The Uneven Score (18 page)

“Maybe you woke him up with your practicing,” she said, remembering he thought her warm-ups sounded like a dying cow. “And then again…”

She went inside to pour herself a glass of orange juice and think. 

There was a note on the kitchen table: “Gone to have a talk with. FG. Back soon. Stay put and don’t scare off all the wildlife with your practicing. D.”

FG?

“Who in blazes …
Fats Gillibrew
!”

Daniel had gone to confront a man who had nearly killed Harry and had had every intention of killing her! Without backup. Without consulting her or Harry or Paddie. He’d just taken charge of the situation and gone off without them.

She almost pitched her horn across the room. That won’t do, she thought; falling in love does not include destroying one’s livelihood. So she picked up the vase in the middle of the table and threw it across the room.

There was no Fats Gillibrew in the Orlando phone book or any of the other phone books Daniel had. There was also no Fats Gillibrew in his executive Rolodex and no Fats Gillibrew in the leather address book in his secretary.

Obviously, Fats Gillibrew was not an ordinary and wholesome Florida gentleman.

She dialed Paddie’s number at the cottage. After ten rings, there was still no answer. Paddie’s acute sense of hearing was notorious. Even if she was asleep, she’d have woken up after the first couple of rings.

It was four o’clock on a gorgeous spring afternoon. Maybe she and Harry had gone for a walk. Or maybe they’d gone out for groceries.

Or maybe Daniel Graham had cut down some little road and picked them up at the cottage to go talk to Fats Gillibrew with him.

Or maybe Fats Gillibrew had paid a visit to the cottage and finished up what he’d started.

Or—

“This isn’t doing you or them a damn bit of good, Miss McCallie,” she said to herself.

So she stormed to her bedroom—or the guest room, since she had already begun to think of Daniel’s room as hers, too, and put her horn away. After a few aggravated moments looking for her sneakers, she remembered they were still upstairs. So she stormed upstairs.

And stopped dead in the doorway.

The sheets were rumpled and askew. Her clothes were tossed hither and yon. Daniel’s white towel was hanging off a bedpost. She breathed deeply, remembering.

Yes, she thought, I am in love with that man.

“The sneaky old goat.”

And then she seized her sneakers and ran downstairs.

Chapter Eleven

Whistling Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7, Whitney followed the path around the edge of the lake. By the time she cut off onto the road to Paddie’s cottage she was sick of the smell of citrus blossoms and wished she had brought along a gun. The sweet scent reminded her of mint juleps and sleepy afternoons and things romantic. The thought of a gun reminded her of Fats Gillibrew and her own vulnerable solitude. It was quiet in the grove. The bees hummed, the birds chirped, the fish and whatnot splashed in the lake. Every sound was a potential Fats Gillibrew.

But Daniel was supposed to be with Fats. Why was she so worried?

She stopped in the middle of the road. How did Daniel know where to find Fats?

Simple. Daniel Graham had been born and raised in central Florida. This was his turf. She knew musicians, he knew Fats Gillibrews. Daniel could be trusted.

She was just yards from Paddie’s cottage when she heard the sound of men laughing. Whitney stiffened, edging her way forward. Harry and Daniel? Were they on the deck drinking mint juleps and laughing it up?

But Daniel had said he was going to talk to Fats!

And it didn’t sound like his laughter, or Harry’s.   

Two men stepped out of the grove, on either side of her. “Don’t,” Fats warned when her mouth opened to scream.

“Just stay cool,” his balding comrade said. They both held guns.

She nodded. She couldn’t have spoken or screamed if she wanted to.

“We’ve got a problem,” Fats said. “And you can help us. Can’t she, Carl?”

“Easy,” Carl said.

Fats touched her shoulder with the barrel of his gun. “How come you ain’t armed this afternoon, eh? Thought ol’ Danny would keep you out of trouble?” Fats chuckled, a breathy, oily sound making Whitney want to shudder. “Ol’ Danny can’t even keep himself out of trouble.”

“What do you mean?” she asked sharply.

“
Wooo-eee
!” Carl laughed.

“Guess ol’ Danny’s got himself a sweet young thing to look after him—for now, anyway. Maybe he won’t live long enough to enjoy you, hmm?”

Fats was a sadistic, ugly bastard, but Whitney decided not to tell him so. “I don’t believe you,” she said, but her voice was without conviction.

“Then we’ll just have to prove it to you.”

Fats heaved a few chuckles. Whitney could smell the sweat and grime on him; She wanted to move away, or at least to cough and choke, but stood very still. Fats held the rifle up for her to see. “Recognize it?”

Whitney had seen Daniel Graham’s rifle enough times to recognize it when she saw it. Feeling herself pale, she nodded.

“Proof,” Fats said.

“What have you done with him?” she asked hoarsely.

“Never mind,” Carl said.

From their meeting at dawn, she remembered Carl was the more reasonable member of the unprepossessing duo. She looked at him and asked, “What do you want?”

Fats made some filthy comment that caused her stomach to lurch. She wondered what he would do if ol’ Danny’s sweet young thing vomited all over him. Shoot her? Probably. But what good would she be to Daniel shot?

Carl looked thoughtful. “We need to get into the guest house.” He waved his gun in the general direction of Paddie’s cottage. “But we don’t want any more people to see us than already have. There’s two guys sitting out on the deck. We want you to get rid of them.”

“Two guys?”

“One’s kind of gray and looks like he’s got a cob up his ass,” Carl said.

“The other’s a gook or something,” Fats said.

With more control than she had ever exhibited, even when performing at Carnegie Hall, Whitney held back her anger. And her fear. The two men on the porch had to be Bradley Fredericks and Yoshifumi Kamii. She couldn’t endanger them.

But what was in the cottage that Fats and Carl wanted so much?

 Paddie? Harry?

“There’s no need to hurt them,” she said, her voice hoarse with tension.

“Not if you get rid of them, no,” Carl said reasonably.

“I’ll do what I can.”

Carl smiled. “Good.”

Fats pressed Daniel’s rifle against her cheek. It was more frightening and deadly in his hands, a reminder of why she loathed guns so thoroughly. She wasn’t embarrassed at all that she was afraid. “If I shoot you from behind a tree or if I shoot you here, it’s all the same,” he said. “You’re dead. Understood?”

She didn’t dare nod. “Yes.”

They were not just simpleminded poachers. If that’s what they had been at dawn, then something had changed them between now and then. Something drastic. Now they were dangerous men. Mean-spirited, sadistic men willing to commit murder. Unless they were just posturing? Overstating their threat so she would cooperate? Perhaps they were as afraid as she.

Somehow she didn’t think so.

They prodded her up the road at gunpoint and whispered the things she was and wasn’t supposed to do. She was to get Bradley and Yoshifumi into their cars and off Graham property as quickly as possible. She was not to make them suspicious. At every command, she nodded. She wasn’t just going to try. She was going to do it. Her life depended on it.

And as they approached the rear of the cottage and Fats disappeared behind a cypress, it appeared so did Yoshifumi and Bradley’s … and possibly Daniel’s.

“We’ve got enough bullets for everyone,” was Fats’s parting comment.

Carl held her wrist. They were standing next to an overgrown flower bed at the corner of the house. They couldn’t see the deck from their position, and the voices that drifted toward them were low, unintelligible. “Everything’ll be all right if you don’t do anything wrong,” he said.

“I’m to get rid of them and remain on the deck.”

“That’s right.”

“What if they insist I come along with them?”

“Don’t.”

She nodded. “And then—”

“We’ll discuss that afterward. For now you have no choice.”

“Daniel …”

“He’s not here to help you, is he?”

She shook her head, and when Carl gave her a little shove forward, she went.

Bradley almost fainted when she crept out from behind a pine and climbed onto the deck. “Good Lord, Whitney,” he said. “Where did you come from?”

“Hi.” Her throat was so tight she squeaked. She tried a strained, frozen smile. “I was just taking a walk. I thought I heard someone out here. Hi, Yoshifumi.”

“We came by to see Paddie,” Yoshifumi explained.

“After last night, I don’t blame you. She’s always had a weird sense of humor.”

Bradley pursed his ups. “Poisonous snakes are not humorous.”

“I agree, but—”
I’m taking too long. Forget about the damned snake!
“It wasn’t real. I—”  

“What do you mean it wasn’t real?” Bradley demanded. “We all saw the infernal creature!”

“And smelled it, Whitney,” Yoshifumi put in. “We came by to make her tell us what in hell’s been going on around here. But maybe we don’t have to wait for her. Maybe you know. Whitney, tell us. We’re worried about Paddie—and the orchestra. We need her of sound mind and body, so to speak.”

“I know.” Whitney wrung her hands together and, seeing how white her knuckles looked, dropped them to her sides. She tried another smile. “Look, I have an idea. Why don’t we meet for dinner somewhere and talk this over? I can’t get away now, but what about in an hour or so?” She swore she could hear an angry rustle in the brush. This wasn’t part of her prepping. But they had said to ad-lib, hadn’t they? “We can meet at Church Street Station. I’ve never been and—”

“I think we should wait for Dr. Paderevsky,” Bradley said sourly.

Damn you, Bradley!
“Well, then, you’ll be waiting for quite some time,” she said, trying to sound cheerful and completely carefree. “She’s gone for the weekend. I’m not sure exactly where she went, but she said she needed to go into seclusion and find her equilibrium, or something like that. You know she meditates, don’t you?” 

“Whitney, you never could lie for shit,” Yoshifumi said. “Come on, what’s up? You’re nervous and— God, are you all right? For a minute I thought you were going to faint. Here, have a seat—”

Then, to make matters worse, a car drove up and parked behind Bradley’s Chrysler. Matthew Walker got out and waved. “Hey, what’s going on?” he called, a fresh, happy face amid the sourpuss concern of Bradley Fredericks, the dignified gravity of Yoshifumi Kamii, and the paralyzing fear of Whitney McCallie. He wore brightly colored golfing clothes. “Y’all having a party and didn’t invite me?”

Whitney moaned and gave a plaintive look to the anonymous brush and trees behind her. How was she going to get rid of all three men? Why didn’t Carl and Fats just cut their losses and hightail it out of there?

They all greeted each other in a spirit of orchestral fellowship. Whitney, per her instructions, remained standing on the north rear corner of the deck. If she sat down, she would be shot. If she moved in front of or behind someone, she would be shot. Matthew pulled out a chair and nodded to her, but she shook her head.

“I can’t stay,” she said, “and—um—sorry, but neither can you three. I don’t want to sound like a brown nose, but I promised Paddie.”

“Something up?” Matthew asked; Yoshifumi explained what they were doing there and about Paddie’s skipping out for the weekend. “Sounds like a good idea to me,” Matthew said. “Our fearless leader probably could use a rest. What about you, Whitney? Going to tell us what our chairman of the board won’t?”

“Yes.
Gladly
. At six o’clock at Church Street Station— Rosie O’Grady’s, isn’t that one of the places? I’ll be there. Right now
I
have to go, and so do you.”

“Daniel going to get mad and wallop you if you don’t get back?” Matthew was grinning, not at all serious, but still Whitney took offense.  “Don’t look so serious, sweet-pea. I’m just jealous.”

He laughed, and she couldn’t help but be charmed. “I’m flattered,” she said truthfully. “But—“

“But we’re cramping your style.” He rose, beckoning the others. “As you wish, sweet Whitney.”

“She won’t tell us anything until then, anyway,” Bradley grumbled.

Yoshifumi moved toward her and patted her on the shoulder.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Yes, fine. Just tired. I—I’m not used to all this warm weather and fresh air. But it’s nice.”

“Nervous about taking Harry’s place?”

“I guess.”

“Need a ride up to the house, Whitney?” Matthew asked. “I thought I’d stop by and see if I could have a talk with Daniel.”

How to explain Daniel was supposed to be having a talk with Fats Gillibrew, but wasn’t? “Thank you,” she said, smiling tightly, “but no. I need the exercise. Perhaps I’ll see you there.”

He grinned magnanimously. “Perhaps.”

And they left. First Matthew because he was blocking the driveway, then Yoshifumi and Bradley. They all waved. She waved back. Her stomach hurt. Her head hurt. She had to stand as rigid as a steel post to keep herself from screaming out to them for help. Then they were gone in a cloud of dust, and she realized she could stand on the corner of the deck and await her fate, or she could do something.

There simply was no choice.

In one wild, ungraceful move, she leaped forward, knocking down a grid chair, and dashed into the cottage. Two shots rang out in quick succession, then another. She screamed, slamming the door shut and barricading it with a folding chair, sobbing.

“I don’t know what to do,” she cried, “oh, God help me, I don’t know what to do!”

“You can start by getting your ass down,” came a low, furious drawl.

She flew around. “Daniel!”

“Get down, damn it!”

She fell to her hands and knees and crawled into the living room. Daniel was crouched at eye level with the sill of the window overlooking Fats Gillibrew territory. He had a revolver in his right hand. His left shoulder drooped down at an awkward angle. She crept up to him; “Daniel?” she whispered. “What’s happening? Are they out there—”