My mother refused to allow me to attend Donald Lilly"s funeral two days later. Cassidy"s funeral had been enough, she insisted, adding that she didn"t think I could handle any more exposure to death. Instead, she suggested that I write a letter to his family, sending it care of the residents of Bohemian Row.
“They"ll know the right people to give it to, sweetheart,” she said. But I understood a fundamental truth that had always escaped her: the Bohemians were the right people. So I wrote the letter, placed it in an envelope, and addressed it to Alistair Lees at his new address. Downstairs at the mailbox, I discovered that the postman had already run. Inside our box was a letter with “Mister William Northrop Bradshaw” scribbled across the front. Whoever had addressed the envelope had faile
