The Unseen

“The people staying here seem to be nice,” Kelsey said.



Sandy placed a hand on hers. “Here I am, going on about a trivial problem while you…” Her voice trailed off, as she gestured at the paper. “While you’re dealing with a real problem. Do you think the Sierra Monte case might actually be related?”



Kelsey winced inwardly. Sandy was such a good person and she worked so hard, Kelsey hated to dismiss her by saying they weren’t supposed to talk about their cases.



Logan saved her from answering. “Who knows at this point? And it’s only recently that anyone has thought this might be a serial killer.”



“Of course,” Sandy murmured, looking from one to the other. She suddenly seemed to remember her own dilemma for the day. “Kelsey, I should’ve said this earlier. If you’re going to need anything from your room—”



“Don’t worry, Sandy, I won’t interrupt the filming.”



Sandy brightened. “If by any chance you guys have some spare time this afternoon, you’re more than welcome to watch. I’ve been told I can be there—nice of them, huh? I tried to tell them I could arrange far better circumstances if they’d wait until after the rodeo. But, with their budget, they have to wrap things up. I did suggest they might’ve asked me earlier, but it seems their narrator or whatever you call him came in for a beer the other night and fell in love with the place. He told the documentary people they had to do a location shoot here, not film the Longhorn scene at the studio. So… Well, it’s just for today. And bless Ricky and my other help! Like I said, we’ll keep a bar going in here, as well. Thank God they put in a big kitchen! And drinks will be on the house for our guests tonight.”



“Looks like you’ve got everything worked out, Sandy,” Kelsey said.



“And maybe we can get back here to watch the filming,” Logan added. “Now eat up those blintzes, Kelsey. We need to go soon.”



She did. Logan encouraged Sandy to talk, and she explained how she’d admired the Longhorn and how she’d wanted it since she was young. Nothing Kelsey hadn’t already told him, but Sandy was clearly enjoying the conversation. “Who knew what would happen right before I was finally able to buy it?” She winced. “Ouch. That sounds terrible. Of course, I’m so sorry about that young woman. Sierra Monte.”



“Is there anything you can tell me about her?” Logan asked.



“I wish I could,” Sandy replied. “I just saw her a few times when I came by, measuring, getting ideas. We exchanged comments like ‘how are you’ and ‘nice to see you’ and ‘beautiful day,’” Sandy said. “She always seemed very pleasant, and she loved the inn, too. She knew the story about Room 207, but she said she liked staying there, and that it was the main reason she’d come to the Longhorn. She was especially interested in poor Rose Langley. I’ve always been entranced by that legend myself. My grandfather told me the story when I was a little girl—I mean that’s what got me so excited about this place from the get-go. But now…my heart aches for Sierra. She became part of the legend.”



“Yes, she did, didn’t she?” Logan looked at Kelsey’s half-eaten food and seemed to know that she was just pushing it around her plate.



“Ready?” he asked her.



“Yes, I am.” She stood. “Thanks, Sandy. Ricky!” she called. “Thank you! Blintzes were great!”



He smiled in acknowledgment, busy preparing.



“We’ll be back for the filming, if we can swing it,” Logan said.



They headed out to Logan’s car. “If the filming’s going to take place in the saloon, maybe we should wait,” she suggested. “We want to check out the actors, but it might be difficult to do that here—and we don’t want Ted Murphy to catch us at it.”



“He can’t be everywhere. I’m willing to bet he’ll be bugging whatever public information officers he can find today. He’ll probably try to wheedle something else out of someone at the morgue, as well. I would like to see the filming, but I think we’ll have a better chance of observing the actors if we go to the studio.”



“As you wish, oh, faithful leader,” Kelsey said lightly.



She’d been worried that she’d feel awkward about the previous night, or that he’d act uncomfortable or reserved, but it was almost as if it had never happened. Maybe it hadn’t been anything—in his mind at least. She decided that she’d act low-key and easygoing, concentrating instead on the horror and mystery before them.



The studio was some distance from the inn. Kelsey sat back for the drive, glad that Logan knew where he was going.



They arrived and found that their names were on a list. The gatekeeper let them through, and when they’d parked a receptionist called Sean to come out and get them.



“This building rents out space to a lot of producers and productions,” he said, welcoming them. “Today, we’re doing the room in the Alamo where Jim Bowie was on his sickbed and where it’s presumed he died.”



They followed Sean down a hallway as he told them, “Alan Knight, the executive producer, isn’t on set, but you’ll meet Bernie Firestone, the director. He’s a down-to-earth guy and really great at documentaries. I like working with him. He tells me what he wants in the way of the special effects, I tell him if it’ll work and we go from there.”



They came to a door that warned no one was to enter if the red light was on—it wasn’t. A green light blazed, and Sean opened the door and ushered them in.



It was much more casual—and much busier—than Kelsey had expected. The director, Bernie Firestone, was with the cameraman, checking angles as the first camera zoomed in on the scene being depicted. Kelsey could see how the sets were constructed, and she watched a makeup woman adjusting the mustache on one of Santa Anna’s men, who would soon burst in on Jim Bowie.



Bernie Firestone seemed happy enough to meet them, and while the preparations continued, he stood back and explained. “There are so many versions of Bowie’s death. He was dying and in rough shape—that we know. Some people say he cursed the Mexican officers who came in so violently and he did it in such eloquent Spanish that Santa Anna ordered his tongue cut out and that he be thrown, alive, on the funeral pyre. Others say he killed himself. I just don’t believe Bowie would do that. We offer all the different stories in our narration, but in the scene, we’re going with the most widely accepted. The officers burst in on him, he propped himself up against the wall and he shot at them until he was shot and bayoneted to death.” He shrugged. “Of course, he died with his famous knife at his side—we have to believe that!”



Kelsey watched as quiet was called and all the support personnel moved away. Firestone calmly announced, “Action!” and filming began. The narration would be edited in. The actors played out the scene, ad-libbing for greater spontaneity, Bernie had told them.



Bowie—or the actor portraying him—leaned heavily against the wall. The bed was in a corner, at an angle. There were guns in his hands, his knife in his belt. The door flew open and Mexican officers filed in. Bowie started to fire. One of Santa Anna’s men clutched his shoulder, and another cried out in pain, clasping his knee and falling to the ground. The men attacked Bowie with their bayonets, and he clutched his knife, raising it high over his head as they slammed their bayonets into him. It was painful to watch.



But when “Cut!” was cried by Firestone, the actor playing Bowie sat up. He was dripping in fake blood, but he seemed pleased. “Bernie, how was that?”



“Perfect, Brant. We’ll break and set it up again for a backup shot,” Bernie said. He looked over at Sean. “You’ll be able to edit out Henry Garcia, won’t you? I want the blasting guns as the men burst in. You can do that, right? But Henry tripped on the doorframe. I thought the whole set was going to fall in for a minute.”



“If that’s the take you want, Bernie, no problem. That’s easy stuff,” Sean assured him.



“Okay, guys, grab some coffee, and then get back here and we’ll do a second take,” Bernie called.



The actors left the set, milling around a table laden with coffee and pastries. Bowie came over, still covered in his stage blood.



Sean escorted Kelsey and Logan to the table to join the performers. There were seven of them, including James Bowie, who was really Brant Blackwood, a local actor. He was polite and apologetic as he met them in his spattered clothing. “Kelsey O’Brien, Sean’s cousin. A pleasure. You look like him except that you’re pretty. Oh, hell, Sean’s pretty, too, but he hates when you tell him that.”



“Blackwood, you’re an old goat,” Sean said. Obviously, he liked the older man, and the feeling was mutual.



“Hey, I know you,” Blackwood told Logan. “Oh, I’m sorry. I mean, you were on the news,” he finished awkwardly. “Anyway, glad you’re back in law enforcement.”



“Thanks,” Logan said, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet a star.”



“Hell, I’m not the star in this,” Blackwood muttered. “That’s Jeff Chasson. He’s the narrator. We get all mucked up and dirty. Chasson puts on a buckskin outfit, gets his hair done nice and walks in front of a few locations to explain what the scene’s been about. I’ve been proud to play Bowie, though. He must’ve been a tough old dude.”



“Well, you seem to be doing him justice,” Logan said.



Sean went on to introduce them to Santa Anna’s men—the clumsy Henry Garcia, Ned Bixby, Arnie Rodriguez, Liam Swenson, Donald Chou, Victor Lyle and Doug Bracken. They were very affable, and for a few minutes they talked about the documentary. All of them seemed to feel a part of it, and to get on well together. They were a mixture of nationalities, Kelsey learned, with Henry Garcia being the only one who thought he was “mostly pure Mexican.”