The brilliant sun beat down relentlessly, threatening to fry eggs on the wilted grass, if any were to be had. A hundred perspiring guests stood or sat under a vast snow-white canopy as they listened to Reverend G.A. Berr drone on about the benevolent nose-to-the-grindstone Pietro Liberace Vespuzzi. They not-so-discreetly wiped brows, cheeks, necks and exposed upper bosoms, and attempted to remain focused on what seemed a never-ending speech.
Alongside Harry, the three of us sat at the very rear, surveying mourners, and attempting not to fidget. Many we recognized. A few we didn’t, so Linda—as surreptitiously as possible—took pics.
“Anyone look particularly guilty?” I quietly asked my colleagues with a lifeless smile.
“Me,” Harry muttered, wiping his upper lip with a Hermès silk square.
