Hidden Talents (4 page)

Serenity climbed the steps to Ambrose's door and knocked loudly. There was no immediate response.

“Ambrose, I know you're in there. Open the door. I want to talk to you.”

The answering silence began to make her uneasy. “Ambrose?”

Serenity tried the doorknob. It turned readily enough, as did most doorknobs in Witt's End. Nobody bothered to lock their doors in this neck of the woods. There had never been any need to take such precautions.

She opened the cabin door cautiously and peered into the gloom.

The sense of wrongness hit her in a cold wave. Serenity stood very still on the threshold.

“Ambrose, are you in here?”

She took one step into the living room and reached out to snap on the light switch on the cabin wall. In the dim glow of a weak lamp, she surveyed Ambrose's quarters with a quick, worried glance. The air was stale, she noted absently. It smelled of old wood smoke from the fireplace. The ashes on the hearth were cold.

Newspapers were stacked everywhere, as usual. Ambrose was a news junkie. He subscribed to every major daily paper from Seattle, Portland, and Los Angeles. In addition to the papers, there was a wide variety of photography equipment lying around the room. Cameras, lenses, and light meters occupied most of the available space. Ambrose had a passion for the hardware of his art. Unfortunately, it was a passion he could ill afford. At one time or another everyone in Witt's End had loaned him money to buy a new camera or a fancy lens.

A couple of unwashed coffee cups stood on the scarred pine table in front of the sagging couch. The ashtray near the cups contained several cigarette butts and small piles of ashes. Ambrose did a lot of coffee and cigarettes when he was trying to avoid alcohol.

Serenity went toward the hallway that led to the kitchen.

“Ambrose?”

Still no response. She noticed that the door that opened onto the basement stairs was closed. She wondered if Ambrose was working downstairs. His was one of the few basements in Witt's End. It was where he did his darkroom work and where he filed his meticulously maintained collection of photos, negatives, and business records.

Serenity peeked into the kitchen and noted that it was empty. She went to the basement door and knocked. If Ambrose were doing darkroom work, he wouldn't want the door opened without warning.

Again there was no response.

“I'm going to open the basement door, Ambrose.”

After another beat of silence, she did so.

The basement was enveloped in darkness. The odor of alcohol was so strong she nearly choked. Serenity found the switch on the wall.

The first thing she saw when the light came on was what looked like a pile of old clothes at the bottom of the stairs.

And then she saw the hand that was partially covered by a jacket sleeve. And a pair of boots.

“
Ambrose
. My God, Ambrose.”

For an instant Serenity was paralyzed with horror. A ghastly tightness gripped her chest, cutting off her breath. She managed to break free of the spell and go slowly down the staircase. Tears welled up in her eyes.

Ambrose Asterley would have no more chances to make the big time in the cutthroat world of commercial photography.

“Got rip-roaring drunk and fell down the stairs, poor bastard.” Quinton Priestly drove his battered van slowly through the fog along the narrow paved road that led to Serenity's cottage. “I suppose it was inevitable. Ambrose was the self-destructive type. Everyone knew it. Too bad you had to be the one who walked in and found him.”

“If I hadn't gone to his place today, he might not have been found for days.” Serenity clasped her gloved hands on her lap and stared sadly out through the dirty windshield of Quinton's van. The mist had lifted slightly, but now the long shadows of early evening were bringing a deeper darkness to the mountains. “I hope he didn't suffer too long.”

Quinton had been the first person she had called after dialing the emergency number to summon the sheriff and a medical aid car to Ambrose's cabin. She had known it would probably take nearly an hour for the authorities in Bullington to arrive, and she had no wish to wait alone.

As the owner of the only bookshop and brewery in Witt's End, Quinton was the town's resident philosopher. In his early fifties, he was thin and wiry, with fathomless dark eyes and a bushy beard that was rapidly going gray.

Quinton had studied philosophy and mathematics at a prestigious private college before leaving the establishment world behind to concentrate on developing his own philosophical system. During his early years in Witt's End he had actually written and published four slender volumes. The books, taken together, detailed a comprehensive, carefully crafted philosophical theory derived from mathematics, which had succeeded in creating a small cult following among the intellectual elite at major universities.

His goal accomplished, Quinton had turned to other projects, namely the creation of a bookstore and a brewery. As he had once explained to Serenity, running a bookshop paid better than writing, and the quest to brew the world's finest beer was a far more certain route to philosophical enlightenment than the traditional, academic approach.

“The medics said Ambrose broke his neck in the fall and probably died instantly.” Quinton slowed the van for the turn into Serenity's driveway. “Don't dwell on it. There was nothing you could have done. Life is a series of lines linking points on an endless number of mathematical planes. We all exist on different points of the planes at different times. Sometimes those points are momentarily connected through the planes by a straight line, and sometimes they aren't.”

As usual, Serenity had no idea what Quinton was talking about. It didn't concern her. No one in Witt's End claimed to be able to understand Quinton when he went into his philosophical mode.

“Jessie took the news better than I thought she would,” Serenity remarked. “I was worried about her reaction.”

Jessie Blanchard was an artist, a longtime resident of Witt's End who'd conducted an on-again, off-again affair with Ambrose for the past three years. Lately the affair had been in an off phase, as far as Serenity knew, but she also knew that Jessie cared very much about Ambrose.

“I don't think she was really surprised,” Quinton said. “Her artistic eye allows her to see beneath the surface of life to the second layer of reality. She knew that Ambrose was a deeply troubled soul.”

“Yes, I suppose she did.”

Quinton glanced at her. “What with one thing and another, we haven't had a chance to talk about how things went in Seattle. How come you returned ahead of schedule?”

“As they say in business circles, Mr. Ventress and I were unable to reach a mutual agreement.”

Quinton frowned. “What happened?”

“It's a long story. I don't feel like going into it at the moment. I'll tell you all about it later, I promise.”

“Whenever it feels right.” Quinton turned into Serenity's driveway. “Looks like you've got company. Who do you know who owns a green Jaguar?”

“No one.” Serenity watched curiously as the sleek vehicle emerged from the swirling gray mists. It was parked next to her own red four-wheel-drive Jeep.

“Maybe a lost tourist who stopped to ask for directions.” Quinton brought the van to a halt and switched off the ignition. “I'll come in with you. Make sure everything's okay.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Can't be too careful these days,” Quinton said as he cracked open the van door. “Even here in Witt's End. The vectors of angles on other planes sometimes reach into our plane of existence.”

“Uh-huh.” Serenity opened the door on her side and jumped down from the high perch. She went around the front of the van. Quinton fell into step beside her and together they walked toward her front door.

Quinton eyed the empty passenger seat of the Jaguar. “Whoever it is apparently felt free to walk straight into your place. Maybe it's time you started locking your door, Serenity.”

“It must be someone I know.” Serenity hurried up the steps with Quinton right behind her.

The front door of the cottage swung open just as she reached the top step. Caleb Ventress stood there looking as if he had every right to occupy her home.

It was the first time Serenity had seen him dressed in anything other than a formal suit and tie. Caleb was wearing black, neatly creased trousers, and a dark green, long-sleeved shirt that almost matched the Jaguar. His emotionless gray gaze swept over Serenity and then settled intently on Quinton.

Serenity came to an abrupt halt, her mouth open in astonishment. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.” Caleb did not take his eyes off Quinton.

“Do you know this man, Serenity?” Quinton asked quietly.

“I know him,” she said. In spite of everything, a small flame of hope flickered to life within her. Perhaps Caleb had changed his mind, she thought. Perhaps once he'd had a chance to calm down, he realized that the blackmail attempt had been a trivial matter after all and that he'd completely overreacted. “This is Caleb Ventress, the business consultant I've been dealing with in Seattle. Caleb, this is Quinton Priestly. He's a friend of mine.”

“Priestly.” Caleb held out his hand with a cool, deliberate air, as if he didn't expect Quinton to observe the formalities and didn't really care one way or the other. It was a minimally polite gesture, nothing more.

Quinton shook the proffered hand once and released it immediately. “So you're Ventress.”

“Yes.”

“You're very much of the outside world, aren't you? A man who has absorbed the steel and concrete of that other universe into his bones. A man who has not touched other planes of existence in a long time, if ever.”

Caleb's brows rose. “It was a long drive from Seattle, if that's what you mean.”

Quinton gave Serenity a sidelong glance. “Do you want me to hang around for a while?”

Serenity shook her head. “It's okay, Quinton. I can deal with this.”

“All right. But remember, merely because two points appear on the same plane at the same time, it does not necessarily mean that they are intended to connect with each other. Sometimes one is just passing through one level of reality to the next.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Serenity promised.

Quinton nodded brusquely at Caleb and went back down the steps.

Caleb watched him leave. “Does he always talk like that?”

“Yes.”

“What were you doing with him?”

“A friend of ours died last night,” Serenity said quietly. “I found his body a few hours ago. Quinton helped me deal with the authorities and all the rest that goes with a death.”

“Hell. I'm sorry about that.” Caleb looked at her. “Close friend?”

“You could say that. Everyone here in Witt's End is a close friend.” Serenity walked past him into the small living room. The walls were lined with books, as were most of the other walls in her cottage.

Some of the volumes were left over from her youth. Until the day she left home for college, Serenity had never been inside a formal classroom. Julius, together with the rest of the residents of Witt's End, had home-schooled her. They had done such a good job that she had aced the college entrance exams.

Much of the rest of Serenity's personal library was comprised of relics of her short-lived career as an instructor in Sociology at the small college in Bullington. Her teaching days and her unfinished Ph.D. all seemed very far away now.

“Who was he?” Caleb asked quietly.

“His name was Ambrose Asterley,” Serenity said. She held her breath, wondering what Caleb's reaction would be. “You probably recall the name. He's the photographer who took those nude pictures of me.”

Caleb let the front door close slowly. There was calm speculation in his eyes as he turned to watch Serenity shrug off her beaded, fringed jacket. “How did he die?”

Serenity lifted her chin. She confronted Caleb with her legs braced and her hands shoved into the deep pockets of the long, hand-knitted turquoise tunic she wore over white leggings. “It looks like he got drunk and fell down a flight of stairs. I believe I mentioned that Ambrose had a drinking problem.”

“Yes, you mentioned it. You went to see him today?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I would have thought that was obvious. I've always considered Ambrose a friend. But friends don't try to blackmail each other. I wanted to know if he was the one who had sent me the pictures or if he gave those pictures to someone else who used them to wreck my business arrangement with you.”

“Damn. I knew you'd try something like that,” Caleb muttered.

Serenity blinked back tears. “I never got any answers. Ambrose was dead when I arrived.” She spun around and walked into the kitchen.

“Serenity.”

“Why did you drive all the way up here today, Caleb?” She kept her back to him as she filled a teakettle at the sink.

“I didn't like the idea of you attempting to track down a blackmailer on your own.”

“Why should you care what I do?”

Caleb came to stand in the doorway of the tiny kitchen. “Dealing with blackmailers can be dangerous.”

“So what? It's none of your business.” Serenity dashed the dampness away from her eyes with the sleeve of her tunic. She put the kettle onto the stove and switched on the burner. “I told you, poor Ambrose is gone. He can't give anyone any answers.”

“You said yourself that the blackmailer might have been someone other than Ambrose.”

“That's true.” Serenity slid him a quick glance. “But as you so succinctly put it yesterday, it's my problem, not yours.”

“Unfortunately, according to the terms of that contract you signed in my office, that's not the case. I told you, I've got standards. You're a client, Serenity, and I have never yet abandoned a client. I don't intend to start now.”

Serenity stared at him. The flicker of hope within her died. Caleb was here because of his precious, inviolable business standards, not because he felt anything for her. “Forget it. I don't want your help. Not in this blackmail thing or anything else.”

“You don't have a hell of a lot of choice. I'm not about to let you ruin my reputation.”