The food was delicious; Logan could handle the fiery hot sauce, while she had to opt for mild. They both concentrated on eating during the next few minutes, and only a few pleasantries and requests were exchanged—Logan’s, “Pass the salt, please,” and Kelsey’s “Another beer?”
“Sounds fine,” Logan agreed. Ricky brought them a second round. By the time they’d finished the food and lingered over their beers, Logan seemed to have his anger under control.
“Why did your friend Sandy buy this place?” he asked.
“She’s coveted the Longhorn for years,” Kelsey said. “She loves Texas history and grew up here, listening to stories about the Alamo and the Longhorn. She took business and hospitality courses, and managed to pull together the financing when the previous owner was ready to sell it and retire. Sandy worked really hard to get this place. Her folks died close together when we were about nineteen. She got her education, plus money for the down payment, from what they left her.” Kelsey sighed. “She was devastated when Sierra Monte was killed while she was in the middle of purchasing it. Or, I suppose I should say, disappeared, leaving behind so much blood that she couldn’t possibly have survived. They had to bring in a biohazard cleanup crew, and there were a number of police and legal situations she had to deal with—in the midst of such tragic circumstances. So, with all of that going on, the saloon has really been a labor of love for her.”
He nodded. “Did Sandy know Sierra Monte?”
“No, not really. She was in and out of here at the time, and they might have passed each other and exchanged a few words, but they weren’t friends or even acquaintances.” She hesitated a minute. “Do you want to see Room 207?”
“Yes, I’d like to see it very much,” he said.
They both rose. Logan started toward the bar to pay their bill, but Kelsey flagged Ricky down. “Don’t worry about it. I have a house account,” she told him with a grin. He stiffened slightly.
“I pay my way,” he insisted.
“So do I,” she said promptly. “You’re up next time.” They were going to be partners. Paying their own way didn’t mean they couldn’t take turns—not that she’d ever been one to worry about that kind of accounting. She was happy to treat.
She hurried up the stairs, aware of being watched. When the saloon was in full swing, those not staying at the inn often watched guests mounting the stairs with envy.
Logan was right behind her.
As she reached the balcony, she paused.
She was used to being observed, casually or sometimes, with male appreciation. Actually, the drunker the clientele, the more appreciation she received.
But tonight, she felt someone watching her intently. She walked to the carved white wood rail that overlooked the saloon. Some people were eating, and some were still playing poker with their peanut shells. Quite a few were entranced by the music, while others were just interested in their drinks and the conversations they were enjoying at the long bar.
She surveyed the room below.
Ricky was out on the floor. He set down a beer, looked up at her, grinned and waved. She realized he’d seen Logan, as well; maybe he assumed they were both getting lucky.
She flushed and waved back.
Sandy was on the floor, too, and she waved. So did the cowboy, Corey Simmons.
She glanced at the slatted, swinging doors to the sidewalk. They were fitted into glass now, to protect the flow of air-conditioning demanded by modern patrons. And, in the glass, she could see a face. The eyes in that face, she knew, were directed at her.
The face belonged to the reporter. Ted Murphy.
Let him watch, she thought.
She decided not to say anything to Logan. The man was standing outside the saloon, doing nothing illegal. Better not to risk another confrontation. Or another reminder of the past.
“What is it?” Logan asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “I was just thinking that the saloon probably looks just like it did a hundred-and-fifty-plus years ago. Sandy studied old drawings and photographs to get it right, and she had the furniture repaired or replaced with similar period pieces.” Conscious that she was babbling, she dug in her bag for her room key.
“The historic societies in this area owe Sandy a big thank-you,” Logan said, pushing open the door after she’d unlocked it.
Entering the room, he stood still for a moment and slowly looked around. “I wasn’t here at the time the murder—or bloodletting—of Sierra Monte occurred,” he said. “And homicide detectives from the police department handled the investigation. None of the bodies that were found are Sierra Monte—we know that from the DNA testing—but it seems more and more likely that she was a victim of the same killer.”
Kelsey nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, she was obviously a stabbing victim like some of the others—like Jenny Doe and Josie Doe. They have that in common. But Jenny and Josie…where were they killed?”
He angled his head. “Every murder has to have a crime scene. We simply haven’t found them yet. And there’s another question. Was Sierra Monte killed in this room by sheer coincidence, or is there a reason that two different women living in different centuries were killed here?”
“What could the past have to do with Sierra Monte’s death?” she asked. “The first murder was really sad—well, all murder is. But the whole story is sad. From the bits of legend I’ve picked up, Rose Langley started life as a sheltered plantation girl. She fell in love with a drifter, who pimped her out as they made their way across the states. And then she was kidnapped by another guy, who eventually murdered her.” She broke off, frowning. “He wanted something from her,” she told him.
“He?”
“Her killer.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. I can’t tell from what I’ve…seen,” Kelsey said.
“Can you describe what you saw? Where they were? What was happening?”
Kelsey tried to recall both the waking vision and her dream. The details hadn’t altered from one to the other.
“When the vision starts, they’re both in the room—Rose Langley and Matt Meyer. Rose was really stunning, even after all she’d been through. Slim and shapely, with a pile of dark curls that she’d pinned up, but they came loose and tumbled around her face. She and Matt must have been in the room for a while, fighting. Her dress lay on the floor—over there—and the bed was by the window that looks out onto the street. Rose was still wearing her corset and garters, her stockings…and Matt Meyer was dressed more like a businessman than a Davy Crockett or Daniel Boone type. He must have been considered tall for his day. He was at least your height, but heavier set. Maybe his drinking habit was taking its toll.”
She flushed, a little embarrassed that she was giving him her opinion when he’d just asked her to describe what she’d seen. But he was listening.
“Then Matt walks across the room to Rose. She’s standing here,” Kelsey said, striding to the center of the room near him. “He grabs her by the shoulders. And yells at her. ‘You won’t hold out on me! I want it, and I want it now.’ That’s what he says to her.”
“And then?”
“Rose says, ‘I don’t have it.’ The man’s grip on her tightens and his face twists into a really cruel expression, and he tells her, ‘You’re a liar! I know what happened in Galveston that night, and I know your pretty-boy lover won it. I want it!’”
Kelsey swallowed. She’d watched it all before, but she hadn’t stood where Rose Langley had. She felt such sorrow for the woman.
She turned away from Logan. “I’m trying to remember exactly what they said. And never once did either of them mention what ‘it’ was.” She thought back and said, “Rose told him ‘No! It’s mine!’”
“Then he killed her?” Logan asked.
“Within the next minute or so. He taunted her first. He said, ‘You think you’ll get back to that no-good weakling? Well, give up that dream. He moved on the moment you were gone.’”
“And then…”
Kelsey closed her eyes, trying to recall what they’d said. She was surprised that the words came so easily to her lips, almost as if she were an actress, playing the part of Rose Langley.
“‘I hate you,’” Rose said. “‘I hate you, Matt. I loathe you. You forced me here, and you’ve used me enough. Even if I had it, I’d never let you have it!’”
She opened her eyes and looked at Logan.
“Matt Meyer responded with, ‘You’re an old whore, Rose. I want it, and I’ll get it.’” Kelsey shuddered. “Then Rose said, ‘I will never give it to you.’”
She wrapped her arms around herself, imagining the feel of the man’s hands around her neck. Rose had clutched his arms, trying to break his hold. She’d tried to scratch and claw him, but she hadn’t been strong enough.
He’d wrenched the woman to him, his fingers curled around her neck. He’d squeezed his hands tightly together; he shook her hard. She grabbed desperately at his arms, trying to free herself.
“She begged him then. ‘Please, Matt?’” Kelsey said. “But his fingers were around her throat, and he told her, ‘I’ll kill you, and I’ll rip this place to shreds—and find it.’ She was able to whisper ‘please’ one more time. And then she was dead,” Kelsey finished. “He picked her up and threw her on the bed as if she meant nothing to him. I hope he never found it.”
Logan shook his head. “He never did.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, Marshal O’Brien, it’s obvious you’re not a Texan, and not from San Antonio. After hearing your description of the murder, I’m positive that it can only be one thing. And I’m sure a lot of people might have felt it was worth fighting for, killing for—dying for.”
