But again, before I could speak, Chelsea said, “Listen, Abby, if you won’t let us in, could I please have a paper towel before this sweat dripping from my scalp ruins my makeup?”

I widened the door. Wouldn’t want Chelsea Burch melting like a theatrical witch. “Do me a favor and keep your finger off that record button, Stu,” I said.

He nodded his agreement-air-conditioning is a powerful weapon-and I led them past my office, where I’d been finishing up the paperwork on my last case.

Chelsea glanced around my living room. “This is cute.”

My living room is far from cute. Messy, eclectic and coated with cat hair, maybe. Not cute. The vanilla candle burning on the table by the sofa used to be cute, but was now a smoldering glob of wax. Smelled good, though.

Chelsea moved aside this morning’s Houston Chronicle and sat down on the sofa. Her blond hair had gone limp from the humidity and hung around her face in thick, product-laden chunks. She wore an embroidered peasant shirt with long sleeves and stretch denim jeans-not exactly the best wardrobe choice for today. Then I noticed the cowboy boots-baby blue and powder pink.

“You like?” She smiled and held up one foot. “Boots are so hot right now.”

“Literally,” I said under my breath. When it’s this warm, you see girls wearing boots in Western dance clubs only in the evening-and those would be real boots-boots that do not look like they were first worn by some gaunt runway model at a Paris fashion show. “What production brings you to Houston?” I asked.

“Reality Check. You’ve heard of it, right?” Chelsea said.