I began with a hot bath, then went to bed. I didn't remember going to sleep but I found myself remembering those strange furry insects ... but now they were speaking English, not Spanish ... and that was proper!

Suddenly, I wasn't asleep, only in that state half-way between waking and sleeping and I found myself considering the wildest idea of all.

Suppose that nobody was crazy. Not Mrs. Arriola, not the murderer, not even Mrs. Balrymple. And suppose that nobody was psychic, that Mrs. Arriola's voices were neither ghosts nor phantoms from her subconscious mind. And suppose that none of the coincidences were really coincidence. Suppose that it all really made sense - everything!

Of course the furry insect creatures spoke English! The odd thing was that they spoke Spanish too. That was what had bothered me!

I don't know how long I lay there hardly daring to breath. I was certain that I was awake ... but I was afraid that I was dreaming. If I wasn't ... Then facts began to fall into place ... gently and neatly ... each in it's proper spot - like leaves falling into a pond.

The voices? They were neither an insane figment of Mrs. Arriola imagination nor ... Well, they were part of a plot, true, but not the plot that we'd thought about. Of course they'd talked about murder ... but they'd also been talking about much more. The facts were falling into place ... now that I knew they were facts.

Coincidence? Not really! Coincidence is usually just a way of saying "I don't understand the connection!" The turquoise from Oliver's necklace? That might be coincidence - I didn't know, but ... it didn't matter.

The kiln cremation? The crane? They weren't just crazy trimmings. They had nothing to do with framing anybody. They were simply the most practical way for the murderer to accomplish a perfectly sane purpose ... A perfectly sane and sensible motive - if murder is ever sane. Everything fitted!

I forced myself to move, half afraid that doing so would wake me up, that it was still all a dream. The cold floor beneath my fee as I slid out of bed was reassuring - I never dream about cold floors! Of course, I'd never dreamed about murder before either.

I crossed over to my small writing desk - very carefully - trying not to disturb the shaky structure of ideas that felt like a crazy house of cards balanced on top of my head. Finding a yellow paper spiral notebook and a ball-point, I got back in bed, arranged the pillows behind me and started writing it all down.

After two pages, I thought I had it all, at least the main points, and I thought I knew how to prove it. My watch was by the telephone. It was only ten o'clock - not late at all.

I couldn't find my phone book but dialing Information gave me the number I needed. I called Brazos City's one and only talent booking agent - at home - but that was nothing new to him. A lot of his business was done at home.

Monday bookings weren't a hot item, he assured me, so there shouldn't be any particular difficulty. If I wanted, he could check and then call me back.

If I wanted? Definitely!

While I waited for the call, I made a list, things to do, tomorrow. First, I needed to go by Radio Shack, then check with the insurance company and call Lucy ... No, the last two could wait until I'd been to the Library and the Bank.

The phone rang, I answered. Everything was arranged just as I'd asked, no problems. I expressed my thanks and apologized for calling at such a late hour. Then, I went back to sleep.

That night, I slept soundly and - as far as memory served - without further dreams.

* * *

Shortly after sunrise, Mrs. Arriola woke me with a hot cup of tea. "Buenos dias, Seņora Carson," she smiled at me. "You feel all right now?" Her voice was full of concern as she set the cup on my bedside table.

Something felt backwards ... I blinked myself awake and sat up. Oh, yes . . . it should have been me asking her how she felt.

Mrs. Arriola was beaming happily. "You sleep so late," she continued, "I think maybe you not feel so good. Hokay, I fix you huevos rancheros." She started briskly towards the door.

"Hey, wait a minute," I said. "Come back." I pulled my feet up and patted the foot of my bed. "Sit down and tell me how you are?" She looked the picture of recuperation. There wasn't a hair out of place and her Dacron maid's uniform appeared to have been freshly washed. Now that I was more or less awake, I could hear the sound of my clothes dryer running. "How long have you been up?"

She sat down and twinkled at me. "Me, I get up early, like always. I wash clothes in 'canasta', I clean up the living room ..."

I asked her bluntly: "You seem to be feeling all right now. What happened to your voices?"

She leaned toward me confidentially. "You know, I figure that all out!"

Vague memories from psychology classes floated through my mind. Catharsis? Breakthrough? Since she looked eager to tell me, I asked politely, "What did you figure out?" ... and braced myself for all sorts of Freudian revelations.

She nodded wisely. "That fancy apartment house, it's haunted. You tell Mr. Fulton, he go get a priest to come and get rid of that ghost in there." She made a face of fastidious distaste. "That ghost, he's a bad one!"

"You mean ... You haven't heard any more voices?"

"No, no," she gave a judicious nod of approval. "Ghost there, not here! But your house, it has very good vibrations - no ghosts." She rose briskly to her feet. "Hokay, I fix you breakfast."

As she left the room, I decided that Mrs. Arriola was saner and more resilient than all the rest of us put together ... Then I remembered last night! Now I knew I was awake ... and everything still made sense.

I reached for my notebook and reread the notes I'd made the night before. There was one item I'd forgotten, "Brownies" I wrote on a separate sheet and added a line of question marks. Then I added another note to my two pages of explanation.

I found my slippers and a bathrobe and went into the kitchen - which now smelled pleasantly of all sorts of herbs I didn't even know I had. "Mrs. Arriola, have you talked to Lucy today?"

The old woman was wiping the leaves of my potted avocado tree with a damp paper towel. "No, no," she replied absently. "Young girls, they need their rest."

I looked at the clock. It was still too early to do anything. Oh, well, I was up and awake ... I decided I may as well stay that way. I went back to my bedroom and dressed. Then I called David - who was most definitely not awake.

"Do you still want your story?" I asked - which produced an immediate change in his state of consciousness. "Look," I instructed him, "have some coffee ... and wash it down with a good breakfast. Then, when you're completely awake, call me and I'll fill you in. There is one item, I want you ... Look, see if Lucy's up and, if she hasn't eaten, take her out and feed her. I'm planning to keep both of you busy this morning ... No, not right now. I'll explain later ... Later," I insisted and hung up.

When I came back to the kitchen, Mrs. Arriola greeted me hopefully with, "You ready for breakfast now?"

I didn't argue. It smelled wonderful. While I ate, I explained to Mrs. Arriola what I was planning and what I wanted her to do.

When I had cleaned my plate - and refused additional helpings - I checked to be sure that the arrangements were clear. "Now, I want you to promise - keep the doors locked, don't go out, don't let anybody in ... unless it's me, Jonathan, David or Lucy. Not anybody, okay?"

She nodded comprehension. "The police, they after you now?"

"No, not yet anyway," I admitted. "If anyone calls, I guess ... Look, if it's one of us, we'll let it ring twice, hang up and then call again, okay?" It was the same arrangement Lucy and I had made Saturday but I doubted that Mrs. Arriola would have been aware of it.

"Si! Two rings, wait. No two rings, no answer."

"Okay, fine," I confirmed, heading for the door. "I'll see you later. Bye."

"'Asta luego, Seņora Carson," she called after me. "You have nice day."

The bank wasn't open yet but the library kept early hours. There, I xeroxed two extra copies of my handwritten solution on the public machine in the basement. My appointment at the Craft Compound wasn't until ten-thirty. It was eight-thirty now. I had plenty of time.

My next stop was at Radio Shack. Luckily, the dignified white-haired manager, Mr. Mangan, for whom I had once ordered a set of monogrammed wine glasses, was in early and we had a nice long conference. At least, I thought it was a nice conference. He kept shaking his head disapprovingly and saying "Well, I suppose it would work but only an amateur would have thought of it!"

At the end of a half-hour, we had hashed out two solid possibilities: what might have happened and what the most likely results of my investigation would be. Assuming, he reminded me, that my wild ideas had any validity at all.

By then, it was time for the bank to be open for business. I placed the original of my handwritten notes in my safe-deposit box. Then I bummed an envelope from a puzzled loan officer's secretary, found a stamp in my purse and posted one copy to a Mrs. Alfred E. Neuman - at an address that the post office would never be able to find. Jonathan's name and address went in the upper left-hand corner.

That, I thought, should cover the possibilities of my being murdered or kidnapped - not that I expected either event.

That left the insurance company yet to be checked, an item which I decided to leave to David. I was running late and, also, I didn't have the faintest idea which insurance company to approach ... or how!

I also had to pick up Mrs. Arriola.

She was waiting when I returned to my house. While she was obviously amused by my instructions, she was willing to cooperate. The apartments were not due for occupancy until later in the week, the only problem I was concerned with would be prospective renters looking over the property.

Maybe because it was Monday - or maybe because it was still too early at nine-thirty - the only creature about at the Bonneview was a large grey tomcat who was less interested in us that the fact that we'd disturbed his repose in the warm sun.

Once inside the building, I relaxed. Mrs. Arriola didn't.

"The voices?" I asked.

"Si! They are ... They are not very nice," she informed me.

"But you can hear them all right?" I asked, looking around to be sure that the hall was empty.

"Oh, si, I hear them," she wasn't pleased by the admission. "As we are driving here - when we come close - they begin calling to me. These ghosts, they are not nice." She crossed herself.

"Can you stand it for a few hours?"

"Si, it is only the ghosts," she assured me with a hand laid on my arm. "They do not harm me. It is only that ... is not good talk. Is no matter. Besides, they are not ... They say the same thing again and again."

"Not original," Lucy supplied as she opened the door.

"Si, that is it. Buenos dias," Mrs. Arriola kissed Lucy on the cheek.

"Are you all right, Abuela? The voices . . ?" Lucy echoed my question.

"Is ghost," Mrs. Arriola said firmly. "They are no matter. Es no importante!"

A few minutes sufficed to explain to Lucy what I had planned ... and a few more to explain why! "Look, Lucy, I've got to go now. If there's any problem, you have both numbers - Jonathan's and mine - just call and one of us will be right over." I repeated the instructions for Mrs. Arriola. "Now, remember, write down the names and, if some are louder than others, make a note of it."

"Si, I understand," she nodded as she waved a pad and pencil at me. "But why, Seņora Carson, you think ghosts will make music?"

* * *

When I crossed the alley to the Compound, everything seemed almost normal. It was almost as if the hiatus of the weekend had allowed the hysteria of the previous week to dissipate, returning the Craft Compound to its normal calm condition.

Mister del Fuego - or possibly I should say Seņor del Fuego, since he was dressed in traditional Spanish festival costume - was waiting outside my shop. "I realize I am early, Mrs. Carson, but I understood that you had some special instructions for us?"

"Yes, I do. Won't you come in?" I unlocked the door and switched on the lights. "Please, sit down while I get things ready. Coffee?" I offered, turning on the percolator. "It's instant but it will take a moment for the water to get hot." I had to put change in the cash drawer, put out the OPEN sign, ... the usual details of opening up the store. I also checked next door but Jonathan had not yet made his appearance.

"Now," I joined Mr. del Fuego at the coffee table, "you're familiar with the layout of the Craft Compound?" The question was rhetorical - I knew he was, he and his mariachi band had performed here before. "I have a list," I handed him the sheet, "of the songs that I'd like you to perform and," I tapped the list for emphasis, "the locations where each song should be done."

He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"I know," I admitted, "it sounds silly. Look, I'll try to explain but, later, okay?"

"You're the boss, Seņora, but there is one thing ..."

"Yes?"

"Don't you ever get tired of 'Cielito Lindo'?" he grinned and pointed at the sheet.

He was right, I'd listed the same number twice - at two different locations. "Sorry," I apologized, "it's been that kind of a week. What would you suggest?"

I crossed off the duplication and penciled in the change on his copy, then did the same to my copy. "There, that should take care of things."

"It is still a limited repertoire, is this all that you want us to perform?" Mr. del Fuego seemed unhappy at the thought of being so restricted.

"I hope not," I responded. "I certainly hope not. I hope that one time through the list will be enough. Or less," I added.

He seemed reassured though still puzzled. We were interrupted, first, by an early customer and then by Jonathan's arrival.

Jonathan waited quietly - an unusual occurrence - until Mr. del Fuego had departed to gather the rest of his mariachia band. "It seems reasonable," Jonathan began, "to surmise that you have made plans for some type of stunt. I don't suppose that you would care to explain to me," his voice was adding 'you'd better - or else', "just exactly what is behind this?"

I'd been wondering just exactly when and how I should break it to him. "To put it bluntly, Jonathan," I faced him, "I believe that I've solved the mystery."

"And?" The message in his voice hadn't changed.

"And," I explained patiently, "this is the first step to proving 'who-dun-it'. Incidentally, do you know where David is?"

"Not precisely," Jonathan responded, "but I expect that we will be hearing from him quickly enough. He has," he informed me, "already called twice before I left the house. The first time," he added, "before I was awake. He wanted to ask me if there were any special instructions. I did not reply with the obvious. Which brings up another point: exactly what do we want him to do? You either were not at home or were not answering your phone to provide this intelligence."

"Well, yes, er, no, I mean ... Jonathan! If you will just shut up a minute, I'll tell you about it." He did - which surprised me. But circumstances - and Oliver's entrance - made a liar out of me.

"Daisy, I have to talk to you," Oliver's voice interrupted us. "It's important!"

"Just as soon as I can," I added to Jonathan. "Look, when David calls again, tell him to go to Lucy's apartment and to stay there with her. Mrs. Arriola is there and they might need protection, okay?" I didn't wait for Jonathan's answer but took Oliver's arm and steered him out the door. "Where in hell have you been?" I demanded.

"In Dallas," he sounded surprised. "Didn't Mr. Bell tell you?"

I didn't answer that. "All right, Oliver, what's so important?"

"It's about Steven," he whispered. "Look, let's go to my office. I don't want anybody to hear me."

I followed Oliver to his office. Once we were inside, he carefully closed and locked the door, then turned to me. "Daisy, I've solved the mystery!"