The sudden blackout was the opening cue for a rococo chorale for mixed voices counterpointed by a shattering crash and a fleeting draft of night air - the coda provided by a slamming door con molto excessivio.

"Mr. Martin?" Jonathan's voice rose slightly. "The lights, please!"

The returning lights revealed the fragmented remains of Oliver's Dedham Ware vase surrounding a foil wrapped package. I collapsed on the edge of Oliver's desk with a sigh of relief mimicking a punctured tire. Jonathan was maintaining his usual savoir faire, a barely recognizable upturn at the corners of his mouth revealing his satisfaction.

The room was emptier than it had been moments before ... Ronnie and Ginger had vanished. Miss Endicott was rubbing her ankle. Steven was regarding the smashed vase with a strange expression while Mrs. Balrymple seemed to be seeking her guards to demand an explanation. Harry Martin was standing with his hand on the light switch as if expecting applause for his contribution - he'd been right on cue.

Oliver was stunned, demanding "Daisy, what is going on?" and Lucy was trying to hug her grandmother and pacify Oliver at the same time. I ignored everyone. Jonathan stretched a leisurely hand for the Star Wars Space Radio. "Tallyho," he enunciated, "they're all yours!"

"... nobody coming this way ... watching . . ," the radio crackled in response.

I used a couple more choice phrases that my late husband hadn't known were included in my vocabulary. "The keys," I added.

"The keys?" Jonathan favored me with the attitude of one indulging an idiot.

"The master keys," I explained. "Charlie's key ring, it's been missing since Wednesday night. They must have found them!"

Jonathan didn't waste time on questions or recriminations. "They have the keys to the gates," he informed the radio. "They must have gone out another way. Check the parking lot."

"... away ... ming in." the static-broken voice replied.

Mr. McFarland burst through the door followed, a moment later, by David and Mr. Mangan with Charlie bringing up the rear. The security officer had already reached for the phone and was dialing with automatic familarity. "Hello," he barked, "Sargent McFarland here. Give me Dispatching, pronto ... Sherry? McFarland! Get a squad car out to ... Damn, what's the address?" he demanded of me.

They wouldn't be going to their apartment next door - where then? "Out by the lake," I responded. "I don't know the address but," I added directions for finding the Hartley's cabin.

Mr. ... Sergeant McFarland was relaying the directions, then added "... all points bulletin for an '80 Dodge van, Texas plates MKF-794, dark brown with a red and gold desert panorama across the panels - two occupants ..." Here he added remarkably accurate descriptions - I hadn't thought he'd observed them so clearly. "... suspected of two counts of Murder One. May be armed - consider dangerous. Roust Lt. Murphrey - tell him we've got a break - and send the tech boys to the Craft Compound - back gate, I'll be waiting for them ... Right, better send a couple and tell Judge Hardesty, we'll ... Never mind, I'll tell him myself.

"Now," he turned to us as he replaced the receiver. "First, nobody leaves here and, second," he was addressing Jonathan and myself, "I'd like a few answers. You can begin by explaining this little charade of yours."

Behind him, David had appropriated the telephone and was dialing with an equal familiarity. Miss Endicott was calmly gathering the remains of the broken vase and Charlie was hastening to lend a hand. Olive was making soft noises of incomprehension while Lucy explained to her grandmother that everything had worked out fine.

Steven was displaying an unexpected of the situation. "Those two damn turkeys put that Jarvis rat in my kiln?" he demanded of Jonathan and me. "Why? I ain't never done anything to them!"

Mrs. Balrymple was equally monomaniacal. "Would you mind explaining," she was demanding, "just what this has to do with recovering my furs?"

"Ginger ..." Oliver's voice was faint with disbelief, "... and Ronnie? But ..."

"If you'll all be patient," I began, "it's a long story ..."

"And you can begin," Sergeant McFarland's suggestion appeared to be an order, "by explaining this evening's little ..." He was repeating himself.

"Well ..." Jonathan and I echoed each other.

"Harumph!" Jonathan snorted. "Daisy, I yield the floor."

"Thank you," I responded. "Perhaps, I should begin," I nodded to Mrs. Balrymple, "by explaining that I doubt that your furs will ever be recovered. I understand that they were, ah, insured ... adequately?"

Mrs. Balrymple started, a variety of emotions fleeting across her face. "Are you sure . . ?"

I nodded. "I'm sure. You see, that was the reason that Jarvis' body was in the kiln."

"But Daisy," Oliver broke in. "I thought that was how he was killed!"

"Sergeant," I asked, "I haven't heard the corner's report. Was Jarvis alive or dead when he was placed in the kiln?"

"It hasn't been released yet," Sergeant McFarland growled with a gesture of his head toward David - who was definitely listening. "Okay," he resumed after a moment's thought, "you may as well have it. Doc says dead - no charring in the lungs. Can you tie it in?"

"I believe so. Your furs, Mrs. Balrymple, were stolen by your gardener, Emilio, along with some jewelry and your teapot. Correct?"

Her response was a tight-lipped nod.

"Furs, as Jonathan remarked a few days ago, are bulky - very difficult to conceal. The, ah, jewelry is not such a problem. The mountings can be broken up and melted, the gems reset or disposed of unset. There's no great problem in disposing of them or concealing them. If nothing else, you can put them in a bag, attach a line and drop them in the lake. Water doesn't hurt them. For that matter," the thought struck me, "you could conceal them in a gas tank the same way."

"But the pearls . . ," Mrs. Balrymple blurted.

"At any rate, your jewelry was recovered - which I suspect was the one mistake that the Hartleys made." I ignored her interruption. "Dropping that package while disposing of Jarvis's body, I mean. Of course, it could have been intentional - another bit of misdirection intended to implicate Emilio.

"As for the teapot," I continued, "it's a difficult item to conceal or to dispose of quickly. Assuming that all of the items Emilio stole from you were within the confines of the Craft Compound, why were only those items which could most easily be concealed recovered while only those which could not be concealed vanished. Excepting the teapot," I added.

"But we don't know that they were here," Oliver protested.

"What's all this got to do with my kiln?" Steven glowered.

"That," I stressed, "is where the furs were!"

"They ... they used my kiln," Steven was gasping at the true enormity of the crime, "as an incinerator!"

Mrs. Balrymple appeared to be on the verge of fainting. "Thank god!" she breathed.

"Then ... Jarvis ... was subterfuge?" Oliver's astonishment was visible in every word. "But why?"

"Misdirection, yes," I explained. "But not entirely - only the method of his disposal. Placing the body in the kiln was superb camouflage for disposing of the unconcealable furs. His murder was deliberate!"

"But why?" Oliver echoed.

"Because Ronnie and Ginger were Jarvis' backers!" I dropped my bombshell. Then, to be honest, I added: "At least one of his backers. I don't know if they were the only source or what."

Oliver's face looked like a spring dawn as realization struck him. "You mean ... Ginger and Ronnie ... But the money ... They were fences!" he finished the chain of reasoning.

"Oliver," Jonathan broke in with a tired voice, "I have never heard so many unsupported conclusions drawn from such a meager body of evidence. Unfortunately," he raised a hand to forestall interruption. "Unfortunately, they happen to be correct. The Hartleys were, indeed, receivers of stolen merchandise. I assume, Sergeant, that you might like to instruct your men to proceed with a search of their lake property? I'm inclined to suspect that some quantities of stolen goods might be recovered as evidence. Allow us to hope so.

"As for the unsupported theories which are being advanced here this evening, it should not be overly difficult, armed with hindsight, to trace the financial connections between Jarvis and the Hartleys. I believe that we can safely leave that trail for the authorities to follow."

"That's right," Sergeant McFarland assured us in his best authoritarian voice, "you can leave that to us. But," he added on a softer note, "what about the voices and the bugs?"

"I'm afraid that's my fault," Lucy offered. "If I hadn't told Ronnie about Grandmother's voices ..."

"They might never have gotten caught," I finished for her. "Of course, that would have left Mrs. Arriola under suspicion. She really isn't cut out for being a fugitive."

"Speaking of which," Sergeant McFarland recovered. "I believe that the Lieutenant would like to ask you a few questions," he addressed Mrs. Arriola. "Such as how your finger prints came to be on a certain wrench?"

"I think that can be easily explained, Sergeant," Jonathan leapt on the question - determined to protect Mrs. Arriola from harassment. "I'm sure that she will be glad to provide you with a statement. The fact is," he filled in the blanks, "that Mrs. Arriola was in the courtyard looking for a scarf which she had dropped earlier while delivering some merchandise to one of the stores. When she heard the burners going, she naturally checked to see what was happening. Finding the kiln yard empty and evidence that the kiln had not yet been loaded, she assumed a prank and turned the gas off. Then she left, returning to her apartment." Jonathan finished on a note that brooked no questions.

"Her position was complicated," he added, "by personal matters as well as the plot by the Hartleys to, er, undermine her sanity and discredit any testimony which she might offer. I have heard," he continued, "some suggestions that Mrs. Arriola was being sought by the police - if there is any substance to these rumors," he stressed the word, "I would be inclined to inquire why the authorities did not simply inquire of her granddaughter as to her whereabouts. I'm sure that any proper request would have brought her forward to answer any questions which you might have wished to ask." Jonathan was conveniently ignoring the fact that the 'authorities' had been unaware of the relationship between Lucy and Mrs. Arriola.

"All this is beside the point," he changed the subject. "The point was that Ronnie Hartley had the necessary knowledge to stage this assault on Mrs. Arriola's sanity - knowledge which was not common to the other suspects."

"But ..." Oliver interrupted.

"Yes, Oliver?" Jonathan turned to his interrogator.

"But I knew ..." Oliver admitted. "So did you and Daisy . . !"

"And so did Lucy," Jonathan finished the listing. "Are you suggesting the four of us as likely suspects? Perhaps we should consider you! Now, just when did you find out about ..."

"Me?" Oliver yelped. "But I didn't know until ... until Friday!" he finished triumphantly.

"That was when the voices ..."

"Jonathan!" I interrupted him.

"Harumph! Well, as I was saying, ah, necessary knowledge! Now, a second point, Mrs. Arriola heard the voices - or a voice - speaking repeatedly phrases like 'we've got to kill him' and 'it's the only way'. Certain items suggest themselves, beginning with the fact that she had no difficulty at all in understanding them."

"But if they were speaking loudly . . ," David interrupted this time.

"I don't believe that volume of voice is a pertinent fact," Jonathan commented. "If I recall my basic physics, which I do, the distance between transmitter and receiver would be far more important. The second point which I was about to mention was that this voice was only heard during prime-time or later."

"But I thought that television had been eliminated," David protested.

"Quite so," Jonathan responded with pleasure. "The real point is ..."

"But the Compound is closed!" Oliver interrupted. "Charlie locks the gates at six! The Hartleys wouldn't have been here!"

"Elementary, my dear Fulton," Jonathan misquoted. "The bug did nothing in the night time. At least, the bug in their shop ... What Mrs. Arriola was hearing so clearly had to be coming from ..."

"Jonathan!" I interrupted. "There's our proof! In the Hartleys apartment!"

"Daisy, I could not love thee ..." He broke off when I glared at him. "Daisy," he tried again, "it still doesn't prove anything except that Smith was bugging both their shop and apartment. It doesn't prove that they did anything!"

"But of course it does," I replied. "It was all in the voices."

"Daisy, dear Daisy," Jonathan resumed.

"Uncle Jonathan," David's voice bore an avuncular resemblance, "if you could distract yourself from sweet talking Daisy, we would like to know why - according to your theory - the Hartleys would have killed J. D. Jarvis? If they were his backers . . ?"

"Motive," Jonathan retaliated, "has never been required to prove guilt!" He paused but resumed under a glaring stare from both of us. "Well, I believe that we have established that the Hartleys were Jonathan's backers. If I may be permitted to add to the surreal abundance of surmise which has been present this evening, I would like to venture the proposition that, not only did the Hartleys introduce J. D. Jarvis to Oliver as a potential investor ..."

"That's right," Lucy interrupted. "Because I introduced Ronnie to Grandfather."

"As I was saying," Jonathan resumed. "But that they intended, from the first, to force Oliver out of the Craft Compound.

"Huh?" Oliver didn't believe what he was hearing. "You mean that they wanted Jarvis to foreclose? But ... at the meeting ... They said ... something."

"I believe the exact remark," Jonathan replied, "was 'you'd be better advised to wait until you've had a chance to talk to them', the referent of them being the backer in question."

"Yeah!" Oliver agreed. "Ronnie said that! Doesn't that prove that you're wrong about them?"

I'd forgotten that! It bothered me, too.

"If I may be permitted to complete my theory ..." Jonathan paused. "Thank you. As I was saying, the Hartleys wanted Oliver out. Oliver, you have keys to all the businesses in the Compound, do you not?"

"Yes, but ..."

"And also to the apartments?"

"Certainly but ..."

"Charlie," Jonathan shifted his interrogation, "you have a complete set of keys also?"

"Mister Bell, you know that. How else could I fix things?" Charlie asked.

Jonathan ignored the question. "Charlie, here, is the other person that they needed out of the way."

"Charlie?" Oliver wondered. "But what's he ever done?"

"Charlie," Jonathan explained patiently, "is helpful. I'm sure that we're all aware of that. How often have each of us come in carrying a package and had Charlie insist on helping? It wasn't anything personal, Charlie, just that they were afraid that you might see something being brought in or ... Well, like the package Wednesday night, ...

"The same thing applies to you, Oliver," Jonathan continued. "With the keys in your possession and the clause in the leases allowing you to inspect the premises of any of the businesses, you constituted a positive threat to their, ah, illicit enterprises."

"But," Oliver still didn't understand, "why would they kill Jarvis? If he was doing what they wanted . . ?"

"You are not the only person who was being double-crossed," Jonathan explained. "Jarvis was double-crossing the Hartleys also. Lucy, I believe that you mentioned a quarterly payment? Was that the only, ah, obligation Jarvis had."

"I've been over Grandfather's business papers," Lucy answered. "The only thing I've found that's relative was an unsecured note requiring quarterly payments to an account in a Houston bank. Grandfather's mortgage on the Compound didn't list anyone else. I mean, he holds ... held," she corrected herself, "the entire thing."

"Then," Jonathan filled in the blanks, "the Hartleys had no control over Jarvis - not as long as he made the quarterly payments. He was left with complete freedom to do anything that he wanted."

"I'm afraid so, Mister Bell," Lucy confirmed. "Of course, there could be some other contract that I don't know about ... But why do you say that Grandfather was double-crossing them?"

"Perhaps I should have used the term 'blackmail'," Jonathan continued. "Effectively, that was the result. Jarvis was using their money to take-over the property and, by establishing another of his Treasure Chests, squeezing them out. As long as he made the required payments, there was nothing that they could do about it. You might say that they found themselves in the position of 'better the devil they knew than the devil they didn't', er, meaning you, Oliver."

Oliver blushed.

"And that," Jonathan concluded, "was why Jarvis had to be killed before he could complete the foreclosure."

"And the body was placed in the kiln," David added, "to cover up the destruction of the stolen furs. But why didn't they just get rid of them?"

"Because of Charlie," I answered. "Jarvis had fired him."

"Daisy!" Oliver jumped on my statement. "Are you accusing Charlie ..."

"No, I'm not, Oliver," I replied. "If you'll shut up for a moment, I'll explain. Jarvis had fired Charlie and told him to remove his, er, parts from the property. That meant that Charlie was parked firmly in the maintenance room - busy packing his gear.

"Granted, Charlie was in and out quite a bit - but his absence couldn't be depended on. There wasn't any way for Ginger and Ronnie to get the furs off the premises. Uh, as Jonathan pointed out, carrying a package through where Charlie is ... Well, he always insists on helping. They couldn't risk it and they couldn't risk being caught with the goods on hand - not when the police would be arriving momentarily. Also," I added, "Charlie had already collected all available boxes - they had nothing to hide them in.

"The problem was," I continued the explanation, "that their plans had been upset. I doubt that they had intended to murder Jarvis so quickly but Jarvis had upset the apple barrel. It was at the Tenants Meeting," I recalled, "that Jarvis blew the lid when he accused Mr. Hartley ..." It was odd how Ronnie and Ginger had become the Hartleys. "... of, ah, romancing Lucy and then announced that they, he and Lucy, were leaving immediately, catching a 9:30 flight. That didn't leave time for the Hartleys to follow their original plans - whatever they might have been," I added to forestall an objection from Jonathan.

"At any rate," I resumed, "they were caught with 'hot' merchandise on their hands and no way to get it out. Charlie had already sequestered all the empty boxes from the dumpster. If they tried to carry the goods out in bags, Charlie would, naturally, offer assistance," I didn't stress his persistence in such offers. "I would imagine," I added, "that the garbage bag which Stephen tripped over was simply an error. It was a small enough parcel that Charlie wouldn't have wanted the box and, probably, wouldn't have insisted on helping.

"I'm guessing, of course, but it seems reasonable that it was simply dropped by accident and each of them thought that the other had taken it out. That was another slip. If it hadn't been found, we'd never have known about your furs, Mrs. Balrymple. Er, would you mind if we had a word together?" I requested. "Privately?"

"Privately?" Mrs. Balrymple echoed.

"Privately," I confirmed. "There's just one thing I'd like to ask - for my personal curiosity."

"Just a moment," Sergeant McFarland interrupted. "This is all very interesting but ..."

"It has nothing to do with your case, Sergeant," I pacified him. "Just a point of personal curiosity. Perhaps later?" I returned to Mrs. Balrymple.

"Yes. Later," she agreed.

I was saved from further explanations - for a short time - by the arrival of Lieutenant Murphrey and a uniformed assistant.

A short time because he also wanted to hear our explanations and the reverse was also true - we wanted to hear a great deal from them - the result being a trade-out. Yes, they had apprehended the Hartleys and, yes, they were going to ask for a warrant to search the property; the Compound, the apartment and the lake cabin. More important, they hadn't needed a warrant to search the van - fugitives apprehended in an attempt to escape provided all the excuse necessary - and stolen merchandise had been discovered in the van - a quantity of sterling tableware which had been reported stolen two days ago.

Two days ago? That meant Saturday - the Hartleys hadn't let a little thing like murder interfere with business.

With Oliver's permission, the police didn't need a warrant to search the New Age Mercantile - which they did immediately. The search provided its own surprise ... when the officer's located an electronic eavesdropping device concealed inside a light fixture ... a bug which had not been operating due to a defective microphone.

The defect, I assumed, explained why the Hartleys had not discovered it themselves ... and it had remained unrevealed both by my experiment with the marimba band and by our charade. If I had known that there was a bug still in place ...

"Daisy, I don't understand!"

The plaintive inquiry interrupted my train of thought. "What don't you understand, Oliver" I resigned myself to further explanation.

"The 'bug'," Oliver complained. "The one that they found in the Merchantile?"

"Yes, Oliver. What about it?"

"They said that it was broken. That it didn't work."

"That's what I heard. Why?"

"That's what I don't understand. If it didn't work, how come Mrs. Arriola heard it? Why didn't she hear it when the band was playing? That was why you had the band here?" Oliver accused me.

"It's simple," I assured him, "she didn't ... because it was broken. The only bug that was working was the one that the Hartleys had already found, rigged up with the endless loop tape and then concealed in the Maintenance Room. The distance tests were legitimate and the fact that Mrs. Arriola could pickup the bug further than we could understand the walkie-talkies ... Let's just say that it speaks well for Roland's electronic talents ... and Mrs. Arriola's partial plate."

"But the echo?" Oliver was slow on the uptake.

"Was a charade. We staged the whole thing - the schematics, the story about multiple bugs and recording bugs and the hot-cold routine were staged. Even the lights going out - you can thank Mr. Endicott for that - he was right on cue."

"But why?" Oliver was persistent as well as puzzled. "If you knew ..."

"Oh, I knew - the evidence was clear enough but evidence doesn't always prove anything. Ronnie had known about Mrs. Arriola's voices - Lucy had told him - that was what really gave things away. Ronnie knew too much - too much that no-one else did. Of course, you're forgetting Mr. Jarvis - he told us about the connection himself."

"Jarvis?" Oliver's confusion was not decreasing. "What? His ghost?"

"Oliver - look, forget about ghosts." I tried to make it simple. "Jarvis told us during the Tenants' Meeting. I believe that his exact words were 'I'll deal with you two on a financial basis'. For that matter, Ronnie told us too - not directly, of course, but through Mrs. Arriola's voices. What she was hearing could only have been Ronnie's voice - Ginger's is too soft and faint for the bugs to pick up - hence the one-sided conversation."

"You said that Ronnie knew too much?" Oliver asked. "What did he know too much?"

"He knew about Lucy and Mrs. Arriola's relationship, about Mrs. Arriola's voices, for that matter, he also knew about Roland's trailer and about Roland's pacemaker - they'd sold him the trailer and Roland certainly wasn't making any secret of his heart. But, the most important item, he knew J. D. Jarvis - well enough to talk him into loaning you money. You might say that if Ronnie hadn't known too much he might not have gotten caught."

I could tell by Oliver's expression that I'd lost him again. "Look, Oliver, if Ronnie hadn't known about Mrs. Arriola's 'voices', he wouldn't have tried the stunt with the taped profanity to discredit her. That was their real mistake."

"But why didn't you just tell the police. I mean, why all this . . ?" Oliver's gesture took in the entire charade.

"To spook them into flight - what the police would call 'presumptive evidence of guilt'. Besides," I added, "it worked."

And, I added to myself, because none of it had been proof ...

Hence the charade ...

It was well after midnight before the police were finished with their questions and we were allowed to depart. David's curiosity was far from satisfied but, for the moment, he would simply have to live with his dissatisfactions - he had everything he needed for his story and less than an hour 'til deadline to write it in. I still had two questions of my own ... but they could wait until tomorrow. I was going home and to bed.

As I left, I found Mrs. Balrymple waiting by the fountain - a popular meeting spot.

"Mrs. Carson," she greeted me. "I believe that you had a question. Privately, you said." She was being much more courteous now than she had been.

"Mrs. Balrymple," I responded in kind. "Could I offer you a cup of coffee? Inside?"

"No, no thank you. It is late. Could we just talk here?"

"Certainly," I agreed. "What I wanted to ask - if you don't mind - is just what kind of furs were stolen?" She didn't answer immediately. "I did say 'private'," I reminded her. "I have no intention of telling anyone." Actually I did - Jonathan - but there was no point in telling her that.

"Mostly rabbit, Mrs. Carson," Mrs. Balrymple drew herself up like a tall pouter pigeon. "I do not believe in slaughtering wild animals for their hides. Rabbits are raised for meat - I have yet to see mink cutlets offered by my butcher! Or sable steaks - whatever they are! I would prefer that this did not become public, Mrs. Carson. There are persons who would intimate that my choice of furs was dictated by financial considerations ... I would not care to have my social position undermined by such slanderous gossip! If you breathe so much as a word of this ..."

"Mrs. Balrymple," I allowed a smile in my voice, "I assure you that I am in complete agreement about trapping wild animals. I said 'personal curiosity' and I promise that no-one else will hear about it. Good night, Mrs. Balrymple. Oh ... I'm sorry about your teapot."

"Thank you, Mrs. Carson."

I watched her exit - dignity and social position safely intact - with a stately motion reminiscent of a galleon setting sail ... which left me with only one question.