The Uneven Score (4 page)

“All right,” she repeated gravely, as though deciding, finally, to tell the truth, which, of course; was out of the question. She looked up at Graham and smiled, ignoring his glower. At least he’d stopped punching buttons. “I don’t have a sister on the nineteenth floor and I’m not a custodian. I’m a horn player. I know all about Harry Stagliatti and his resignation from the CFSO. I figured maybe this was my chance. There’s a vacancy in the CFSO horn section, and I wanted to fill it. I came here hoping to compel you to intervene on my behalf—you know, cut through the orchestral bureaucracy’s red tape. There’s an enormous prejudice against female horn players, you know.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Graham said sardonically. “How was I supposed to help?”

She shrugged. “I thought you might have a few ideas of your own.

She regretted her comment at once and felt a flush coming on, but Graham, she observed with some relief, was a single-minded individual. He gave her a hard, disbelieving look. “And how was hiding in my closet supposed to persuade me to help you?”

“It wasn’t,” she said quickly. “I chickened out when I heard you coming, and hid.”

Graham burst out laughing.

She started to glare up at him, but consciously altered her look to a gaze of ingenuous surprise. But even as she concentrated on her act and suppressed her irritation, she couldn’t fail to notice that he had a glorious laugh. How could a man with such a deep, rich laugh possibly have kidnapped Harry Stagliatti and done all those nasty and peculiar things to Paddie? Not that Graham wasn’t capable of surefooted action when the situation required it—hence her being hauled out of his closet at gunpoint and so forth—but that his approach would be much more direct and immediately productive.

“A femme fatale you are not,” he said, his laughter fading. “A seductress doesn’t wear pink ballet slippers and carry around a goddamned French horn. You may be cute, but that’s about it. Sorry, dear heart, but your lie isn’t working—and my patience has run out.”

Cute! She jumped to her feet, but Graham slammed down the receiver, picked it up again, and began punching a fresh set of buttons. “Wait—”

“No more. You’ve had your chance.”

“Don’t call the police. I haven’t stolen anything. I—”

“I’m not calling the police. I’ve changed my mind. I’m calling Victoria Paderevsky. The three of us are going to have a little chat.”

That was even worse! Paddie would never understand, and Graham would have them both at his mercy—before they could consult and work out a story to their mutual advantage. Whitney silently cursed Paddie for talking her into this bit of skullduggery. “Look,” she said in desperation, rising, “this isn’t what you think it is—”

“Isn’t it? Look, Dr. Paderevsky and I have had our differences, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand around and let her send musicians out to burglarize my office! She’s going to explain—and so are you.”

Whitney chewed miserably on her lower lip and debated ways she could regain control of the situation. Paddie and Graham and Whitney’s own easygoing nature had put her between the proverbial rock and hard place. What was she supposed to do now? Save my own skin, she thought, and Paddie’s, if I can. She smiled weakly at Graham, but he wasn’t paying attention. He had the phone to his ear and was turned sideways, glancing out the floor-to-ceiling window behind him. Twenty-one stories below, Orlando glistened in the Florida sun.

Surreptitiously, Whitney took a step toward the desk. He didn’t notice. She refused to think. Without considering the consequences, she lunged at the desk, grabbed the gun first, then her horn, and ran.

“Damn it, woman, come back here!”

Whitney ignored the angry bellow. This time she knew where she was going—and she had the gun. She hoped only that Graham believed she would use it, which she wouldn’t—and that she wouldn’t trip and shoot herself in the foot. Explaining to Paddie was going to be hard enough as it was.

“We’ve blown it,” Whitney said with feeling.

“Yes,” Victoria Paderevsky replied gravely. “I’m afraid we may have only made matters worse.”

They were sitting on the deck of Paddie’s cottage drinking gin-and-tonics and bemoaning their fate. The cottage, of uninsulated clapboards painted a cheerful yellow, was set amid a grove of blossoming citrus trees with a scent like heaven. There wasn’t any yard to speak of, but the deck stretched out across the front of the cottage and was shaded on one end by a pink dogwood. Whitney had wondered if Paddie had finally gone off the deep end when she’d turned off the highway onto a narrow; sandy road that cut straight through a grove of late-ripening Valencia oranges and to the cottage. Leave it to Paddie, Whitney had thought, to find herself a peaceful retreat.

“I’m glad you said ‘we,’“ Whitney muttered.

“Yes, but of course you know that I cannot get involved. Daniel Graham mustn’t find out I put you up to this escapade today.”

“I agree. He’ll think you’re a fruitcake for sure. Look, obviously Graham has his suspicions, but I don’t see why they have to lead to you. He’ll find out I’m Harry’s student and figure I acted on my own. I’m sure he’ll interrogate you”—Daniel Graham did not merely ask questions; he interrogated—”but you can claim you didn’t know anything at all about my harebrained- scheme.”

 Paddie raised her thick brows. “Are you implying my plan was faulty?”

“That’s a moot point. What you claim and what he thinks are all that matter now.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll muddle through.”

That was good enough for Paddie. It never occurred to her that Whitney was going to extraordinary lengths to protect her, but, then, Whitney knew it wouldn’t. “If he followed you and saw us meeting, he’ll know he was right and there is a connection between us.”

“He didn’t see us, Victoria. I’m sure he tried to follow me, but he had to be careful. I had his gun, don’t forget, and he couldn’t possibly know if I’d use it.”

“Would you have?”

Whitney sighed in despair. Only Paddie would ask.

“Of course not!”

“Not even to save me?”

“Victoria, please. You were never in any danger.”

Whitney had already gone over every detail of her narrow escape from the clutches of Daniel Graham, which had included racing down twenty-one flights of stairs, hiding in a supply closet, and venturing out into the unfamiliar streets of Orlando trying to look normal in sweat pants and ballet slippers and carrying a French horn. At least she had had the wherewithal to slip the gun in with the horn during her sojourn in the supply closet. She’d taken a taxi to her rendezvous with Paddie at the Haagen-Dazs stand at the Fashion Square Mall, but Paddie was an hour late. Railing about the “idiots” she was conducting, she’d bundled Whitney off to the airport to pick up the rest of her luggage.

Paddie started to lecture her on the stupidity of having taken her horn with her just because she didn’t want to trust it to an airport locker, but Whitney didn’t let her get far. For the first time in her life, she blew up at a conductor. In no uncertain terms, she told Paddie that if she had done her part, Daniel Graham never would have seen Whitney and her horn.

“Graham should have been with you,” she shrieked, “not pointing a gun at me!”

And Paddie had calmly replied, “Even I cannot will a man into my presence. He told me he would attend my rehearsal. If he had, I would have kept him there, He did not.”

“You could have cut your rehearsal short and done something to warn me!”

“We were working on the Stravinsky,” Paddie had said, as if that explained—and excused—everything.

Whitney had wanted to take the next available flight back to New York, but she simply couldn’t. Harry Stagliatti hadn’t shown up for the four o’clock rehearsal, either. He had been gone a full four days without a word to anyone, even Whitney. And now she, too, was worried. Was his disappearance part of a plot to drive Paddie from her podium? Was Daniel Graham involved? Whitney had questions, but no answers. There was only one certainty: Victoria Paderevsky would rather be assassinated on the podium than resign her post as music director of the Central Florida Symphony Orchestra. She had worked too hard and alienated too many people to leave voluntarily or to let anyone try to force her into collapsing under the strain of her position. Nothing short of murder or being fired would keep her off the podium on opening night.

“Daniel Graham is a dangerous man,” Paddie said, not for the first time.

“Maybe so, but I can think of lots of other people who would want to ruin you more than he would,” Whitney said bluntly—and truthfully.

“Name five.”

“I can name a hundred—and so can you.”

“No one likes me.”

“Which is no one’s doing but your own. You don’t like anyone, Victoria.”

 Paddie drained the last of her gin-and-tonic and pursed her fleshy lips. “This business is affecting my work.”

“I know,” Whitney said softly.

On the surface, Paddie seemed just as irascible and efficient as ever, but Harry’s inexplicable disappearance and the subtle, nasty incidents of harassment had to be taking their toll. But Whitney wouldn’t know for sure if Paddie was holding up until she saw her conduct: Only then could anyone count on seeing the real Victoria Paderevsky.

“We must get to the bottom of this “ Paddie said.

“Perhaps we should go to the police—”

“Impossible. I have no evidence. Come, Whitney, what would they say? The pressures have finally gotten to the fat lady; she is cracking. No, I must have proof.”

“You’re a brilliant conductor. They’d listen to you.”

“Phooey. I’m the fat lady they do not understand.”

Whitney knew Paddie wasn’t feeling sorry for herself. She was simply stating the facts as she knew them. What other people thought of her had never had any bearing whatsoever on her own opinions of her gifts. “They could ask Daniel Graham what he was doing at Harry-’s hotel.”

“You don’t understand the Graham family’s position in this community. Even if the police did go so far as to ask him for an explanation—and this would be a miracle—they would believe anything he says. And if he has kidnapped Harry
...

Whitney shook her head, thinking of the capable and direct man she had dealt with that afternoon. “I just can’t see it, Victoria. I know he isn’t the most charming man in the world, but kidnapping Harry to drive you crazy? It just doesn’t fit.”

“Suppose Harry had found out Graham was harassing me?”

“Then that’s a different story,” Whitney said heavily. “He’d have to shut him up and— Oh, Victoria, I can’t stand not knowing!”

“Yes, but we must be cautious. If we go to the police precipitously, we could make things worse for Harry. And if I am wrong or right, the publicity will hurt the orchestra— and what would happen to you? Daniel Graham would squash you like a tiny little black ant.”

“He still might.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to agree, you know.”

“But I must speak my mind. Whitney, this Graham is a powerful man in central Florida. Graham Citrus owns thousands and thousands of acres throughout the state. No matter how justifiable and noble your motives, you did break into his office.”

“At your bidding, Victoria.”

Paddie sat back and folded her hands on her ample middle. “Where’s your proof?”

“You’d deny me!” It was not a question, but an exclamation of an unpleasant but not unexpected fact. Whitney sighed. “All right, then, now what?”

“We wait for Graham to make his next move.”

“I could end up on a chain gang in some swamp.”

“That’s possible.”

“You’re a big help. Do you think he’ll come here looking for me?”

“Undoubtedly. If you had not brought your horn—”

“Let’s not start that again,” Whitney snapped.

“Yes, what’s done is done,” Paddie said philosophically.

“Graham suspects who you really are and suspects my involvement. We must convince him you acted alone. He will want to talk to me, of course, which means you can’t stay here.”

“Why not? If he comes around, I’ll just hide. He won’t search your closets—”

Paddie was shaking her head. “No, impossible.”

“Victoria, this is no time to protect your privacy. Everyone in the music world knows you prefer to live in seclusion, but if someone’s trying to ruin you, you should let me stay here with you and run interference. I can intercept the obscene phone calls and…”

 Paddie was still shaking her head.

“All right, all right. Where do I stay, then? You have made other arrangements?”

‘‘No’’

“Terrific.”

“Whitney, Whitney, I have been unable to think clearly. I myself would find elsewhere to stay, but I am afraid to do anything suspicious.”

Whitney snorted in disbelief. Paddie was using her fake Lithuanian accent, which meant she was either lying or expostulating. In this case, lying. Thus far, Paddie had greeted all her bizarre happenings with irritation and contempt, but not fear—at least not overtly. Underneath, Whitney sensed a certain desperation in Paddie’s actions. But, on the surface, as far as Paddie was concerned, the entire business was nothing more than a nuisance. She hadn’t felt Daniel Graham’s iron-hard grip or looked into his sea-green eyes— Whitney caught herself: What did Graham’s sea-green eyes have to do with anything?

She got Paddie’s point, however: She couldn’t stay at the cottage. She threw up her hands in half-mock, half-real despair. “So here I am in Florida during the peak tourist season—at nine o’clock at night, no less—with no place to stay. And I’m exhausted. Some thanks I get for risking my life with a lunatic.”

“What about your friends in the orchestra?”

“They’d be even less likely than you to cover for me if Graham came around asking questions and suggesting I was a thief—and they don’t know I’m in Florida, remember? No one expects me until tomorrow.”

 Paddie nodded thoughtfully. “Yes,” she said, “and perhaps it is best that they don’t find out. To explain to them would cause unnecessary strain and gossip. Already I am dissatisfied with their progress, especially with the Stravinsky.”

She said Straveenshy. Expostulating. But Whitney knew better than to suggest her life and freedom ought to be more important than the Central Florida Symphony Orchestra’ premiere performance of The Firebird Suite. Whitney felt like a fugitive with nowhere to run.