The Uneven Score (11 page)

“I don’t have any Earl Grey tea.”

“Yes, you do—in the pantry, top shelf.”

Muttering something about thieves and a man’s privacy, he had tossed his suit coat on the wicker chair and gone inside. As soon as the screen door shut, Whitney sat up straight and prepared to consult with Paddie on what they were and were not going to tell their handsome host—and what had happened back at the auditorium.

But then he had burst through the door and snapped his fingers at Paddie. “ Paddie, you come with me,” he commanded. “I don’t want you two conspiring while I’m gone.”

 Paddie had given Whitney a dirty look, as though his use of her forbidden nickname and everything else were Whitney’s fault, and followed Daniel inside.

And Whitney had begun humming Mozart.

She should be
playing
Mozart. Harry would be disgusted, she thought. He wouldn’t care that she was in an unaccountably good mood while he could be languishing in some sweatbox. She had hardly touched her horn in two days.
That
would infuriate him. Murder and mayhem and handsome men weren’t supposed to impede one’s practice hours.

Ah, she thought, starting in on the Romanza movement, but Daniel Graham was handsome, wasn’t he?

He and Paddie returned with a tray each of tea, sandwiches, and a sleeve of Fig Newtons and set them on the table next to the settee.

“For a rich man,” Paddie said, plopping into an old pine rocking chair, “his kitchen leaves much to be desired.”

“Yes, I know,” Whitney replied.

Daniel gave her a dark look. She smiled and snatched a ham and Gouda cheese sandwich.

“All right,” Daniel said as he sat down, “talk.”

Paddie and Whitney just looked at him.

“I can see this is going to be a long night,” he commented dryly. “Look, I have a pretty good idea of what you two have been up to and why. You think I had something to do with Harry’s leaving town. Maybe you think I killed him or drove him off, I don’t know. But—”

Paddie humphed. “Where did you get such a fantastic idea? You could write operas. Mr. Stagliatti resigned his position and left Orlando. I have his letter.”

With barely restrained impatience, Daniel snapped up, grabbed a Fig Newton, and, biting it in half, sat down again. Whitney observed the thickness of his thighs and the flatness of his abdomen and even the muscles in his jaw as he chewed. She would let Paddie field his questions. Obviously the bump on Whitney’s head had scrambled her brains.

“And you believe that?” he asked sharply.

“I do.”

“Whitney?”

He fastened his sea-green eyes on her; she swallowed a mouthful of sandwich. “I wasn’t here.”

“But you’re his student. Would he walk out like this?”

“You never know with Harry.”

“Doesn’t it concern you that he said he’d be gone a couple of days and he’s been gone four?”

Yes, Whitney thought, but managed a shrug. “I’ll start worrying if he’s not back by Monday.”

“What does he think of Paddie?”

“Same as everyone else—that she’s a tyrant with a rare musical gift.”

“He should talk,” Paddie muttered. Whitney was surprised; Paddie never muttered.

“Fine,” Daniel went on impatiently, loosening his tie. “But would he walk out on her?”

Whitney caught a chunk of cheese as it fell out from between the slices of whole wheat bread. “Permanently, you mean? I don’t know. He might.” She stuffed the cheese back into her sandwich.

Daniel tugged off his tie and said offhandedly, “Then you don’t think he was murdered or kidnapped?”

“Murdered! Kidnapped! Of course not.”

 Paddie winced. Daniel scowled. “Whitney,” he said, “remember what I said about your ability to lie?”

Whitney didn’t answer, instead laying her sandwich on the tray and pouring herself a cup of tea. She added a healthy dollop of cream. Daniel was unbuttoning his cuffs. She noticed the grim set of his mouth, the fine, tanned muscles of his hands, the dark hairs on his wrists.

“Paddie put you up to breaking into my office yesterday, didn’t she?” Daniel went on. “You’ve been covering for her, Whitney. If not because you think your horn teacher’s in danger, then why?”

“Imagine the operas this man could write,” Paddie said, coming to Whitney’s rescue. “You do the libretto, Daniel, and I’ll do the score.”

Daniel ignored her, gazing steadily at Whitney.

“I have a sense of loyalty, Daniel,” she said, picking up her sandwich. “A confidence is a confidence.”

“Meaning Paddie talked you into breaking into my office, camping in my grove, and searching my house, and you don’t intend to tell me why.”

Whitney glanced over at Paddie, who was chewing on a hunk of cheese, and then back at Daniel. Being loyal to a woman she hadn’t seen in eight years had its problems. But Whitney wanted Paddie to conduct and would do what she could to stand behind her and keep her reputation intact. And yet, she wondered, if Harry was in danger, wouldn’t it be nice to have Daniel on their side? Perhaps it was foolish not to confide in him. She looked at him—and lifted her shoulders, both stubborn and apologetic. She couldn’t talk, not yet.

“So you won’t tell me about Harry and your ‘confidence’ with Paddie. All right.” He paused thoughtfully. “I’ll let it go—for now. Let’s discuss your behavior this past week or so, Paddie.”

Paddie’s eyes opened with surprise. “My work, you mean?”

“No. I mean your behavior. You haven’t been yourself, have you?”

“And who else would I be? Toscanini? Koussevitzky? Come, Daniel, be sensible.”

He stretched out his long legs, calm now that he had the brilliant and elusive conductor in his pincers. “The coffee you spit all over Yoshifumi—what was in it?”

To Whitney’s amazement and relief, after a fleeting moment of shock registered on her unbecoming features, Paddie admitted, “Soap.”

“You’re sure?”

“No. It tasted like soap.”

“But you’ve no proof.”

“No.”

“All right. What about the score?”

“The cover was switched. Another time one was misplaced—the Stravinsky.” Paddie leaned over and poured herself a cup of tea. “I do not misplace scores.”

Whitney hoped Daniel knew better than to argue with that statement. Apparently he did. He turned the cuff up on his sleeve and rolled it. “The bad nights?”

“Threatening and obscene telephone calls.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Ordinary nastiness.”

He turned to Whitney. “You knew all this?”

“I—yes.”

“When Paddie called you to replace Harry, she told you?”

Whitney nodded.

“And you two put two and two together and came up with me as the culprit. Why?”

“You don’t like me,” Paddie replied, not with self-pity.

“I respect you. I assumed that was enough.”

“Do you? You’ve never said.”

“I’m saying so now.”

Whitney could see Paddie’s eyes light up. Camaraderie had never mattered to her. Respect had. And did. “Good,” she said.

Daniel sighed and turned his attention to Whitney. “You broke into my office and searched my house for some sort of proof of my culpability, am I right?”

“Or your innocence,” Whitney said.

“I see,” he said tightly, and finished rolling up his sleeves.

Whitney ate the rest of her sandwich. Paddie drank her tea.

“Well, then, is there anything else?” Daniel asked finally. “Any other ‘happenings’?” 

“No,” Paddie replied.

Whitney thought of the drawing, but supposed there was no point in mentioning it. The insult to Victoria Paderevsky it represented was too close, too grating, with the CFSO premiere just days away.

“Fine.” He got up and poured himself a cup of tea. As he leaned over, Whitney could see the muscles in his back straining beneath the fine fabric of his shirt. He sat back down, mug in hand. He hadn’t added a dollop of cream to his tea. “Let’s discuss this morning.”

“Are you going to tell Victoria about the secret meeting?” Whitney asked boldly.

“As a matter of fact,” Daniel said with a cool look, “I am. Or would you prefer to? You heard everything, didn’t you?”

“I was playing maid.”

Daniel’s eyes darkened, but Paddie wasn’t about to be put off by an argument. “What secret meeting?” she demanded.

Daniel turned to Paddie and explained, maintaining he would have confronted her with this problem no matter what had or hadn’t happened to Whitney. He didn’t believe in secret meetings.

“My own people sneaking behind my back. Who were

they?”

“That’s confidential.”

“And they think I’m cracking under the strain? Me?”

“It wouldn’t be unreasonable.”

“Because I am a woman they hate me! Because I am overweight! Because I am
good
! Damn them. Damn them all. I will show them.”

“ Paddie,” Daniel said with surprising patience, “that attitude isn’t going to work. You’re not going to show them a damned thing. Without your orchestra, you’re just another overweight, unemployed musician. Anyone else—Whitney included—would have slapped him silly, but Paddie just laughed. “I am most egotistical when I am angry,” she said.

“And hurt,” Daniel added softly.

Paddie just shrugged. The man, Whitney realized, had her completely cowed.

Finally Whitney spoke up. “They weren’t going against you, Victoria. They’re concerned. I don’t see how you can keep going with the premiere just one week away and all this happening. An artist can’t hide her feelings and still be true to her art. You are under pressure, but for very real, tangible reasons.”

“That’s right,” Daniel said heavily. “It looks as though someone wants to see Victoria Paderevsky take a nose-dive—and it sure as hell isn’t me. I ought to flog you for ever thinking such a thing, Doctor.”

 Paddie just looked at him placidly. Whitney wondered if she was going to ask Daniel why he’d been skulking about Harry’s hotel room. That had yet to be explained.

“But whoever is after you knows Whitney’s been trying to help you and attacked her today—twice. Up until now everything seems to have been carefully planned and executed so Paddie was the only one who saw or heard anything. That way we could all think she was just imagining things. But now Whitney’s directly involved, too. I don’t know what it means, but I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I,” Whitney said, her head hurting. She grabbed a couple of Fig Newtons, hoping they would help.

“And, for God’s sake, Paddie, don’t try to tell me you’re the one who hit Whitney. It just makes me more suspicious.”

“I did not hit her,” Paddie admitted.

“All right. We have enough to take to the police.”

“
No
!” Paddie leaped up. “No, I will not stand for it. What can they do? Nothing. What can they tell me that I don’t already know? Nothing. It would only be bad publicity for me and the orchestra. No.”

“Sit down, Paddie,” Daniel growled. “Whitney was hit on the head. That alone suggests this business is getting ugly.”

“She was not hurt badly! Whoever hit her must not have intended to do much damage—perhaps he just wanted to scare her. He could have killed her then, if he meant to.”

Daniel sighed; Whitney tried to concentrate on her Fig Newtons. “Was she hit because she’s helping you,” he said, “or because she’s Harry’s student and replacement, or because she was mistaken for you?”

“Whitney looks nothing like me.”

“It wasn’t an accident.”

“Maybe it was just a coincidence,” Whitney suggested.

Daniel scoffed. “Not that line again.”

Whitney ignored his skepticism and stated her case. “I could have arrived at Victoria’s office right when our friend was about to plant another surprise for her. He or she had to hit me to avoid being seen.”

“But Paddie was right there in the building!”

“I had just left for lunch,” Paddie said. “I heard something—Whitney falling, I think—and came back.”

“Alone?” Daniel raised a brow. “You’re braver than I thought, Doctor, or just as foolhardy as your sidekick here.”

Whitney resisted an acerbic comment. “What about you, Daniel? Why did you come back?”

“For you. I realized I was taking off with your only means of transportation. I was going to give you a ride back to the house.”

Whitney was properly chastened. “Oh.”

“Obviously either I or Paddie could have hit you.”

“Impossible,” Paddie declared.

“No, it isn’t. I could have hit her and ducked into a practice room until someone had found her. And you’ve already tried to take the blame, Paddie. If I’d had my wits about me at all I’d have searched the area.”

“Ah,” Paddie said genially, “but you were worried about your Whitney.”

“Yes,” Daniel said, and balanced his mug on the end of his knee. “Any suggestions?”

Whitney was surprised to hear him ask their opinion. “No, but I agree with Victoria about the police,” she said. “We can’t have them crawling around the orchestra asking questions. People are uptight enough as it is.”

His sea-green eyes met hers; they were unsmiling, grim, but tender, somehow. “We can’t have you or Paddie getting killed, either.”

“No one wants to kill us,” Whitney said, wishing her body permitted her to feel more confident. “Someone’s out to drive Victoria crazy. We know that, and we can combat it. She has allies now—us. Someone to talk to. As for me—I was bonked on the head because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ll be more careful in the future.”

“Whitney’s right,” Paddie said. “We cannot risk bringing in the police now. That would only make this loathsome individual more cautious. We would be in an even worse position than we are now.”

Daniel frowned. “How do you propose to explain Whitney’s bruise?”

“I will say I mistook her for a burglar. The real person who hit her will know better, of course, but obviously won’t come forward with the truth.”

“Oh, come off’ it, Paddie, you know that won’t work!”

“This time I agree with Daniel,” Whitney said, “except I think we should just not mention the incident. Why bother? The lump isn’t that noticeable, and I’ll have the weekend to recuperate before I have to perform. The person who hit me will know, but hopefully will think we’re too scared or whatever to go to the police.”