YEAR OF THE VAMPIRE 18

Chapter 18

Music from: Summer Rain

The yearbook photo of Maeve was still on Ivy's mind that next day. She went through classes without seeing Maeve at school, and then through her crochet instruction at the library with a record seventeen students ages ten through twelve, and then stayed after to do research.

She just caught Mrs. Rinnhaldt, president of the Rasperville Historical Society in time for a few questions.

"Yes, I think we do," Mrs. Rinnhaldt said, pulling on her wool coat. She was tall and thin, and the coat looked more like it was on a hanger than a seventy-year-old woman. "They should be in the back, where the Genealogy Group meets."

"Oh, of course," Ivy said, feigning only half ignorance. "That's right."

"Looking up family, dear?"

"Well, maybe. I guess I'll see, right?" Ivy gave her best smile.

Mrs. Rinnhaldt raised an eyebrow. "Hmm, well, we don't always find great things in the past, do we? Those commercials on television always act like we do, but truth is, sometimes we have rotten apples in our family trees."

"Sometimes. Hopefully not." Ivy was well aware of the rivalry between the Genealogy Group and Historical Society. Some bad blood no one could remember.

"I'm off to bingo. Good luck, Ivy," Mrs. Rinnhaldt said.

"Bye," Ivy said, watching her leave.

It left only Ivy, Mrs. Galewaters, and a scout troop earning their Dewey decimal badge in the library. She headed to the back of the library.

She had talked herself out of thinking the picture in the yearbook was Maeve last night, but that morning, all through classes and into lunch, she could find no other explanation. She'd hoped she wouldn't see the girl at school, and hadn't, but felt as if she was just out of eyeshot.

She stopped at the back of the building where the old maps, newspapers, and magazines were stored. Since an outbreak of mold in the basement last summer, some of the more historical research materials were simply stacked on shelves at the back, divided off from the library front sections by folding screens patterned with old newsprint panels. She stepped behind the edge of the first, sighing at the mammoth bookcases and shelves that lined the back wall and jutted out in dark rows. Maybe she was pursuing a fruitless, and baseless, idea, but the resemblance in the yearbook was uncanny.

She went to the back of the last row and found the building's wall. Here the high school memorabilia was stashed, rarely used and mostly unwanted. On a support post hung large framed sheets of alumni class photos, in oval shapes, of past years. She paused here, swinging aside the large plastic page that was as big as a movie poster. "Not even last year's class. Hmm," she said.

At least she was in the right place. She ran her hand over the top edges of the plastic-cased poster-pages, guessing there had to be at least a decade of photos. Apparently no one who ordered the large image holders bothered to update the poster-page styles, so most looked like they were decades old. To her right, nearer to the back wall, were more stands, each holding nearly two dozen plastic pages of oval student senior photos arranged by class.

She pulled a metal library lamp closer and turned up the brightness. It took only a moment to discover that the archives weren't exactly up to date. They weren't categorized for a few years, but picked up three years ago. She turned them, searching for Maeve, but didn't find her. "Too late, or early," she decided.

She swung the large pages, going back to find her dad, and her mother, decades ago. She continued, going back to the classes of 1968, 1962, and even earlier. By now she was on the second stand of alumni pages. It wasn't until her second pass through 1967 that she saw Maeve again, this time listed as Mimi Greitz.

Ivy stared for a long time at the oval black-and-white photo.

She was positive it was Maeve, even with the coils of dark hair framing her face and a cheerier smile. An unsettled feeling passed through her, and with a shaky hand, she reached for the panel showing 1966 students.

The ovals continued, 1965, 1964, 1963—but no Maeve.

She sighed a little, trying to find a logical reason. Maybe it was Maeve's mother, or older aunt, or grandmother's photo. It had to be. Family resemblances ran strong in some families. She turned the page again and again, reaching 1954.

Margaret Goddard stared back at her, this time Maeve in a sweetheart neckline with her hair pulled back in a Doris Day style.

Ivy swallowed, feeling faint. She held on tightly to the framed class page, trying to comprehend. She turned the next page slowly.

She didn't see Maeve again until 1941, and then in 1928, and then in 1915. She was afraid to look past that, but there were fewer students in each class, and even less girls.

Someone cleared their throat from beyond the archive area.

"She knows your secrets," she heard a male voice whisper. "And I think she's getting too close."

Ivy froze, her mind going numb at the nearness of the voice.

There was a long pause, and then, "He's been careless . . ."

She held her breath, determining the voice was coming from behind the divider to her left.

There was the shuffle of feet, and then the voice spoke again, lower. He sighed, then said, "Maybe later then."

There was a soft beep, and Ivy guessed it was a phone call.

Someone scooted a chair out and then the sound of books moving. Footsteps faded to the library front.

Ivy let out a careful breath. It could have been anyone, but there was something familiar about the scent.

Aftershave, she guessed, but she couldn't place from where she knew it.

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