On the Square

ISBN 0963829548

Mabel Gracey locked her elaborately carved front door and walked down the white marble steps to the sidewalk. The dogwoods were blooming, the birds were singing--ah, it was a lovely Savannah day. Mabel sighed with contentment and looked back at her house, the joy of her life. That dark hulk--combining every style of architecture imaginable--was built in eighteen-eighty, and went from classic Greek on the ground floor to Georgian on the parlor, from Italianate on the second floor to Victorian on the third--all topped off with Eastlake trim. Mabel Gracey loved the house and dated it much earlier than eighteen-eighty. She insisted it was around seventeen-ninety and the finest house on the square. And to prove it, the historical society had jumped at her offer to leave them the house at her death. It would be used as a museum, and everything would work out just the way she wanted it. Her lovely Victorian furnishings would remain intact, every piece in exactly the spot where she had placed it. And visitors would come day after day, and year after year, to look at her collection of a lifetime. Also, there would be no common estate sale, with all the neighbors shoving and knocking each other to buy her lovely things. And even though Mabel would be gone, the house would remain under the guiding hand of the historical society, just as she had lived in it, forever.

But the historical society had different plans than Mabel Gracey. They were delighted to have the house left to them, of course. They would accept anything from anybody. And they would do the same with her house as they did with all the others. After tacking on a long list of restrictions as to what could and could not be done to the house, they would sell it. But what the historical society didn't know was that Mabel Gracey stipulated in her will that the house must be operated as a museum, with money left in a trust fund for that purpose, for eternity. Otherwise, the society forfeited it.

Mabel took one last look at the house and turned to go downtown just as Vivian Whitfield came down the walkway beside the house and unlocked the front gate. Mabel had rented the carriage house to Vivian for the past three years, and so far things had worked out, even though Mabel still had some reservations about Vivian. For one thing, her looks. Vivian didn't look a day past fifty, yet she had recently retired from the bookstore and told Mabel that she was sixty-five. Goodness! That was only a few years younger than herself. And with all her ability at self-deception, Mabel Gracey simply could not compare her dry, brown-spotted face to the fresh, creamy one of Vivian Whitfield. And other things nagged in the back of Mabel's mind concerning Vivian. Like the time that crazy painter was back there in the carriage house drunk, screaming that he was an unrecognized genius. Mabel had seen his paintings hanging on Vivian's walls and could not fathom why he thought himself a genius. They were awful. They were downright pornographic. They had nothing whatever to do with art. Now Mabel Gracey had lovely paintings on her walls--portraits, and flowers, and pastoral scenes. That was what art was all about.

Then too, Vivian had those men in quite often. But they were just sissies, nothing could be going on there. Besides, Vivian surely must have given up such thoughts at sixty-five. Mabel had certainly done away with them by that age.

"Good morning Mrs Gracey," Vivian Whitfield called, locking the gate behind her and stepping onto the sidewalk.

"And a good morning to you, Mrs Whitfield," Mabel replied in a feigned British accent. "It's truly a lovely day we're having, isn't it?"

"Yes, but it'll be hotter than hell soon enough," Vivian said, before catching herself. Mabel Gracey could barely stand "darn" much less anything stronger. But what the hell, that was the way Vivian talked. And Savannah would be hotter than hell soon, sweating her tits off.

"Well, I'm off on some errands." Mabel stretched her thin lips into a tight little smile to Vivian, then turned and walked off down the street.

Vivian looked after her with a big smile on her face. So, she didn't know about last night. She hadn't seen a thing. Vivian had been a nervous wreck all morning. She and Tom were simply getting too careless. They had fallen asleep last night without setting the alarm clock and it was already getting light when they woke up. Tom jumped from bed and pulled his clothes on, hugged and kissed Vivian, then slipped down the outside iron staircase and crept along the wall of the garden apartment to the gate at the front. He let himself out with the key Vivian had given him, then turned and blew a kiss back to her before heading down the street. Vivian checked for lights in the house but didn't see any in the upper three þoors or in the garden apartment downstairs where Mabel's sister, Miss Rookwood, lived.

Now, several hours later, standing outside on the sidewalk where Mabel Gracey left her, Vivian drew her first easy breath of the day. Nevertheless, she was still going to buy that rope ladder today. She and Tom both laughed at the idea when it Þrst came up, but now it made plenty of sense. Vivian had spent several thousand dollars having the carriage house done over when she moved in three years ago and she had told Mabel that she planned to spend the rest of her life there. She had given up on ever getting out of this hellhole of Savannah so she may as well have a nice apartment since she had to live here. Of course that was before she met Tom, and she didn't care where she lived now as long as he was with her. But Vivian knew Mabel would throw her out on the spot if she caught Tom back there in the carriage house. It was one thing to have a black man in to do the gardening, but Vivian knew without a doubt that Mabel Gracey wasn't about to stand for one in Vivian's bed. Well, fuck Mabel Gracey. Tom was the best lover Vivian had ever had, and she'd be damned if she was going to give him up.

"Good morning, Mrs Whitfield," Miss Rookwood called in her cracked little voice. She stood at the iron gate, rattling it. "You did lock the gate back tight, didn't you?"

"Yes, Miss Rookwood." Vivian turned to her. "Can't you see?"

"It's hard to tell sometimes. I just wanted to be sure." She continued rattling the gate. "You know all those rapists are out there and I don't think we can be too careful."

Vivian looked around to the square but failed to see any rapists. In fact, there was no one there but Hayworth Greenspan sitting on one of the benches acting half crazy. But that wasn't unusual for him. Vivian just hoped he didn't have another can of Brasso in his pocket, remembering that time he sat out there on a bench and drank a whole can of it. He had been hospitalized for several days, and was crazier than ever for weeks afterwards. He'd be a hell of a lot better off if he'd get up from that bench and go on back across the square to his antique shop and do a little work.

"You know we just can't be too careful," Miss Rookwood whined, "with all those rapists out there."

"Now look, Ghostly--" Vivian caught herself. "Ghostly" was the name she and Tom had given Miss Rookwood. "Look, Miss Rookwood, I don't think you have the least thing to worry about."

"Oh, but we do my dear. Why, only this morning I saw a man go past my window."

"What's that?" Vivian stepped closer to the gate. "What did you say?"

"Well, I'm sure I did, dear. I had just gotten up and was going to the ba-- well, going for morning duty, when he came creeping past the window."

"And what time was that, Miss Rookwood?" Vivian tried not to show too much interest.

"I know the time exactly. I always check the time when something important happens. It was six-twenty-four."

Ghostly was dead on the nose. The clock had read six-twenty when Vivian and Tom woke up.

"He was creeping along the wall there and checking all the burglar bars to see if he could get in. Why, I was in such a state of shock I was trembling all over." She looked at the bars and shook her head slowly. "Then he was gone."

"You're certain?"

"Oh, absolutely," Ghostly said. "That is, I was till I called Mabel upstairs and told her. She was peeved with me for waking her up so early, and said I had only been dreaming. She said no one could get in the house anyway, and told me to lie back down and rest and not to worry about it." She shook the gate again, then walked over to a window and took hold of the bars. "I suppose I'll have to call the iron man today about these."

"I don't think you need to worry." Vivian gave Ghostly the once over. She was in her seventies and weighed about ninety pounds. Her face was caked so heavy with white powder that it looked like she had stuck it in a þour bin, and her gray hair was streaked with yellow and an unruly mess. She wore a black sack dress that came down to her ankles, and black tennis shoes. "I think you're safe. Well, I'm off to the mall. Can I get you anything?"

"No dear," Ghostly said, still fiddling with the burglar bars. "I don't need a thing."

Vivian turned and walked down the street to her car. Hayworth Greenspan was still in the square, acting nutty as ever. Why was he wiggling on the bench? Oh shit, forget it. He didn't warrant that kind of attention. Vivian got in the car and cranked it. She had to get that rope ladder. After what Ghostly said, she simply had to. And all the way out to the damn mall. She hated the place. After fifteen years...