversation, "I just finished your lead story. Tell me, have you got anything on it that you couldn't print?"

"Not unless you're offering, er, Daisy. Uh, look, Uncle Jonathan's kind of teed off because ..."

"Forget it," I interrupted. "Your uncle's bark is much worse that his bite. What did you need?"

"Er, nothing really," David sounded deflated. "I was just wondering what you had on the story - if there was anything I can print, I mean?"

"Oh." I had been promising him a story. "Look," I temporized, "will you be home for a while?"

"I wasn't going anywhere in particular. Why? What's up?"

"Nothing at the moment. Tell you what, I'll call you back in a little while. Okay?"

David's agreement was granted reluctantly. I hung the phone up and went to check on Mrs. Arriola. She was fine, was still asleep. I went to my own bedroom and used the extension phone to call Lucy.

It took quite a bit of both persuasion and reassurance before Lucy would agree to my proposal. First, I had to reassure her that her grandmother was all right. Then I had to explain to her how much David already knew ... knew and had not revealed - in print or otherwise.

Having obtained her permission, however reluctantly - Lucy was as obstinate as David - I gave her David's description and told her that he'd be by to pick her up within an hour.

I had one other call to make before talking to David again. If I was going to have a house full of company, I'd better be able to feed them ... and I really didn't feel like spending the day cooking. Fortunately, Brazos City has an excellent delicatessen - operated by an Orthodox Jewish family.

Rosenstein's Deli closes at sunset on Friday but reopens - and does a landslide business - on Sundays.

After placing my order with Michla Rosenstein, I called David again and gave him his instructions: first, to go by the delicatessen and pick up my order; second, to pick up Lucy and, third, not to play the obnoxious reporter. I stressed the order of performance because, knowing David, if he picked Lucy up first, he would be so busy asking questions that he'd forget the delicatessen.

Then I informed Jonathan that we were expecting company ... and who.

"I can understand your invitation to Ms. Jarvis," Jonathan responded, "but I fail to comprehend your inclusion of my boorish nephew. Have you developed an unexpected streak of masochism? Or is this simply a manifestation of insanity resulting from undue stress?"

Instead of answering, I bent over and gave Jonathan a quick hug and a kiss on his cheek. "Are you just sore about being hung for a lamb in wolves clothing?" I suggested. "Careful, I might offer David 'the entire sordid story of our relationship'. Relax, Jonathan, it couldn't be that serious. Besides, it's the woman who's supposed to be embarrassed."

Jonathan has never been a 'male chauvinist'. While he has numerous - and ill-concealed - prejudices, I had never known him to demonstrate any which were based on sex or sexual relations. I wasn't sure what was bothering him.

Then he surprised me. "I beg your pardon, Daisy," he offered. "You are perfectly correct." Then he grinned one of his rare face-splitting grins. "With your permission, my dear," his voice was laughing, "perhaps I shall offer my errant nephew 'the entire sordid story of our relationship'. It might open new horizons for him. There are a couple of passages I recall from the Decammeron of Giovanni Boccaccio which might be relevant ..."

I started to make my own protests ... then stopped, thought a second and replied with my own grin. "All right," I told him, "there's just one condition ..."

Jonathan raised an eyebrow in lieu of a question.

"You'll have to fill me in on the details first," I insisted. "I prefer to know exactly what I've been doing." I offered my hand.

Jonathan let his grin relax into a smile and took my hand. We shook hands in perfect agreement ... and understanding.

I turned to washing the pans and dishes from breakfast. Behind me, Jonathan was silent. I looked around once and saw Jonathan, hands folded in reverie, his face shining from behind an intriguingly mischievous smile. I almost felt sorry for David ... and hoped that he wouldn't end up with an inferiority complex. Then I had a more interesting idea. "Maybe you should use it in writing a book," I suggested.

Jonathan blinked, then smiled again as he replied. "Perhaps you're right," he agreed. "There's only one problem ..."

I knew he was asking for a straight line but I obliged any way. "Problem," I responded. "What?"

"It's almost impossible," he offered plaintively, "to get banned in Boston. They're so permissive nowadays."

I handed him the dishtowel to cry into and went to answer the doorbell.

Lucy was at the door with David standing behind her ... with an exaggerated expression of cherubic innocence on his face, his hands in a pantomime of earnest prayer heavenwards.

I opened the door to admit the pair. "Your grandmother's still asleep," I told Lucy. "Go ahead if you'd like to look in on her. Did you pick up my order?" I turned to David. "Come on, I'll help you bring it in."

Once we were outside, "You're forgiven," I informed him. Then, remembering Jonathan's grin, I added cryptically, "Just be careful what you step in" - which was always sound advise for a west Texas boy.

While David and I carried in the provisions from the deli, Lucy satisfied herself about her grandmother's condition, then joined the three of us in the kitchen. My first concern was whether she or David had eaten breakfast - neither had. Jonathan's first concern was whether his impetuous nephew had been a nuisance to Lucy - to which both Lucy and David assured him, Jonathan, in concert, that he had not.

Obviously, the first order of business was to feed the two members of the younger generation. By the time that item had been handled to the satisfaction of their stomachs - and I wondered if I had ordered enough food - Mrs. Arriola was awake.

Lucy and I went to tend to her while David and Jonathan remained in the kitchen with, I suspected, Jonathan instructing David about questioning Mrs. Arriola. Jonathan does have a streak of protective courtesy - which usually extends to those who are either demonstratively older than himself or considerably younger.

Of course, I could be wrong. He could be feeding David installment one of the saga which he had been mentally composing.

As it turned out, I was wrong on both counts. When we returned to the kitchen, Jonathan and David were seated facing the TV ... and the beginnings of a customary Sunday's competition between two football teams. I shooed them with the television into the living room so that Mrs. Arriola could eat in peace.

Her appetite was healthy and reflected the fact that she had, very nearly, slept the clock 'round. Her response to Lucy's question about how she was feeling was reassuring, as was the twinkle which momentarily returned to her eyes when she heard my explanation to Lucy about why David was so incommunicative regarding Jonathan's presence at my house.

"Is no matter," she assured me, "I know man who have only one leg but father many time. Your Senior Bell fine man. You not worry!" she settled the question ... at least to her satisfaction.

"Ah, did you sleep okay?" I didn't want to ask about directly about the voices. I was afraid of upsetting Mrs. Arriola.

"Si," she answered. "Is very nice. Is very quiet here."

"Then nothing, er, disturbed you?"

"Ah," she twinkled at me. "Your Senior Bell. No, you are very quiet. Don't worry," she patted my arm. "I not say anything."

I had the feeling that my explanation had not been understood ... but I didn't pursue the question.

Her appetite settled another question - I hadn't ordered enough food. At the current rate of consumption ... I excused myself saying that I needed to run a few errands and left the house.

While I was gone, I stopped by the Compound and retrieved the three grocery sacks which I had left at my shop the day before. At least Mrs. Arriola could have her own toiletry articles. I stopped by the deli and replenished supplies, then returned home.

When I got back, Jonathan was expounding on "football as the contemporary religion of the masses" - which meant that either his team was losing or something particularly obnoxious - to him - had just happened on the field.

"Is there any particular difference," he was challenging Lucy and David, "between a pantheon of gods and their trials and conflicts and the organized and ritualized combat between two groups of totem figures - in this case, the Eagles and the Cowboys - complete with their interpreter priests residing loftily in a Press Box? For the average citizen, the degree of personal involvement is precisely equal to that of an early Roman in the affairs of Apollo."

"You're suggesting," Lucy began, "that the football field is a modern temple ..."

"... where the bodies of young warriors," David interjected with a note of his uncle's tone, "are sacrificed in combat ..."

"Ritual combat, please," Jonathan corrected him. "Complete with vestal virgins cavorting on the sidelines, virgin being a courtesy term," he forestalled objection.

"It's hardly fair to suggest," Lucy challenged, "that everyone treats the sport as a religion. There are lots of people who ... who couldn't even tell you who won last year's Superbowl."

"Such as Mrs. Balrymple?" Jonathan suggested.

"Well, yes, I suppose so ..." David wasn't sure which goal he was defending.

"There are other temples," Jonathan returned. "In her case, the vestments consist of jewels and fur coats, the scepter is a cocktail glass and the sacrificial offerings have their hearts torn dripping from their living reputations by the symbolically incarnadine nails of their executioners ..."

"Aren't you making her sound awfully vicious?" Lucy asked. "You're describing her like a violent murderess."

"She could be," Jonathan offered darkly. "I don't believe that you've met her, have you?"

Lucy responded in the negative and David in the affirmative.

"All right, David," Jonathan continued. "Would you care to offer an assessment of her character?"

"I would have said pompous but I suppose that there is a vicious streak in her nature. Are you suggesting that she could have been responsible for Jarvis' murder?"

"Humph, I hadn't suggested any such thing," Jonathan responded. "Why? Would you characterize her that way?"

"I don't see that there's anything unlikely about it ... unless you have a chauvinistic attitude toward murder?"

"Oh," Jonathan showed every sign of settling down to a fine argument. "What exactly would you call a chauvinistic attitude about murder?"

"The usual things - that poison is a woman's weapon, that women only commit crimes of passion, that women are the weaker sex, the usual stereotypes ... They really aren't true," David added.

"Lucy," Jonathan mediated, "would you care to defend your sex?"

"Against what?" Lucy refused to be drawn. "He's right. There's no reason to exclude her on the basis of sex. But is there any reason to include her? You know more about her than I do - as far as I know, she's a perfect stranger - what about motive?"

"Daisy, you should have some opinion," Jonathan turned to me. "Any comment?"

"No," I responded automatically, then added, "Actually, I suppose that she would be capable of anything. What, exactly, are you accusing her of?"

"She could have done all of it," David offered. "Look, she's been around here enough. Daisy, have you ever seen Mrs. Balrymple around the Compound before this week?"

Not that I could recall for certain. I shook my head.

"Well - we've been wondering who Jarvis' backer was - why not Mrs. Balrymple?" David proposed, "Apparently she has money. Why couldn't she have been involved in it from that angle?"

"Granddaddy and Mrs. Balrymple?" Lucy was skeptical. "You think that she hit him over the head and stuffed him in the kiln? It ... it's unbelievable ..."

"Actually," Jonathan offered a considered opinion, "there is no particular reason why she couldn't have. From a physical standpoint, I would have to judge that she's certainly strong enough. Another point, what if she dropped the package herself - the one that Steven found with the teapot and jewelry? Suppose that, excuse me Lucy, she was trying to fence them to Mr. Jarvis. Maybe she didn't like the price he offered? Motive, I understand, is not required to prove guilt."

"But she'd reported the robbery," David countered, "that morning. It's on the blotter at the station. Why would she do that? Why not just sell the stuff - she'd get a better price?"

"But not and collect the insurance," Jonathan was enjoying himself. "I doubt that it would be the first time that a robbery was staged to defraud the insurance company."

"Hey, wait a minute," Lucy had her own ideas. "What about the gardener? The one who was supposed to have robbed Mrs. Balrymple? What if he was delivering the goods to someone here? You've suggested that a fence was involved. It could have been that Granddaddy surprised him and he got killed because of it ..." Lucy was still hoping to exonerate her grandfather.

"I suppose that could be possible," Jonathan admitted, "but that doesn't explain the location. Why in the kiln yard? I don't believe that Mr. Jarvis would have accompanied anyone back there unless ... Yes, it could be, Lucy. If your grandfather saw someone ducking back there, he might have followed them ..."

"Sorry, Uncle," David interrupted. "I'm afraid that it won't wash. Er, I guess that I forgot to mention something. The gardener, Mario Rodriguez, has an alibi for Wednesday evening."

"An alibi?" Jonathan echoed. "I wasn't aware that he'd been found. The police have him in custody?"

"Ah, no, they don't," David replied, "but his alibi for the murder is pretty strong. It seems that he was arrested Wednesday afternoon in Sweetwater on a charge of possession with intent to sell. Narcotics," David amplified. "Marijuana. The police there didn't know he was wanted here and, by the time they found out, he'd already been released."

"Released? Why?" I asked.

"It wasn't marijuana," David explained. "It was oregano. He was selling home-rolled joints - tobacco and oregano mixed - to kids at the park. The police had to drop the charges. It wasn't until later that they crossed his prints and came up with his rap sheet. Then they contacted the police here and found out that he was in violation of his parole and wanted for questioning."

"Do you know when Emilio was released?" I asked. "Sweetwater's only an hour and a half's drive. Could he have been back in Brazos City in time to kill Jarvis?"

"About an hour's drive," David corrected me. "If you're not worrying about the speed limit ... and don't get stopped. But, sorry, it won't wash. The police picked him up about five and didn't release him until after seven. It took them that long to get to checking the evidence - they'd pulled in about a dozen teenagers with him. There was quite an uproar when they found out about the oregano - then they had to drop the charges."

"Never mind the oregano," Jonathan returned to the point. "Why was Emilio on parole? What had he been convicted on?"

"Two to ten," David answered. "For burglary. He'd burglarized a house where he was employed as a gardener."

Lucy blinked. "But that supports Mrs. Balrymple's story."

"She wasn't a very strong suspect anyway," Jonathan said. "I really doubt that she'd be Mr. Jarvis' backer under any circumstances. Her husband is a banker," he added as a note of finality.

It was too much for me to resist. "Are you canonizing bankers, Jonathan? I don't see that the connection proves anything about her innocence."

"Daisy," Jonathan explained patiently, "At today's interest rates, no banker, or banker's wife, is going to be loaning money at the interest rate that Oliver was paying. The interest rate was usury, true, but it was two percentage points less than the prime. I think that we'll have to look elsewhere."

"I think he's right, Daisy," David agreed. "Look - I don't mean to pick on anyone - but what about Charlie Ruggles. Jarvis gave him a pretty rough time ... according to your reports. He had opportunity, motive and means."

David was right - but I would as soon suspect myself. It appeared that Jonathan and Lucy both agreed - Jonathan snorted and Lucy simply said "David!" but the tone was clear.

"Well, what about Steven?" David continued. "The same factors apply to him."

"David," Jonathan addressed him, "as far as that goes, they apply to everyone who was there. Item one, Jarvis was distinctly unpleasant to Steven, Oliver, Ginger, Ronnie, Daisy, Charlie and myself. There you have seven suspects - all with motive, means and, I fear, opportunity."

"If you're going to be fair," Lucy interrupted, "you'll have to make it nine - you're forgetting Grandmother ... and me."

Mrs. Arriola looked up at Lucy's mention. She, alone, was still watching the football game. "It is the Eagles," she announced. "It is 14 - 13."

"Ah, yes," Jonathan thanked her. "Humph, I believe that we might - for purposes of discussion - exonerate those present ... yourself included, David. I admit," he raised a hand, "that I can not offer a definitive basis for innocence for any of us but may we simply begin with this as a premise?" Taking our silence for agreement, he continued. "Personally, I tend to doubt that Oliver is guilty but I can offer no evidence which would exclude him. He certainly gained the most by Jarvis' death ..."

"And Roland Smith's?" I asked.

"Harumph!" Jonathan gave me a disagreeable look. "Very well, what do we have on Roland as a suspect? Could he have committed the murder and then have been killed by a second party?"

"Uncle Jonathan," David challenged, "I believe that you're reaching. I know of no evidence connecting Mr. Smith with anything. Except his death," he added.

There was one other connection ... but I hadn't told him about it.

"Does nobody care to offer evidence?" Jonathan rumbled. "Very well, the court directs a verdict of 'Not Proven'. A fine old Scottish custom," he added with a lectorial air.

"What about Mr. McCoy?" Lucy asked hesitantly. "I ... He doesn't seem like the type ... but ... it was his kiln."

Several hours later, when our unofficial court recessed ... still with nothing settled, the provisions had diminished greatly but our list of suspects had not. Nobody had been found guilty ... and nobody had been totally cleared.

Jonathan, declining my joking suggestion, did not stay the night but rather pointedly escorted Lucy back to her apartment. David left alone ... and, still, sans story. Mrs. Arriola stayed with me.

Normally, I would have considered the hour to be early but, in spite of a relatively restful day, I decided on an early bedtime. Mrs. Arriola did likewise.

I wondered what kind of dreams I would to have tonight.