9
Rebecca woke up to the insistent ringing of her doorbell. It was already nine o’clock, and the sun was streaming through the window. She sat up, unable to believe how she had slept so late, but working a murder case with only a head was quite labor intensive, especially when she’d stayed at it until after one in the morning.
The doorbell chimed again. She put on a bathrobe and slippers and went out to the breezeway to see who was bothering her. She pulled open the door and stared in shock. It was her Los Angeles-living, show business-aspiring, impossible-to-understand younger sister. “Courtney! What in the world are you doing here?”
Rebecca’s younger sister was thirty years old, divorced, with no kids. She was beautiful—most of her good looks came naturally, but she had learned every
