Seriously, after the London fog, I thought I'd seen it all. But then I drifted into Paris—the capital of "romance" "art" and apparently, the most toxic family reunions on the planet. I'm floating through a massive, high-ceilinged apartment off the Champs-Élysées. The air smells like expensive lilies and even more expensive hypocrisy.
Enter the target, The "Crocodile Tear" Relative Terror!
We have Kelly, the cousin who's wailing like she's in a Greek tragedy but secretly checking the bottom of every antique vase to see if it's authentic Limoges porcelain. And then there's her brother, Julien, the snake in a slim-fit suit who keeps muttering, "Our late uncle's Rolex was actually promised to me; I saw it in the drafts of the will."
Kelly was standing by the casket, clutching a wet silk handkerchief, shouting.
