Hidden Talents

tense expressions of everyone present. “I'm trying to do some business. What on earth is going on out here?”
    “I think we're in the middle of a very, very negative force field,” Zone whispered.
    Quinton threw Serenity an uneasy glance. “Blade's gone a little overboard with his latest conspiracy theory. He's implied that your friend Ventress, here, had something to do with Ambrose's death. Blade thinks he's the point man for a team of commandos.”
    Serenity's face whitened with shock and then her eyes became brilliant with outrage. “Of all the crazy, idiotic notions. Blade, you're entitled to your conspiracy theories, but you will not implicate my business partner in them. Is that perfectly clear? I won't tolerate it.”
    Blade's expression turned mulish. “Just how much do you know about this guy?”
    Serenity lifted her chin. “Enough to be certain that he is not part of some clandestine operation trying to take over Witt's End. For heaven's sake, Blade, I chose Mr. Ventress, he didn't come looking for me. He didn't have any way of knowing who I was or where I came from until I told him.”
    “You sure?” Blade asked.
    “Of course I'm sure. Ambrose's death was a tragic accident. We all know that. I will not have you making groundless accusations against Mr. Ventress. Kindly apologize to him immediately.”
    Blade looked abashed, but to Caleb's surprise, he didn't argue with Serenity. He nodded brusquely at Caleb. “Sorry, Ventress. Can't be too careful. You're a stranger around here, and all strangers are dangerous until proven otherwise, as far as I'm concerned.”
    “I can see that.” Caleb glanced at Serenity and saw that she was still tense with anger. It occurred to him that he had never before had anyone jump to his defense. “A man can't afford to take chances.”
    Blade's eyes gleamed like steel. “That's the pure truth.”
    There was a short, brittle silence. Everyone seemed to be taking a deep breath.
    “You're the one who makes these herbed vinegars, aren't you?” Caleb asked casually. He glanced down at the jar he had picked off the shelf.
    “Yeah. That's my stuff.” Blade sounded cautious. “Bottle it myself.”
    “It looks it.” Caleb examined the short, squat jar full of vinegar. A spray of rosemary waved gently inside. “Serenity tells me you make a good product. But your packaging is lousy.”
    “Huh?” Blade started down the aisle at Caleb. “What's that supposed to mean?”
    “It means,” Caleb said patiently, “that if you want to sell your vinegars through Serenity's catalog, you're going to need to come up with something a little spiffier by way of packaging. Packaging is everything these days.”
    “It is?”
    “Damn right. People will buy anything if it's packaged well. You need more interesting bottles. Attractive labels. A brand name.”
    “How do you know?” Blade demanded.
    “I know it in the same way that you presumably know how to use all that hardware you're wearing. It's what I do. And I'm very good at what I do.”
    Blade's brow furrowed intently. “You think my vinegars need a brand name, huh?”
    “Something simple,” Caleb said. “Like ‘Blade's Herbed Vinegars.’ And a clever slogan. ‘Gives your salads an edge’ or something.”
    Blade stared at him. “You want me to put my name on the bottles?”
    “Why not? You're the one who makes the vinegar inside, aren't you?”
    “Well, yeah, but I never thought of puttin' my name on these bottles.” Blade turned the jar over in his hands. For a moment he seemed utterly fascinated with the notion of his name on a label. Then he scowled. “You really think folks would buy this stuff if it was in a nice bottle?”
    “Trust me, packaging is everything.”
    Blade looked intrigued. “I'll do some thinkin' about this.”
    “Don't forget what I said about an attractive label,” Caleb said.
    Blade's face fell. “I'm no graphic artist.”
    Zone cleared her throat. “I am.”
    Blade looked at her. “You are?”
    “I was before I came here a few months ago. I have a degree in fine arts. I could help you choose the right bottles and maybe design a label for you.”
    “Good idea,” Caleb said. “By the way, can you produce those flower mugs in sufficient quantities to meet the kind of demand we'll get from a catalog mailing?”
    Zone's eyes lit up briefly. “I think so. You like my mugs?”
    “Yes, I do. More important, I think they'll sell,” Caleb told her with grave