I checked the pictures of graduating seniors in the 1955 Clarion and there he was again. By then, his smile was practiced. He’d learned that setting his teeth in a certain way created the impression of a smile without his having to experience anything worth smiling about. Beside his picture in the brief few lines accorded each student, he listed his activities as glee club and pep club. Shit, everybody was in the pep club. Under Hobby, he listed “photography.” Ambition: “to be rich and successful.” Memory: “junior prom.” Song: “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” Pet Peeve: “stuck-up girls.”

There was no sign of Shirley Ann among graduating seniors. Had she died? Surely not.

I flipped back to Lenore Redfern’s photograph that same year, knowing she was a junior the year Ned graduated. What must she have thought when the semi-attractive Ned suddenly turned his phony smile on her? I turned to the 1956 Clarion, but there was no sign of her photograph among the graduating seniors.

I sat for a long time thinking about the three: Ned Lowe, Shirley Ann Kastle, and Lenore Redfern. I remembered the intensity of high school, all those hormones, like spotlights, casting events in high relief. Everything felt like forever. Love, betrayal, impossible crushes, breakups, jealousies, and yearnings. How had poor little Lenore ended up in Ned Lowe’s sights? What was the story? More important, how was I going to find out?

I did make one unexpected discovery that so startled me, I yelped aloud, thus drawing the stares of two people at an adjoining table. As I leafed through pages devoted to school activities, I spotted Ned’s photograph among members of the German club, which wasn’t interesting in and of itself. What caught my attention was an enlarged photo of the president of the organization—a fellow whose name was George Dayton.

Suddenly I understood where the fake IRS agent had come up with his alias. I’d been almost certain Ned Lowe was behind Ruth’s trumped-up audit request. It didn’t help with my current query, but at least a wee piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. I couldn’t wait to tell Ruth, who’d scoffed at my suspicions.

I closed the yearbooks and stacked them, gathered my shoulder bag and my notes, and repaired to the main desk, where the librarian was perched on a stool.

“How’d you do?”

“Not bad,” I said.

“If you don’t mind my asking, are you investigating someone in particular?”

“A guy named Ned Lowe. His wife committed suicide in 1961, and there’s a question about what went on. I thought background information would help. Would any of the teachers from the midfifties still be around?”

“I doubt it. I mean, not that I know, but we can certainly find out. Let me check with Mrs. Showalter. She retired just last year, which is when I came on. She might know one or two faculty members, and if she doesn’t, I’m sure she can suggest someone who does.”