The Body in Bodega Bay by Betsy Draine

study to the guest room. Angie likes to sleep under the loving gaze of our Irish grandmother, Molly Barnes. And I checked that there were Angie-approved toiletries in the bathroom. Since London, she uses only Pears soap. High maintenance, but I love fussing over my sister.
    A half hour later I woke from a nap on the couch when I heard the ding of the doorbell. There stood Angie, smiling broadly, her silky blond hair bouncing and curling around her heart-shaped face. That’s the face I’ve cherished since I was a preteen lovingly bottle-feeding my tiny little sister.
    We spent the next hour assessing each other physically the way sisters do, arranging Angie’s luggage in the guest bedroom, and giving Angie a look around our home, of which I am unduly proud, since it’s mainly Toby who’s furnished the place. We shared an initial Pimm’s Cup, hers neat, mine cut with lemonade, the way the ladies do it in London, Angie says. I thought the first thing she would ask me about would be the case I was working on, but she insisted on getting the haircut out of the way.
    â€œSo, should I give you about the same cut that I did on Turkey Day?”
    â€œFine. Except I like that it got longer.”
    â€œHair tends to do that, especially when left neglected.”
    â€œYes, I know you told me to deep-condition. We can do that tomorrow. Today just cut a little off. I like the longer length because I don’t have to do anything with it. It just hangs there.”
    â€œExactly. My darling sister, as we age, things start to just hang there. Jowls just hang there. Wiggly chins just hang there. The last thing we need is for our hair to just hang there and call attention to all the other parts that are doing the same.”
    â€œSo what are you saying, that I need a facelift?”
    She laughed. “A good cut with a little more complexity would give you all the lift you need. Even my nuns know that.”
    â€œYour nuns?”
    â€œDad’s nuns. You know.”
    â€œYou mean the sisters at Grace Quarry?”
    â€œThat’s right. I’ve been cutting their hair since I got back from London. Dad got me into it. You know how he’s always had a sweet spot for those sisters.”
    â€œWell, he would, wouldn’t he?” They practically raised him during that spell when his mother was ill. “But they all must be ancient now. What are they doing getting your air-lift haircuts?”
    â€œThe sisters have gone rogue. The bishop was bothering them about giving out communion and having Buddhist speakers. So they staked their claim.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œGrace Quarry was a gift to them from the Graces, the lady author and her Beacon Hill husband. You remember them. They were nice to Granddad—hired him as a chauffeur when he sold his garage.”
    â€œSure, I remember when we used to swim at the quarry when we were kids. I asked Dad why there was an echo out there when we talked. He told me the story of Echo, the nymph who could only repeat what others had said. Dad claimed that Echo lived at the far end of the quarry, behind the trees.”
    â€œThat’s just like Dad.” Angie smiled. “Well,” she continued, “when the Graces died, they left the property outright to the order. Now all these years later, when the nuns got feisty and the bishop threatened to shut them down, they declared themselves free of the church—went ecumenical.”
    â€œGee, didn’t the bishop raise hell?”
    â€œI’ll say he did, but he couldn’t touch them. The order is independent of the Vatican.”
    â€œI didn’t know that.”
    â€œYes, and they’re doing great. There are a dozen sisters there, some Catholic, some Anglican, and a bunch of young nuns from the Philippines who visit and study. Plus the lay sisters who have gathered round. There’s a whole young community there.”
    â€œAnd you do their