The Uneven Score (21 page)

But she had come this far. Why not check out what she could about the other people? Rebecca was head of the Friends of the CFSO Society. Probably she would have an office—

“How can you possibly suspect Daniel’s mother?” She was disgusted with herself, but  dug around on Paddie’s string of keys, found one labeled “Friends of Orch.” and one labeled “Matt,” and set off, wondering if both parties knew the conductor had keys to their offices. Paddie was thorough. Her backup copy of Daniel’s office key was also on the string.

Matthew’s office was across from Paddie’s. It was a small, neat cubicle and— She froze.

And on the desk was a paper blotter covered with doodles. Not one was of a world-famous conductor. Not one was nasty. Not one was proof that Matthew Walker was anything more or less than a capable general manager of an Orchestra.

But they were all Whitney needed to see. They were the same style as the drawing he had left in Paddie’s cottage. Could she tear off the top page? Would he notice?

She had to, and it wouldn’t matter if he noticed. He had to be stopped. Somehow.

She set her flashlight on the corner of the desk and cleared off the damning blotter.  Behind her, the door creaked. 

Gulping in air, she whirled around.

Matthew Walker strolled in, shut the door, and leaned against it. He looked as handsome and charming as ever in his cream-colored suit, but tiny beads of perspiration glistened on his upper up. “Well, hello.”

“Oh, Matthew, hi.” Whitney tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and smiled, thinking she was getting much too proficient at smiling under great pressure. She had her hand in the cookie jar, and Matthew knew it. His look wasn’t menacing, but she could see he wasn’t fooled. He wasn’t as tall or as physically impressive as Daniel, but she had a good idea of her own limitations. If she could have burst past him and escaped, she would have by now. She would have to try another of her lies. “I was just doing an errand for Paddie. How did the press conference go?”

“The best snow job Florida will ever see, I’m sure,” he said pleasantly. “Daniel saved Paddie from herself and came out looking just peachy. He always does, doesn’t he?”

“I wouldn’t know. Oh, silly me, I think I’m digging in the wrong box. I suppose this can wait until morning. Paddie’s so compulsive.”

Matthew smiled indulgently, but the knowing look never left his eyes. “She’s not the only one, is she?”

“You mean me?” Whitney climbed to her feet and waved off his comment. “No, only where music is concerned. I’m glad Harry showed up. I’ve got a beast of a concert series coming up in New York. Lots of modern stuff, you know, with me and my poor little horn dancing over its entire four-octave range.”

“It’s not going to work, Whitney,” Matthew said, his drawl as charming as ever. “You’re the prettiest, nicest Yankee I’ve ever seen, but you’re not very good at lying.”

“So everyone keeps telling me. Let me help you, Matthew,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t have to end like this. I know Paddie—”

“It’s not Paddie. She’s a loudmouthed bitch, but it’s not her. I haven’t grown up with her. I haven’t had to stand back and watch her do everything right. I haven’t had to listen to people compare me to her day in and day out. No, Whitney, it’s not Paddie.”

Whitney nodded, but didn’t dare speak Daniel’s name. “I know what you mean,” she said with understanding. “He can be hard to take, can’t he?”

Matthew laughed: a mean, bitter, sad laugh. “Then why are you in love with him?”

“I’ve only known the man three days!”

“Exactly my point.”

He pulled in his lips, not looking half as threatening as Daniel had when he’d hauled Whitney out of his office closet. But perhaps that was part of Matthew’s problem. He was charming and sensitive, and he wanted to be neither. Now he was dangerous. Whitney wondered if, for the first time in his life, he had finally gotten what he wanted.

“I never wanted to hurt anyone,” he said, and pulled out a gun.

They walked with his right side against her left side. Matthew had Whitney’s right arm—her muting arm, she thought with savage humor—pinned behind her back, holding it with his right arm. With his left arm stretched across his chest, he held the gun on her. He guided her out onto the stage. A light was on. She could feel Matthew stiffening as he noticed, too
...
and he wasn’t the one who had turned it on.

Whitney didn’t breathe or think or hope. She just walked forward.

Then, with a suddenness that only he could manage, Daniel was behind them, jerking Matthew’s gun hand.

Whitney cried out in surprise, then kicked Matthew in the knee.

“Damn it, Whitney, don’t fight him,” Daniel yelled. “Get down!”

The gun went off. She dove, knocking down three music stands, banging her hand, cursing. For a second she thought she’d been shot, but it was just the base of a stand sticking in her side. She jerked it up and leaped to her feet, prepared to bash Matthew.

But she didn’t have to. He was crumpled up on the floor, his face buried in his hands.

And he was crying. “I wouldn’t have hurt her,” he said over and over, “I wouldn’t have hurt her.”

Whitney set the stand back down and looked up at Daniel. He had the gun, but he wasn’t bothering to point it at Matthew. “I know, Matt,” he said gently, his voice cracking. “It wasn’t Whitney I was worried about. It was you.”

Daniel held an arm out for Whitney, and she started to go to him. But a movement in the shadows backstage stopped her. She turned, beyond fear. 

Thomas Walker was there, holding a gun, bigger than his son’s. It was pointed at Whitney.

“Put the gun down, Daniel,” he said. “Matthew wouldn’t kill her, God knows, but I will. You can be sure of it.”

His eyes never leaving Thomas, Daniel laid the gun on the floor.

Matthew sniffled and looked up, his face red and blotchy. “It’s over, Dad,” he cried. “Can’t you see? It’s over. Your worthless son has failed you again.”

“Shut up, Matt,” Thomas snapped. He was dressed for the press conference: neat and sharp, but his face was filled with anger and contempt for everyone—his son included. “I’m not going to let these people ruin you—or me. Now quit your mewing and get your gun.
Do as I say!”

“No, Dad.”

“Damn it, boy! If only you’d been half the man that Daniel—”

In his outrage, Thomas raised his hand. It was the one holding the gun. Daniel and Whitney saw their opening, but they didn’t get a chance to act. In unison, Harry and Paddie stormed out from backstage and tackled Thomas with their bare hands.

“If you treat Matthew with respect, maybe he doesn’t act like this,” Paddie screeched in her fake Lithuanian accent, pouncing on Thomas.

“I’ll be goddamned,” Harry bellowed, his tones pure Brooklyn, “if I was going to sit back and watch you slaughter my own daughter!”

Whitney winced. “Harry, you have a big mouth—”

But Daniel was already hooting behind her. “I’ll be damned! I’ll be go-to-hell damned! You and Harry?” He scooped her up and hugged her to him, laughing. “You’re a couple of liars, but I’ve got you now, Whitney. Oh, but I’ve got you now.”

Chapter Fourteen

They ended up taking Daniel and Harry back to the doctor to be restitched. The doctor said he could keep them both overnight and hog-tie them to a bedpost, but Harry threatened to play hunting calls at dawn and Daniel solemnly promised there would be no more heroics. The doctor had taken one look at Whitney and said, “I’ll bet.”

Then Daniel, Whitney, Harry, and Paddie all drove out to Rosie O’Grady’s at the renovated Church Street Station in downtown Orlando and ordered tall, cold drinks. As Harry had said in a simple understatement, they had a lot to talk about. Whitney stirred her drink and looked at Daniel and wondered if she had ever hoped to love a man this much.

“I never knew he hated me,” Daniel said heavily. “I never knew.”

 Paddie shook her head. “Not you, Daniel,” she said with a gentleness she usually reserved for her music. “He hated his father, which is a terrible thing.”

They all knew who they were talking about: Matthew Walker. The police had taken him away, but he didn’t belong with them. They seemed to know it, and treated him gently.

“It’s hard to be compared to someone all your life and not grow bitter—especially when it’s someone you care about,” Harry said.

Whitney choked up. “Pop, that’s not why I ...”

“I know, minx,” he interrupted, “but it could have happened. Why do you think I’ve cooperated with you all these years? You took your mother’s name because you wanted to earn your reputation as a hornist on your own, not because your father is Harry Stagliatti.”

“Now I’m known as Stagliatti’s favorite student.”

“And Stagliatti’s daughter,” he said.

“Humph,” Paddie said. “I must have you both for my orchestra. You’re bombastic, Harry, but Whitney has a more lyrical style. And a better tone.”

“The hell she does!”

“Stagliatti and McCallie—it will be a horn section the envy of the world!”

Harry scoffed. “And how do you propose to find room for my daughter on your roster?”

“I am the music director,” Paddie said with great grandeur. “I will find a way.”

“I’d rather just quit,” Harry muttered.

“After all the trouble I went to to save you from a maniacal kidnapper? You will not quit.” Paddie sucked on an ice cube. “I need you for the Strauss.”

“You need me, period.”

“Yes,” Paddie said, and left it at that.

Daniel was looking past Whitney, drinking his bourbon. “I was going to tell you,” she said. “It’s just— I’ve gotten so used to not telling anyone.”

He smiled. “It’s all right, Whitney. I was wondering why you two had the same nose
...
and the same knack for getting yourselves into a mess.”

“Now that’s the pot calling the kettle if I ever heard it,” Harry said. “Paddie, you’re right. The man’s a tyrant. But better him at the helm than that bastard Walker”

They all knew which Walker he meant. Thomas Walker. The police had arrested him, but his lawyers were on their way before he’d left the Orlando Community College campus. He wouldn’t serve much time, if any. After all, what had he done except brandish a gun and make threats?

“His punishment will come from the community,” Daniel said, shifting in his chair so that he was almost touching Whitney. “His family has been respected in central Florida for years and he’s ruined their name.”

“And his son,” Whitney said.

Daniel sighed. “Maybe Matt will pull out of it. He knows what his father is now. I wish I’d seen what was happening, but I simply didn’t. I pushed for Matt’s hiring as a favor to him—and my parents. They’ve always known what a boor his father is and were hoping to get him out of his sphere of influence. Then Thomas wrangled a position on the board. He’s never had a good thing to say about his son.”

“Or anyone,” Whitney added.

“That could be me,” Paddie said in a strange, quiet voice.

Daniel shook his head. “Not a chance, Paddie. You don’t hate people. You couldn’t and still be the conductor you are. I’d heard all the rumors, but when I saw you on the podium that night in Amsterdam, I knew the truth.”

“Victoria Paderevsky,” Harry said, “is mush.”

Daniel, Whitney, and Harry all laughed, and even Paddie managed a small smile. But the events of that long day had changed her. In some elusive way, Victoria Paderevsky was not the same woman Whitney had met at the airport just three days ago. But then, Whitney thought, neither was she.

“How did you know I was at the auditorium?” Whitney asked.

“My sixth sense,” Daniel replied with an amused half smile. “I reserve it for a sleek and beautiful cat I know who’s used up all her nine lives.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning Mother left the press conference early, saw my Jeep in the handicapped parking zone, and came back to give me hell.”

“And you knew what I was up to?”

“ Paddie had told me about the drawing just before the press conference. Matt had always enjoyed art, one of his many talents his father both discouraged and belittled. He was there when Mother came in raging about the Jeep. He’d seen me drive up in the Porsche. Unfortunately, he’d gone off before I’d put the pieces together and was able to end the conference.”

“I’m glad you did,” Whitney said simply.

“So am I,” Daniel said, taking her hand in his and placing it on his lap.

She squeezed his hand and rested her head on his shoulder, briefly, before she turned to Paddie and Harry. “What about you two?”

They shrugged. “We just followed Daniel,” Harry said.

“Without Daniel’s knowledge or permission,” Daniel pointed out.

“Yes,” Paddie said agreeably, “we could have orchestrated our plans better. However, we did see that filth slink up onto the stage. I should have known what he intended to do.”

“But you’re just too trusting,” Harry commented dryly.

“Yes,” Paddie said.

“Like I said”—Harry paused to gulp his scotch and set his glass down hard—”mush.”

Whitney, however, refused to be distracted. “What about the poaching?”

“That was Matt, I’m afraid,” Daniel said; he still had hold of her hand. “He’d overextended himself financially— something else I knew that didn’t point me in the right direction—but couldn’t bear to ask his father for help.”

“How awful,” Whitney said, and smiled up at her own father. “My pop’s always been a help—too big a help, sometimes.”

“Like when?” Harry demanded.

“Like when you told Daniel my lips are my future.”

“Well,” he said, “they are!”

“If I was sure you wouldn’t follow him, Whitney,” Daniel said dryly, but with sea-green eyes twinkling merrily, “I’d send your father off to Vienna to play horn.”

Harry snorted. “That’s the thanks I get for encouraging you two!”

“No, that will come in another form,” Daniel said mysteriously.

“We were discussing the poaching ring,” Whitney interrupted when her heart skipped two beats in a row.

Daniel grinned. “So we were. As I was saying, the poaching ring served two purposes. One, it helped him financially; and, two, it helped me look bad. That seemed to be the main motive behind the mind games he was playing with Paddie—make Graham look stupid. I’m sure he didn’t think of it until his people pointed out Paddie was mucking up their operation. He’d had me stuffed down his throat all his life. If he could show I’d tripped up by hiring Paddie, then it would build up his own shattered ego. By the way, Paddie,” he went on offhandedly, “that’s one of the central differences between you and the Walkers: You have a healthy self-image—damned healthy—and they don’t. It just came out in different ways. Thomas never had anything to live for, and he was damned if he was going to let his own son find something to live for.”