“No more questions, Deputy Harris,” Jeremy Cook concluded.
David took over. “Deputy Harris, you say Miss Roarke was sitting on the corner of her bed screaming for help. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have any idea why Miss Roarke was screaming for help?”
“I guess because Arnie Mason was lyin’ half on top of her. When I got there, she was tryin’ to kick his body off her.” The deputy gazed at David. “He was bleedin’ all over her.”
“So Mr. Mason was lying face up?” David asked.
“No, sir,” Deputy Harris corrected. “He was lyin’ face down.”
“Didn’t you find that unusual?”
“No, sir. Not at the time. But now that you mention it, it does seem strange, seein’ as how she cut his throat.”
“Thank you, Deputy Harris. No more questions for now.” David scribbled several notes on his tablet.
The prosecuting attorney called several more witnesses: the undertaker, the doctor, the sheriff, and two women from the Satin Slipper. Jeremy Cook hastily built his case. David carefully unraveled it.
“The territory of Wyoming calls Miss Charlotte Winston.”
Charlotte the Harlot took the stand. She echoed the deputy’s testimony to the letter. Cook completed his questioning. Charlotte got to her feet, preparing to leave.
“One minute, Miss Winston.” David stood up and walked around the defendant’s table. He moved within a few feet of Charlotte. “I have a couple of questions.”
The crowd in the gallery laughed.
“Miss Winston, will you tell us what happened after the deputies came to Mi
ss Roarke’s room at the Satin Slipper?”
Charlotte smoothed a lock of brown hair away from her forehead and straightened her hat—a hat covered with bows and lace and dyed bird feathers, David noticed. “Well, the deputies took Tessa—I mean, Miss Roarke—outside. Then they took her to jail.”
“Then what happened at the Satin Slipper?” David asked softly. “Was Miss Roarke’s room locked to keep people out?”
“No, sir. There ain’t any locks on the doors at the saloon, except Myra’s.”
“Go on.” David leaned closer to her. “Tell us what happened next.”
“Myra…” Charlotte paused, licking her lips nervously. “I mean, Miss Brennan—”
“Owner of the Satin Slipper Saloon,” David interjected for the benefit of the jury. “Please continue.”
“Yes, sir. Miss Brennan told some of the girls to go get a mop and some rags and fresh bed linen.”
“Then what happened?” David prompted.
“Well, after we cleaned up the mess, Miss Brennan told us to help ourselves.”
‘To what?”
“To Tes…Miss Roarke’s belongings.”
David paced, measuring the distance between the witness stand and the defense table. “I see.” He turned to face Charlotte. “Did you help yourself to any of Miss Roarke’s things?”
“Yes, sir.” Charlotte shifted in her chair, sitting up straighten