Hidden Talents

show in a Seattle gallery, and the gallery owner up and croaked before he got his pictures hung?” A man dressed in black leather and chains shook his head mournfully and downed a corn chip smeared with an eggplant and tahini concoction.
    “I remember.” A woman with short, cropped hair, a plaid shirt, and skintight jeans shook her head sadly. “Jessie said he got drunk and stormed around threatening to destroy everything he'd ever done.”
    “That was Ambrose for you,” Quinton said as he joined the small group near the corn chips. “Things always seemed to go wrong for him. He was forever getting caught between cosmic planes. The mathematics of the universe are like a deck of cards in some ways. That deck was always stacked against poor Ambrose.”
    “Yeah, a real loser in the karma department, all right,” the denim and chain man said. “But he was okay in his own way.”
    “He wasn't mean-spirited or anything. Just kind of a loner,” a woman dressed in a gown made out of several layers of scarves noted. “The victim of a lot of bad luck. He was a wonderful photographer, you know.”
    “I know,” Quinton said.
    “Janine and I keep the photo he took of us together hanging over our bed,” the woman with the very short hair confided. A tear trickled down her cheek. “It's beautiful.”
    Jessie drifted over to the buffet table. “He did have talent,” she said quietly to Caleb. “Some of his photos are incredible. Did Serenity ever get around to showing you those shots he took of her?”
    “No.” Caleb thought of the envelope Serenity had taken from Asterley's files. “She didn't.” A question of trust .
    “You ought to take a look at them,” Jessie urged. “They're excellent examples of some of his best work. I'd like to see them hung one of these days. It would be a fitting tribute to Ambrose.”
    Caleb had a searing mental image of Serenity on public display in an art gallery, her beautiful, graceful body exposed to all and sundry. The cracker he had been holding crumbled between his fingers.
    “I don't think Serenity will go for the idea,” Caleb said.
    Jessie gave him a quizzical look. “Why not?”
    “Because I'll raise holy hell if she does.” He sought for a logical reason. “Witt's End by Mail doesn't need that kind of publicity.”
    “I don't see how it would hurt,” Jessie said thoughtfully. She started to add another comment but broke off as Blade came up. “Hello, Blade. How are things going? I see Witt's End is still relatively free of an invasion force.”
    “I'm not so sure about that.” Blade's perpetually narrowed eyes swept the room in a professional manner. “I think we've got trouble.”
    “What makes you think that?” Caleb asked, only mildly interested.
    “Zone's acting strange.”
    “Zone strikes me as the type who always acts strange,” Caleb said. “What's new about that?”
    “She's nervous. Scared maybe. Keeps talking about danger and turmoil.” Blade nodded toward Zone, who was standing by herself near the punch bowl. “I don't like the feel of it.”
    “Maybe she's just depressed,” Caleb said. “This is a wake, after all.”
    “Don't think it's that.” Blade helped himself to a handful of corn chips. “Think it's trouble. Big trouble.”
    “Have Serenity talk to her,” Jessie suggested. “She's closer to Zone than anyone.”
    “Maybe I'll do that.” Blade moved off, crunching corn chips with machinelike precision.
    Jessie smiled. “I'm beginning to wonder if Blade and Zone were made for each other. Something about the two of them seems to be clicking. What do you think?”
    “I hadn't thought about it,” Caleb admitted. “I suppose you could say they both share a common weirdness.”
    “Everyone in Witt's End is probably weird by your definition,” Jessie said. “If you don't approve of weirdness, what are you doing here?”
    “You know why I'm here. Business.”
    “Bullshit,” Jessie said. “I'm not an idiot. It's obvious this isn't your kind of consulting gig. You're here because of Serenity, aren't you?”
    “She hired me, remember?” Before Caleb could change the topic, someone else changed it for him.
    A big, bushy-haired man dressed in a red flannel shirt and a pair of grimy coveralls surged forward with a purposeful air. He halted directly in front of Caleb.
    “You Ventress?”
    “I don't believe we've met,” Caleb said.
    “Name's Webster. Missed the product evaluation on Friday. I was busy.”
    “I