Hidden Talents

everything for Ambrose over the years,” Serenity said softly.
    “And in the end it finally killed him.” Gallagher came slowly down the steps. “No surprise, I guess. Still, he was a pal, a fellow pro in the field, and I had been kind of hoping he'd climbed on the wagon to stay. Well, that's neither here nor there now. I wonder what will become of all his equipment. He spent a fortune on it, you know. A lot of it was my money.”
    “There's some valuable-looking items in here and in the room above,” Caleb observed.
    “Ambrose didn't care much for people, but he loved camera equipment,” Gallagher said. “Poor, dumb bastard. He was always so certain that if he just bought a new camera or the latest high-tech lighting gadget, he'd finally get his career back on track.”
    Serenity frowned. “I hadn't thought much about it until now, but Ambrose must have spent a lot of money on equipment over the years.”
    “Tell me about it,” Gallagher said with a rueful smile. “God knows how much I gave him. No telling who else he talked into loaning him a few bucks.”
    “His friend Jessie probably gave him some,” Serenity said. “And I know Julius gave him a little cash from time to time. So did Montrose and Quinton. So did I, for that matter.”
    “No matter how much anyone gave him, he always seemed to need more,” Gallagher said. “Face it, the guy was a mooch. Still, there was something about Ambrose that you had to like, you know?”
    “I know,” Serenity said. “It was his passion for his work, I think. People responded to it.”
    “I guess that was it.” Gallagher hesitated. “Ambrose had talent. But he got a reputation in Seattle for showing up drunk on one too many shoots, and that was the end of the line for him. He moved up here to Witt's End and more or less fell off the face of the earth as far as the rest of us were concerned. Still, when I heard the news, I had to come up and check it out.”
    “And maybe help yourself to a few pieces of photo equipment from Asterley's collection?” Caleb suggested. “At a rough estimate, I'd say that Nikon lens over there on top of the last file cabinet is probably worth a thousand, maybe fifteen hundred.”
    “Now, see here,” Gallagher began angrily. “I told you, the guy owed me money. A lot of it. I've got a right to collect one way or another.”
    “The county sheriff might have a few things to say about that,” Caleb said. “If there's no immediate family or heir to claim this cabin and everything in it, the state will step in to handle the property of the deceased.”
    Gallagher compressed his lips into a thin, disgruntled line. “Yeah, I suppose so.”
    “Bet on it,” Caleb advised. He took Serenity's arm and started purposefully up the stairs. “I think all of us had better be on our way. Doesn't look like there's much we can do around here.”
    Serenity looked at Gallagher as she and Caleb reached the top of the stairs. “We'll probably have a wake for Ambrose sometime soon. I'll be glad to phone you and let you know the time and place.”
    “Thanks, but I've got to go down to Portland for a shoot tomorrow,” Gallagher said. “An annual report for a major firm. I'll be busy for several days.”
    “We understand. Business is business.” Caleb turned off the light and closed the basement door. He gave Gallagher a mockingly polite nod. “After you.”
    Gallagher took one last, frustrated look at the closed basement door and then shrugged. Without a word, he led the way out through the living room and onto the front porch.
    “See you around.” Gallagher took a package of cigarettes out of his pocket as he went down the steps toward a nondescript green sedan.
    “Drive carefully,” Serenity called automatically.
    Gallagher jerked open the car door. “Shouldn't be any problem. The fog has finally lifted.” He got in behind the wheel and slammed the door closed.
    Another car, a familiar, aging Chevrolet, pulled into the drive just as Gallagher started his engine and began to back out.
    “For a dead man, Asterley is sure getting a lot of callers this morning,” Caleb muttered.
    “That's Jessie Blanchard,” Serenity explained. “She was closer to Ambrose than anyone else.”
    Jessie, starkly, artistically elegant at the age of forty-nine, got out of her car. She was dressed, as usual, all in black; sweater, jeans, and high boots. She had on a black jacket and she wore an abundance of silver and turquoise rings on her