“What, are you insane?” he shouted. He stared up at Kelsey. “Don’t…oh, God, don’t go in there! Get the police!” he cried.
“Mr. Simmons,” Kelsey called down. “I am a law enforcement agent. I’m a United States Marshal.”
“Room 207,” Sandy said gravely.
Kelsey nodded, turned and hurried down the hallway. It was a straightforward numbering system; the second floor had ten rooms, 201 through 210. Room 207 was to her left along the gallery. Her own room was 201, but she didn’t really have to check at the numbers; the door to 207 was wide open, just as Simmons had left it.
She stepped inside and paused, biting her lip. There was nothing there. Certainly no blood.
The room was handsomely appointed. In fact, Sandy had done a beautiful job restoring the whole place. She’d renovated it with authenticity, studying historic documents and outfitting it with period pieces. Kelsey knew something about all of this, because Sandy had been in love with the inn—longing to buy it—for years. The Longhorn was one of the oldest original wooden structures of a bygone era. It had opened in 1833 as the Longhorn Saloon and Gentleman’s Palace, and through its history, it had been the place where travelers to San Antonio, especially “gentlemen,” had come to enjoy the liquor, poker, ambiance and female entertainment provided here. Every now and then, Sandy arranged a night with old-time entertainment; it was no longer a house of prostitution, of course, but she held poker games for charity, and hired period singers, actors and dancers to evoke the feel of the old west.
Needless to say, any building as old as this one held its share of ghost stories. Room 207 had come with the Rose Langley legend, and much more recently, Sierra Monte had disappeared from it.
Kelsey considered what Sandy had told her about the Sierra Monte case.
Blood spray and spatter had covered the room. There had never been any sign of her body, and there had never been an arrest. DNA testing proved that the blood was hers, and the medical examiner had claimed it was highly unlikely that anyone could have lost that much blood and survived. How her remains had been removed from the room was a mystery, just like the identity of her killer.
It had been a horrible story. But in law enforcement, officers and agents heard a lot of horrible stories. And if every hotel in the world closed when something bad happened, they’d be tearing down buildings right and left.
Afterward, Sandy had hired special crews to come in and clean up.
There wasn’t a drop of blood to be seen anywhere.
Kelsey walked into the bathroom, once a dressing room for the “girls” who had entertained at the Longhorn. She hadn’t been in on the investigation, although she’d researched it, primarily because of her friendship with Sandy. She knew that blood had been found in the bathroom, as well, a great deal of it. Detectives and forensic crews had determined that Sierra was most likely killed in the bedroom and possibly dismembered in the bathroom.
When the police had finished and Sandy had taken over the place, she’d had the bathroom in 207 completely remodeled. The old tub was still taking up a lot of space in the evidence room at the police station.
The bathroom looked completely ordinary. Shaving equipment and toiletries were on the counter by the sink, and the old claw-foot tub Sandy had bought to replace the original one was damp. Sandy’s guest had obviously had a bath or a shower before finding himself mesmerized by the blood his imagination had conjured up.
When Kelsey left the room and walked down the stairs, she saw that neither Sandy nor Mr. Simmons was in the main saloon area. She wasn’t sure if they’d run outside—or if Sandy had managed to calm him down. She pushed open the swinging doors and looked out at the street. No one there. Kelsey quickly returned to the kitchen and the table where she’d been about to drink her now-cold coffee.
Simmons and Sandy were sitting there, but Simmons wasn’t drinking coffee. A shot glass and a bottle of whiskey stood in front of him. He’d apparently downed several shots already.
Sandy and Simmons both turned to Kelsey. She shook her head. “There’s nothing there, Mr. Simmons. Nothing at all.”
He gaped at her, disbelief in his eyes.
“I swear to you,” she added quietly, “there’s nothing.”
He groaned, lowering his head, pressing his temples between his palms. “Well, that’s just great. I’m going crazy.”
Kelsey drew up a chair next to him, setting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Simmons—”
“Corey. Call me Corey, please,” he interrupted gruffly.
“Corey,” she said. “You’re not going crazy. You’re merely human, which makes you susceptible to the history of places like this. Everyone knows the stories about the Longhorn. You know the room was covered in blood at one time, and not that long ago, either. So, in your mind, you saw it covered in blood. You’re not crazy. What happened wasn’t a fun ghost story. It was reality.”
“I should just not rent out that room,” Sandy murmured.
Corey waved a hand in the air. “Not your fault,” he said. He gave them both a rueful grimace. “I asked for that room. I told the boys going to the rodeo that I’d be sleeping with the ghosts. I was a real hotshot. I didn’t know I had a crazy susceptible mind. At least…that’s what I’m going to believe, Miss…?”
“O’Brien. Actually, Marshal O’Brien,” Kelsey said.
“Kelsey’s been working with the U.S. Marshal’s Office in Key West,” Sandy explained.
“A U.S. Marshal,” he repeated, looking at her as if she were some kind of alien life form.
She smiled at him.
“You don’t look like a cop,” he said.
“Technically, I’m not a cop.”
“But you…you do cop things.” He still seemed confused.
“More or less.”
“Can a U.S. Marshal get my stuff out of that room?” he asked.
“I can do that for you, Mr. Simmons. And I’ll help you find another location to stay, too,” Sandy told him.
“Um, can you just put me in another room?” he asked.
Sandy was clearly surprised by his request. “Of course I can. But you were pretty desperate to get out the door, Mr. Simmons.”
“Corey,” he said again, smiling. He flushed. “Ladies, I’m going to ask you to do me a massive favor. Never repeat the fact that a six-foot-three two-hundred-and-thirty-pound bronco buster ran out of his room screaming like a baby.”
Sandy laughed softly. Kelsey shrugged.
“Please,” he murmured, looking at Kelsey.
“Don’t worry. I don’t really have anyone to tell,” Kelsey said. She checked her watch. “You two will have to excuse me. I have a meeting this morning. That is, if you’re sure you’re all
