The Uneven Score (5 page)

“I have a tent,” Paddie was saying.

‘Whitney couldn’t stop her jaw from dropping. “You’re not serious.”

“It’s in the storage closet. It was here when I arrived. I believe it’s old, but I’m sure it’s still serviceable.”

“You expect me to sleep in a tent? Victoria, I haven’t slept since dawn!”

“I have a blanket.”

“How generous. And where am I supposed to pitch my tent?”

“In the grove, here. You’ll be safe. It’s a large grove—two thousand acres.” Paddie hesitated, as if about to say something else, but changed her mind. She smiled. “I’m sure there’s a charming spot to camp. And tomorrow you can find a place to stay.”

Not “we,” Whitney noticed, but “you.” She swore under her breath, but Paddie was already lifting her bulk off her wooden chair. “What about food?” Whitney asked, trailing after the conductor into the cottage.

“I’ll give you some to take with you—no, that might attract animals.”

“Victoria!”

Whitney argued and cajoled, but Paddie was convinced she’d arrived at the perfect solution. She would leave food on the deck, and Whitney could sneak up in the morning and get it, like a raccoon. Whitney watched, amazed, while Paddie dug happily in the closet until she came up with an army green, foul-smelling pup tent. “See,” she said, thrusting the thing at Whitney, “all the stakes are here. If I was smaller and younger, I would leap at the chance to camp out in this beautiful weather.”

Since Whitney was both smaller and younger, she supposed she should leap. But somehow she couldn’t. Instead, she resignedly stretched out her arms and let Paddie pile on the mildewy tent and a flannel blanket that smelled of mothballs, then stood there shaking her head while Paddie trudged off to the bedroom for a pillow.

“Arghhh! That son of a toad!”

Whitney dropped the tent and ran. Paddie was letting loose with a string of unladylike but appropriate expletives and holding a sheet of orange construction paper in one large hand. Peering over her shoulder, Whitney saw the source of Paddie’s fury. It was a drawing, done in black ink. In the middle of the page was a caricature even more unflattering than the real Victoria Paderevsky. Gathered around the unhappy figure, pointing their fingers, smirking, laughing, were a dozen of the famous established conductors of the world.

“There’s your proof, Victoria,” Whitney said softly, her stomach twisted.

Paddie drew in a deep breath. “Do you think I would show this to anyone?” she demanded hoarsely. “Laugh at the fat lady, all! Come, laugh! See how she jiggles! The fat lady who dares to do music. No!”

“Victoria—”

She crumpled up the horrible drawing. Her tiny eyes were shining with determination, and, for an instant, Whitney thought she saw the hurt. “I will not be cowed. I will not be ruined. I will fight. I will do music! You must help me, Whitney. Help me.”

Chapter Three

Whitney decided to pitch her tent between two stately old citrus trees on the edge of a narrow, sandy road. Paddie had warned Whitney away from the small lake behind her cottage: The owner of the groves lived on the other side and there was no point in pushing her luck by camping out too close to the main house. Whitney had quite agreed, but the groves were immense, divided by a confusing web of paths and roads, and she wasn’t sure exactly where she was. So she just dropped her things and hoped for the best. If the crocodiles didn’t get her, she figured the snakes and the fire ants would.

That would be a delightful obituary, she thought, pounding in the final stake with a crumbling brick. Naturally Paddie hadn’t offered to help carry anything. Once she had gotten over the shock of finding the drawing, she had cheerfully arranged the tent, a flashlight, blanket, horn, leather satchel, canvas bag, and suitcase in Whitney’s outstretched arms, hooking things on her fingers and shoulders, assuring her she’d be just fine out there in the Florida wilderness. Twice on her journey Whitney had dropped everything.

After pitching the tent, she collapsed onto a bed of clover and wild flowers, having checked first for snakes and ant nests. She leaned against her suitcase and sighed at the clear night sky. The full moon cast eerie shadows and gave a silvery tint to the sandy road and the citrus blossoms— great white flowers glowing against the dark, waxy leaves. Whitney had no idea if she was parked under a grapefruit or an orange tree, but supposed it didn’t matter. She sighed, tired but keyed up.

Was Harry out here somewhere, buried under an orange tree, held prisoner in a snake pit? Whitney shuddered and checked her thoughts. She noticed every sound and every movement in the still, warm, sweet-scented night.

And remembered the noises and lights Paddie had thought were a part of the plot against her.

No, Whitney thought, I must be a mile from the cottage…I won’t get the creeps.

Finally, she got out her horn and played a few soft warm-ups. Whole notes, mostly, in the lower two octaves of the horn’s four-octave range. Peaceful sounds. Her mind wandered. She thought of Harry. He loathed almost as many people as Paddie did. But, unlike Paddie, people liked him. He was portly, bald, brilliant, and irreverent— but he was a virtuoso horn player, not a conductor, and he was a man in a man’s profession, not a woman.

But was he in danger?

Whitney started down the scale slowly, still playing softly in whole notes, glad that Daniel Graham hadn’t done any permanent damage to her horn. The drawing had changed everything. That wasn’t Paddie’s imagination. But could Graham possibly be responsible? She recalled how he’d laughed and commented on her ballet slippers and sweat pants
...
and her cuteness.

And quite calmly, in the lovely night air, she admitted to herself that she didn’t want him to be responsible for any of the goings-on at the CFSO.

Perhaps she should simply have told him the truth? She started down the scale, slowly, patiently. The acoustics in the grove were terrible. The sound was just lost into the night. Whitney didn’t mind. It felt good to practice.

Something rustled behind the tent, on the other side of the road. Or was it off to her left? Whitney halted the stream of air into her horn and sat very still, the mouthpiece still pressed to her lips. Her embouchure relaxed while the rest of her tensed.

Did crocodiles wander through citrus groves at night? Maybe there was a swamp nearby— A twig snapped.

A snake?

Lizards?

Harry?

Whitney reached into her canvas bag and rummaged around for the cold, hard feel of Daniel Graham’s gun.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” his voice said from the shadows.

Her fingers curled around the butt of the revolver, but she froze.

If nothing else, she was too shocked to move. How had he found her? Surely Paddie hadn’t told him!

Daniel Graham stepped out from the shadows and stood two paces in front of her. He looked just as tall and intrepid outdoors as he had in, only this time he had a rifle pointed at her.

“I might have known it was you,” he said. “Were you playing that thing?”

“My horn? Yes, I—”

“It sounded like a dying cow.”

“How nice.”

“Remove your hand from the bag, Ms. McCallie. Slowly. And it had better come out empty.”

Her eyes widened. “My name—”

“Your hand,” he said, and prompted her with his rifle. She let go of the gun and lifted her hand slowly from the bag. “I was just going after my spit rag.” she said lamely.

Graham grunted, swooped down, grabbed the bag, and pulled out the gun. He gave her a cold look. She shrugged her shoulders and observed he had changed into jeans and a work shirt, the sleeves, again, rolled up to his elbows. His hair was wild and dark, windblown in the warm night.

She found herself wishing he didn’t have the rifle, wishing he hadn’t taken things from Harry’s room, wishing she could stop the grind of suspicion and tell him everything.

“All right,” she said. “So I thought you were a crocodile.”

“There aren’t any crocodiles in Florida.”

“Oh. Well. Whew. What a relief. I’ll get blown to pieces instead of eaten alive.”

He scowled down at her. “How the hell can you be sarcastic when you have two guns pointed at you?”

“Would you rather I weep and plead?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

He tucked the revolver in his waistband and cradled the rifle in his arms, studying her. She hadn’t bothered to change out of her sweat pants, and she’d torn the fishing line out of her hair during her wait for Paddie. Now it just tumbled over her shoulders however it pleased. She longed for a bath. Daniel Graham looked so fresh and clean and damnably in control. Probably he’d gone home and had a nice hot shower and a tall, cool drink. Several, undoubtedly. Whitney thought of her cozy home and Wolfgang and her fireplace. What she wouldn’t give for them now!

She wasn’t at all sure what he meant to do—or how he knew her name and had found her. Or why she wasn’t particularly afraid. Because he hadn’t slaughtered her back in Orlando when he’d had the chance? That didn’t make any sense. But, then, not much had so far.

Since he was armed and she wasn’t, she decided to let him call the shots. So to speak, she thought with a slight choke.

“Hell,” he growled.

“Are you going to take me to the police?” she asked. “I’ll go quietly. Here, let me put my horn away.”

“Don’t move.”

Whitney didn’t move.

Graham frowned down at her, the moonlight casting shadows on his angular features, augmenting—quite unnecessarily, Whitney thought—his menacing look. “I won’t be calling the police,” he said ominously. “This is just between us, Ms. McCallie.”

“Somehow that doesn’t reassure me, Mr. Graham,” she replied.

He grinned sardonically. “I didn’t think it would. You put up a hell of a chase this afternoon.”

“It’s all those sixteenth notes and triple-tonguings I do.”

“I’m sure,” he said wryly.

“I don’t get winded easily.”

The barest hint of a smile touched his all too memorable mouth. “No?”

She didn’t like his tone. It was too intimate, too seductive, for a man with a rifle. “No,” she repeated with finality and decided she would be better off not trying to explain diaphragmatic breathing and such to him. The man obviously didn’t understand musicians. “You know, you don’t need all those weapons. I’ll cooperate. Do you always carry a gun?”

“No, but there’s been trouble with poachers in the area. However, if I’d known I’d be- dealing with you, I’d have brought along a few more weapons. I’ve underestimated you once today. I don’t intend to make the same mistake twice.”

“You didn’t underestimate me.” She did not want to wound this man’s male ego, at least not as long as he had the rifle and she just had her French horn. “I was just protecting myself. You caught me at an awkward moment. Now, of course, everything’s changed.”

“It has, has it?” He seemed incredulous, wryly amused, and totally confident. And tall, Whitney thought; very tall.

Intending to look nonchalant, she leaned back against her suitcase and kicked out her feet, her horn lying across her thighs. “I’m not in your office,” she pointed out. “And you have no proof that I ever was there. There’s nothing you can do to me, and therefore no reason for me to run.”

“I can nail you for trespassing, Ms. McCallie.”

She tugged the small mouthpiece off her horn. “Ah, but you’re trespassing, too,” she said, almost idly, as she dumped her spit that had accumulated in the tangled tubing of her horn into the grass. “We’d both go down together, Mr. Graham.”

He laughed once, curtly. “And I thought you’d given up on the wide-eyed innocent act. This is my land, Ms. McCallie. Don’t pretend—”

“Your land!”

Unable to stop herself, Whitney leaped to her feet, horn dangling from one hand, ready to accost Daniel Graham. He was lying. He had to be! Paddie would have told her this was his land! Even she wasn’t that crazy!

Graham shifted the rifle, just enough to remind Whitney of its presence. “Easy,” he warned.

She caught her breath and sat back down. “You’re not serious,” she said, but she knew he was.

 Paddie had deliberately not told Whitney that the groves belonged to Daniel Graham. No wonder she had warned Whitney away from the main house! Damn her, Whitney thought. From Paddie’s point of view, it all made perfect sense. If Whitney had known this was Graham property, she would have insisted on staying at the cottage. And even if she had by some weird chance let Paddie talk her into camping out on his land anyway, Whitney would have had to pretend ignorance. Now her ignorance was real.

“So you are going to pretend you didn’t know you’re camping in my grove,” Graham said.

“But I didn’t.”

“You fail to amuse me, Ms. McCallie.”

“So I’ve gathered. Look, can’t we be friends?”

He eyed her for a moment. The shadows hid his eyes, but she could see his wariness and suspicion in the hard line of his jaw. “I think you should explain,” he told her in an altogether steely drawl.

“I did—this afternoon, remember? About the male-dominated orchestral bureaucracy and—”

“Enough! I don’t know what your game is, but, damn it, I’m going to find out. Dr. Paderevsky was mysteriously unavailable this evening, but I spoke to Bradley Fredericks and Yoshifumi Kamii. Do you know who they are?”

“No.” She was lying, of course.

“Poor Whitney, always the last to know anything.” He didn’t sound particularly sympathetic. Or credulous. “Bradley is the associate conductor and principal violist of the CFSO. Yoshifumi is the concertmaster. They told me a twenty-nine-year-old female horn player was due to arrive tomorrow to take Harry Stagliatti’s place. Dr. Paderevsky hired her. She’s from Schenectady, New York, and her name is Whitney McCallie.”

“Me?”

“You.”

Whitney sagged. “Betrayed at every turn.”

Graham ignored her. “This Whitney McCallie, according to Bradley and Yoshifumi both, is hornist with the Empire State Wind Quintet out of New York City and the Capital District Brass Ensemble out of Albany. She also is the conductor of the Mohawk Valley Community Orchestra. Two months ago she was offered a position with the Cleveland Symphony Orchestra, but refused.”