The Bullet by Mary Louise Kelly Page A

in?”
    â€œWe were. We were glad to get a nice young couple next door. The four of us got to be good friends. And then when John and you came along, your mother and I spent nearly every morning together.”
    I tried to follow this. “John is—your son?”
    She pointed at a framed photograph on a side table beside the sofa. It showed a pudgy man in a golf shirt and khakis. “My oldest. You’re older than him, but only by a couple of months. You and he were great pals as toddlers. You don’t remember him?”
    â€œI’m afraid I don’t remember anything from those years.”
    â€œThe two of you used to play together, in a playpen we would set up in the kitchen and fill with balls and toys. Sadie Rawson and I would drink coffee and bake together. That girl could burn things, I tell you. She had a true talent for it. She’d roll out dough and pop it in the oven, get to talking, and forget all about it. Next thing you knew, your kitchen was filled with smoke.” Cheral smiled. “And we went for walks. Endless walks. There wasn’t much to do back then when you stayed home with a baby. None of these play groups and Gymboree classes that young mothers do today.”
    I was hanging on her every word. “What was she—like? I mean, was she quiet, or funny, or—”
    â€œFunny, yes. And about as far from quiet as a person can get. She was the life of the party. Boone was the serious, steady one. They played off each other. I guess all couples do.”
    â€œSounds like I take after my father.”
    â€œNot in the looks department, you don’t. It’s incredible, how you favor her. She was a pretty, pretty girl. Bedroom eyes and shiny, lip-glossy lips. We’d be out pushing baby strollers, just walking around the block in our housedresses, and you’d see the men’s heads snap when they drove past. Sades would just laugh and wave.”
    A cloud passed over Cheral’s face. She was no beauty, didn’t look as if she had ever been. Late middle age had scored her mouth with drylines, and her hair was bleached and brittle. But surely that wasn’t jealousy I detected? Not after all these years.
    â€œShe sounds like she must have been a handful. I thought so. I thought she must have been feisty. Keeping her maiden name, and all.”
    Cheral looked confused. “No, she went by Smith.”
    â€œRight, but Sadie Rawson Smith. Like Hillary Rodham Clinton. That must have been progressive, for Georgia in the 1970s.”
    â€œNo, no, it wasn’t a Hillary Rodham thing. Sadie Rawson was her first name. You know, like . . . Mary Belle. Or Georgia Ruth. Lots of girls down here used double-barreled names. Still do.”
    â€œOh. Quite a mouthful.”
    She shrugged. “Sadie Rawson has the same number of syllables as Elizabeth, if you think about it. And nobody thinks that’s too long a name.”
    We fell silent.
    â€œIt must be very upsetting for you,” she ventured after a bit. “Learning about all this now.” I’d told her the broad outlines of what I knew and when I’d come to know it, on the phone this morning. I left out the bullet details.
    â€œIt’s been strange. It’s good to meet you, though. I love hearing what the Smiths were like. My parents—the Cashions—don’t seem to know much. And the newspaper accounts about what happened are pretty bare-bones. The paper ran four stories and then . . . it seemed to fall off the radar.”
    She nodded.
    â€œThe police must have talked to you. Did they ever let anything slip? I mean, could you tell if they ever had a good lead?”
    â€œThey interviewed us twice. Rick and me. We hadn’t heard or seen anything out of the ordinary that day. We told them everything we could. To be honest, I wasn’t that impressed with the efforts of the Atlanta police. They were convinced from day one that it