The Uneven Score (10 page)

“I don’t know.”

“Care to tell me what was said?”

“Oh, just what you’d expect.” She averted her eyes so he couldn’t see if they had a distant look in them or not. “The voice was pretty muffled, so I couldn’t hear very well— something about my being in town early.”

“Apparently I’m not the only one who finds that suspicious.”

“Apparently.”

“Whitney, you have a few things to explain to me—and don’t try to look vapid because you’re not. You’re Harry Stagliatti’s student and Victoria Paderevsky’s friend, and, damn it, I want to know what you were doing in my office yesterday!” He drew in a breath. “You’re going to talk to me, darlin’ dear.”

He took her arm, but she hesitated. “People have such strange ideas about me. Wait, I should check in with Paddie...”

“‘Paddie’ doesn’t expect you until this afternoon, remember?” He sounded skeptical—as if he didn’t believe for a second that Paddie didn’t already know her new principal horn was in town, which, under the circumstances, Whitney thought perfectly reasonable.

She decided it was prudent to stick with her lie.  She could blame it all on Paddie later. “Yes, but if she hears I’ve arrived and didn’t come see her at once and—”

She was interrupted by the clattering of music stands on the stage above them, and then Paddie’s stout figure stamped down the stairs. “Whitney!” she cried out. “You are here! Welcome.”

Daniel glanced sideways down at Whitney. “Recognized you right off the bat, didn’t she?” he said in a low, sarcastic voice. “Rather odd, I would think, for someone you don’t know personally.”

Whitney ignored him. “Vic— Dr. Paderevsky, how are you? It’s so good to see you.”

She thought her polite words and Daniel Graham’s menacing, skeptical look would tip Paddie off, but subtleties—unless musical—rarely worked with the brilliant conductor. However, this time Paddie picked it up. “You are early, yes? Good! Now you can come to the four o’clock rehearsal.”

“Dr. Paderevsky.”

“Yes, you must come. We all miss Mr. Stagliatti, of course, the ingrate, but this program could have been tailored for you, Whitney.
Till,
Beethoven’s Seventh,
Firebird
—you will do beautifully. Ah, Whitney, wait until you hear my orchestra.”

Whitney could feel Daniel stiffening at her side, but couldn’t decide which of Paddie’s comments he found most offensive. “I look forward to it,” she replied.

“I see you’ve met Mr. Graham,” Paddie said. “He’s our chairman of the board—very good to us, yes. How are you, Mr. Graham?”

“Fine,” he said, “just fine.”

“Dr. Paderevsky,” Whitney said, “I was wondering if we could get together for a few minutes—”

“Three-thirty,” Paddie interrupted. “I will be in my office. Be prompt.”

“Dr. Paderevsky, Ms. McCallie,” Daniel said, businesslike, “I want to see you both after rehearsal—seven o’clock at the latest. Meet me back at the house.” He looked from one woman to the other. “I suggest you be there.”

 Paddie fastened her beady eyes on him. “I do not take that kind of order from you, Mr. Graham.”

“You damned well better tonight.”

Even if Paddie hadn’t seen him skulking around Harry’s room, Whitney understood why Paddie had picked Daniel for her number-one suspect. The man had no personal finesse. Of course, neither did Paddie. Whitney debated trying to make peace between them, but by the time she decided it wasn’t worth the effort Paddie had stomped off and Daniel had banged through the door he’d come in. She was left alone in the big auditorium. Just as she started to fume, she remembered the episode on Level B and got the creeps.

She raced out into the lobby, but Daniel was gone. By the time she reached the parking lot, so was his Porsche.

She was without transportation. And her horn was back at his house. A cab was going to cost her a fortune!

“To hell with it,” she muttered.

It was time Paddie accepted some responsibility for Whitney’s health and welfare. The least she could do was to drive Whitney out to pick up her horn.

She went back to the auditorium—this time walking around the outside of the main building and entering the lobby, then cutting down a hall and going behind stage. Paddie’s office was easy to find because it was the only one with a name on it. Just V. PADEREVSKY. The door was standing open, but Paddie wasn’t in. Whitney found a felt-tip pen and a sheet of music paper on the cluttered desk and started to write a note: “Found nothing, but much to tell you when you decide to listen. Won’t be …”

There was a sound, a movement, and then a sudden, searing pain at the back of her neck.

And then nothing.

Chapter Six

Through the haze of pain, Whitney could hear voices—a man and a woman arguing. Her name was mentioned; something about burglars. The man’s voice was closer. She swallowed. Her throat was dry. Her head ached. As consciousness returned, she fought the pain and the fear and the wave of dizziness. She was lying on something soft and clammy—a vinyl couch? Then she remembered. There was a vinyl couch, cluttered with music and folders, in Paddie’s office.

Paddie... Daniel…

“How was I to know she wasn’t a burglar?” Paddie was saying.

“For God’s sake,” Daniel Graham barked, “you just saw her ten minutes ago!”

 Paddie sniffed, indignant. “I did not recognize her.”

“Terrific.”

Whitney could feel two strong hands on her waist. A man’s hands. Daniel’s. She kept her eyes closed, half because she was sure opening them would only worsen the throbbing ache in her head, half because she was perfectly lucid and wanted to hear what Paddie and Daniel had to say. Paddie was trying to convince Daniel she had hit Whitney, but she was using her fake Lithuanian accent, which meant she was probably lying. But why? And where had Daniel come from?

“Whitney,” he said softly, “are you all right’?”

 Paddie scoffed. “I did not hit her that bard.”

Whitney opened one eye and winced in agony. “Ouch,” she said, and tried to smile.

Daniel smiled back, tenderly. He was down on one knee next to the couch. Things were scattered over the floor. Paddie stood behind him, scowling. He touched Whitney’s chin gently with one finger. “You’ve got a nasty bump,” he said. “Dr. Paderevsky, it seems, mistook you for a burglar.”

“A lot of that’s been going around lately,” Whitney said, trying to sit up—but too soon. She felt the blood drain out of her head. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

 Paddie groaned in disgust, but Daniel slipped an arm over her shoulders, steadying her. She sank her head against his chest and felt the wave of nausea dissipate. In its place came a peculiar, unexpected sense of belonging. Daniel smelled faintly of cologne and cotton fabric. His chest was a nice, solid place to rest.

“Shall I call a doctor?” he asked.

“No!” Paddie shrieked.

Beneath her cheek, Whitney could feel Daniel’s chest expand as he took in a deep breath, the stiffening that began there and moved through the rest of his long body. Yet he asked in a controlled drawl, “Why not?”

“The publicity.”

“I’m all right,” Whitney interrupted, lifting her head off Daniel’s chest. “I wasn’t out for very long, I don’t think.”

“Not even a minute,” Paddie declared.

Daniel ignored Paddie and concentrated on Whitney. “You could have a concussion.”

“Impossible,” Paddie pronounced.

Whitney grimaced, wishing Paddie would just keep her mouth shut for five minutes. She had to think. “I agree with Victoria,” she mumbled.

“My,” Daniel said dryly, “what a surprise.”

“About a concussion—I’m sure I don’t have one. I wasn’t hit that hard.”

But she was quite sure Paddie hadn’t hit her. In spite of her well-developed sense of the dramatic, she wasn’t the type to knock someone on the head—especially the wrong someone. But why was she taking the blame? Just so Daniel wouldn’t start asking questions about who had hit Whitney and go to the police? Whitney scowled. Paddie’s orchestra be damned, she thought. She wanted to know who had hit her and why!

Daniel helped her sit up against the cool vinyl back of the couch. She folded her hands across her thighs in a show of stoicism. What she wanted to do was roll around and moan in agony. She
hurt
! After seeing she would survive, Daniel circled round Paddie’s desk. The office was small, windowless, and messy. A CFSO poster was taped to the wall behind the desk. Daniel looked aggravated enough to strangle his world-famous conductor, bat all he did was give her a black look and pick up the phone. It was becoming clear to Whitney, if not to Paddie, that he did in fact want Victoria Paderevsky on the podium opening night—although he had to be having his doubts. In any case, any lingering suspicions Whitney might have had faded and died: Daniel Graham wasn’t out to drive Paddie nuts.

 Paddie wrinkled up her face at him and squatted down beside Whitney. “I am sorry I hit you,” she said. “It was an accident.”

“It’s all right.” Whitney’s words of reassurance were for Daniel’s benefit. For now, she thought it prudent to present a unified front. From her look, Paddie had already guessed Whitney knew she was lying. “But what will your orchestra say?”

“What they are already saying,” Paddie replied with a philosophical shrug of her heavy shoulders. “That the ugly conductor is crazy.”

“You’re not crazy, Victoria.”

“I know.” She grinned, her face lighting up. “But I am ugly, yes?”

“Oh, Victoria.”

“Ha, that is what I like about you, Whitney: no platitudes. I—” She whirled around, instantly alert and antagonistic, and leaped to her feet. She shook her fists at Daniel.

“What did you say?”

Daniel ignored her and continued speaking into the telephone. “If anyone has any questions, you’re to repeat the following statement: ‘In order to give orchestra members ample opportunity to rest before the premiere of the CFSO, afternoon rehearsals are being rescheduled. Beginning today, there will be no four o’clock rehearsals. Beginning Monday, there will be one afternoon rehearsal, starting at two o’clock. We apologize for the short notice but feel certain this will meet with your approval. Have a good week-end.’ In fact, Louise, why don’t you do that up in a memo? Thanks.”

 Paddie was turning purple. Sure she was going to have a heart attack, Whitney crawled to her feet and promptly collapsed, her knees buckling under her.

“You can’t do this,” Paddie sputtered, oblivious to Whitney’s problem.

“I just did,” Daniel replied calmly. He came around from behind the desk and easily lifted Whitney into his arms. “You’re going to the doctor, sweetheart,” he informed her, taking charge.

Paddie threw something. Whitney heard it hit the wall and crash to the floor. “Daniel Graham, I am the music director of this orchestra!”

“And I’m the chairman of the board,” he replied with a calm that Whitney knew would only further inflame Paddie. “And, in spite of what you two seem to think, I’m also on your side. Now shut up, Paddie; and help me get Whitney to a doctor. Or do you want to have to scour the countryside for another principal horn?”

Suddenly Paddie looked crushed. “Is she hurt that badly?”

“If she has a concussion, I doubt she’ll be able to play.” Now he was hitting Paddie where she’d notice. “I don’t have a concussion,” Whitney managed lamely.

Daniel told her to shut up, too, and scooped her all the way up in his arms. She felt as light and carefree as a baked meringue—a pleasant, if elusive, feeling. Paddie argued that Whitney could walk and that if anyone saw him carrying her around, there would be talk. Daniel snapped back that there already was talk; this would just make the talk juicier. Paddie growled and heaved a pen at the wall. Daniel turned nimbly, Whitney in his arms, and walked toward the door.

Then, just as they were leaving, he turned and said offhandedly, “Oh, by the way, Paddie, maybe you ought to bring along whatever you used to knock poor Whitney on the head. The doctor might need to see it.”

Victoria Paderevsky was speechless—possibly, Whitney thought, for the first time in her life. Daniel looked downright pleased with himself. “Did you forget what you hit her with—or did you lose it?” he asked, rubbing it in. “Tut-tut. Well, come along, ladies. We’ve lots to do this afternoon. You are coming, aren’t you, Paddie?”

She grimaced and followed him out the door.

Whitney snuggled up against Daniel’s chest and enjoyed the ride.

Two hours later Whitney was stretched out on the settee on Daniel’s front porch humming the first movement of Mozart’s Horn Concerto No. 3 and wondering why she was in such a good mood. By most definitions, it had not been a sterling twenty-four hours. As she had predicted, however, she didn’t have a concussion. Daniel had prevailed and taken her to the emergency room at an Orlando hospital. Paddie had been remarkably quiet, but Whitney assumed she was only trying to manufacture some tale for Daniel’s consumption. Whitney couldn’t imagine why Paddie would want to tell her chairman of the board she had suspected him of kidnapping a French horn player. But did she still believe Harry had been kidnapped?

Daniel had moved to carry Whitney into the hospital, but she had regained full use of her faculties and had decided he was quite bossy enough without her acting like some helpless damsel. She would walk; It wasn’t as much fun, but she had an image to maintain.

The doctor gave her sample prescriptions of a painkiller and some enzyme to promote healing and said she had a bruise on the back of her neck. He suggested she rest and stay calm. Whitney had begun to laugh somewhat hysterically, but Daniel had dragged her off before the doctor could recommend a padded cell. Rest and stay calm! With Daniel Graham in her life? And Victoria Paderevsky?

Daniel had grabbed Paddie out of the waiting room, where she was lecturing a baffled adolescent boy on Beethoven and the transition to nineteenth-century Romanticism. The boy was obviously glad to see her go.

When they reached the tan stucco house amid the endless acres of citrus groves, Whitney had told Daniel she was starving and would shrivel up and die within the hour if she didn’t get something to eat; the toast and marmalade of this morning were long gone. “Some of that Gouda cheese in the fridge would be nice,” she suggested, “and a pot of Earl Grey tea.”