Hidden Talents

surrounded Ambrose's log cabin. She studied the windows curiously and wondered why there were no lights showing. On a foggy day like this, it would be quite dark inside the cabin.
    There was no sign of smoke from the chimney, either, she noticed. She hoped Ambrose had not passed out drunk, as he was occasionally prone to do. She had a few questions to ask him, and she wanted some answers.
    She determinedly approached the front steps of the cabin. The deal with Caleb had been shot down in flames and there was no saving it, but she intended to find out who had pulled the trigger.
    She could not believe that Ambrose had been the person behind the blackmail scheme, but of one thing she was certain: whoever had sent her those photos had to have gotten them from him. Ambrose was the man who possessed the negatives and the only person, so far as she knew, who had a set of the pictures.
    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