And on a cloudy damp Thursday evening, Gwen and Nelson knocked on the blue door at 2011 Chamomile Lane in a small rural village just outside of Norwic.... The door opened inward on over-sized brass hinges. Warm light spilled out on the brick walkway. Aromas of wood smoke, soap and a well-used kitchen wafted by them. Silhouetted in the light was the form of a young woman, her hair highlighted from behind like a cloud of spun gold. “Uncle Nelson? Aunt Gwen?” Her parents were just a few steps behind. It was obvious even from this far away thatshe was drunk.That sleazeoid Billy Kettering was dressed in a poorly fitting, hand-me-down, black suit that was frayed at the cuffs and lapels. He was holdingSloane's arm and when she burst into an obviously feigned crying jag heassisted her into a green camp chair, of which there were three rows seteither side of the grave.As Tina and I approached a number of mourners looked our way and quite afew of them stared. I stumbled briefly when I caught. More

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