The Uneven Score (8 page)

Whitney tucked a wispy curl behind her ear, gathered up her collection of trash, dumped it into the bright-yellow basket, and smiled at her host, who pointedly did not smile back. “Hello,” she said cheerfully, “I was just looking for my earring. I thought I dropped one into the trash.”

“Don’t let us disturb you.” Daniel’s voice was almost genial; his eyes were anything but. Her stomach fluttered annoyingly; the man had an undeniable physical effect on her. He turned to the two beside him. “Mother, Tom, why don’t you go into the dining room and wait there? I’ll be along in a minute.”

“Is there anything I can do?” his mother asked with a furtive glance down at Whitney. “I don’t believe I know your friend.”

Whitney crawled to her feet. “I’m—”

“She’s Sara Jones, Mother,” Daniel said quickly, “my new maid. Sara, this is Rebecca Graham, my mother, and Thomas Walker, a friend of the family’s.”

“Delighted to meet you, Miss Jones,” Thomas said.

“Likewise,” Rebecca said politely: “I’ve been telling Daniel for months he should get someone in full time to help with this place. If you’ll excuse us…”

“Well,” Daniel said when they’d gone, “did you find anything?”

“My earring, you mean? Nope.”

“You have two darling little pearls in your ears, sweetheart.”

She rinsed her hands off in the sink. “You shouldn’t call your maid
sweetheart
.”

“Damn it, Whitney,” he said sharply.

“Sara,” she corrected, taking a hand towel and turning to him. “Remember?”

“I could wring your neck!”

His voice was low and menacing, but for some inexplicable reason Whitney wasn’t the least nonplussed. He glared at her, and all she could think of was how spectacular he looked all dressed up in his tan gabardine suit. “And I thought the
real
Daniel Graham was not interested in kissing my neck,” she said lightly.

“Don’t push your luck, Whitney,” he grunted. “You searched my house, didn’t you?”

She took great care in wiping her hands. “What gave you that idea?”

“That’s my record playing, isn’t it?”

“And your trash I picked through—not enough evidence for your conclusion, Mr. Graham. And I’ll have you know you threw away a perfectly good set of clothes. I rescued them.”

“You’re trying my patience.”

“So fire me.”

He sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead as if he had a migraine. She noticed the fine yellow cotton of his shirt and the understated madras tie he had added. The tanned skin above his collar drew her eye, and she noted every last detail of his lean, muscular physique. This has to stop, she thought, wondering if another piece of toast and marmalade would help the funny feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“I’d like to stick your butt on a plane back to Schenectady,” he grumbled, “but things are in enough of a mess as it is.”

Whitney draped the towel over the edge of the sink. “I appreciate your concern,” she said dryly, “but I assure you I can handle my own butt.”

For an instant she saw the glint of humor in his eyes. “Can you now?”

She couldn’t resist an answering glint of humor in her own eyes. The man didn’t need to resort to nasty tricks to drive a woman crazy! “Why did you lie about me?” she asked, sounding much more placid than her insides suggested she was. “They’ll find out sooner or later I’m not your maid, you know.”

“Same reason you’ve been lying to me, Whitney,” he replied, pushing the tails of his jacket back in yet another pose Whitney found impossibly sensual. She could see the expensive leather belt and the enticing line of his narrow hips. “Expediency. And, by the way, don’t think I’ve forgotten about your lies. You still owe me one hell of an explanation, sweetheart.”

‘‘I’ve been trying to think up a new one all morning,” she said airily.

Daniel was not amused. “I want the truth this time, Whitney. And you are going to tell me.”

“Or?”

“Pray it doesn’t come to that.”

“You’re not as intimidating without your assorted weapons.”

“Shall I get them out?” But he couldn’t hold back a smile.

“There’s no need,” she said with a sniff. “I know where they are.”

“Damn it, you did search my house!”

“Every nook and cranny. I like your bathroom, by the way. But I thought everyone in Florida was water-conscious. You could bathe an entire harem in that tub. Who knows, maybe you have.”

Daniel sucked in a deep, sharp breath. “I can’t wait to see you go up against Dr. Paderevsky,” he muttered. “After you, Harry will seem downright tame. Whitney, you know I won’t hurt you—I only want you to talk to me.”

“The feeling’s mutual, Daniel.”

“All right, then we’ll talk, but first I have another mess to sort out. My mother and Thomas both sit on the orchestra’s board of directors. Why I ever agreed to become chairman is totally beyond me, but I suppose it’ll be good for our community image—unless Dr. Paderevsky doesn’t straighten out.” He broke off with a clipped hiss. “Look, Whitney, in about ten minutes several people from the orchestra are going to be here. As far as I know, they still think you’re not arriving until this afternoon. My life would be much simpler if they continue under that impression.”

“Frankly, so would mine.”

“I had a feeling you’d agree,” he said coolly.

Whitney sighed. “One minute the man’s cursing me to the rafters and the next he wants a favor—”

“Would you prefer I tied you up and stuffed you in the pantry? This is not a game, Whitney.”

“You’re telling me? Who, may I ask, has been physically assaulted and interrogated at gunpoint?”

“I did not assault you.”

“You—”

“Whitney, I don’t have time. Will you please make yourself scarce?”

She folded her arms stubbornly across her chest. “What ‘s the meeting about? Has Dr. Paderevsky—”

“None of your damned business. Now go on and get, will you?”

She just managed to dodge a motivating slap on the rump. Or, as he would say, butt. “Okay, okay,” she said “but who’s going to make coffee?”

He shook his head, exasperated. “I can manage.”

Whitney grinned on her way out the kitchen door. “With a full-time maid at your beck and call? I’d like to hear you explain that one to your mother.”

She was quite sure only the sound of a car engine in the driveway prevented him from coming after her.

Chapter Five

From a crack in her bedroom door, Whitney watched the people parade into the dining room for Daniel’s mysterious meeting. She felt a great sense of foreboding as she began to recognize faces. She instantly spotted Yoshifumi Kamii, the brilliant concertmaster of the CFSO, and Angelina Carter, the principal flutist, both of whom Whitney had known during her days in New York City. There were also associate conductor and principal violist Bradley Fredericks, whom she thought she recognized, and a tall, lanky black man she suspected might be principal cellist Lucas Washington. A youngish tawny-haired man followed them into the hall, greeted everyone in a friendly drawl, and, beaming, held the swinging dining room door open for Angelina. Whitney assumed him to be the likable Matthew Walker, general manager of the CFSO. Now he, she thought, was handsome and chivalrous.

Normally Whitney didn’t spy on other people’s conversations, but this time she knew she had to. The one person who should have been at any meeting between members of the orchestra and the board of directors wasn’t there: Victoria Paderevsky. And as irritating as the woman could be, Whitney was very definitely on her side. So, like any good maid, Whitney tiptoed out to the closed double dining room doors and listened at the keyhole.

“You must understand,” Yoshifumi was saying in his distinctive Tokyo accent, “that we are acting out of concern for Dr. Paderevsky. We are not trying to undermine her authority.”

It was almost twelve-thirty, Whitney thought. They must have come directly from rehearsal—at Paddie’s request? It didn’t sound like it.

“But you’re meeting here without her knowledge,” Daniel Graham pointed out.

“Only because we don’t know what else to do,” Angelina said, her voice recognizable by virtue of her being the only woman present except for Rebecca Graham, who had a Southern accent.

“Have you tried talking to Dr. Paderevsky?” Rebecca asked.

There was a stunned silence. At least Whitney assumed it was stunned. No one talked to Paddie.

“We thought we would meet with you people first,” Yoshifumi said.

“I recommended it.” The nasal, cultured accent confirmed that Bradley Fredericks was in fact present. He was Boston born and bred and sounded it.  “I had hoped we could keep this informal and—”

“Quiet?” Daniel suggested.

“Well, yes.”

“All right,” he said with a touch of impatience. Whitney was beginning to recognize all the nuances of his deep drawl. “Talk to me.”

And they did. Victoria Paderevsky was a difficult personality, but a brilliant conductor. This, the musicians said, was common knowledge. When they agreed to come to Orlando to found the Central Florida Symphony Orchestra under her direction, they knew what to expect: long hours, fits of temper, unrealistically high expectations, an ulcer or two, but, ultimately, a world-class orchestra. In short, they both despised and respected Paddie.

During the past week, however, Paddie’s behavior had begun to change. “I don’t know how to explain it,” Yoshifumi said, “but she’s just not
...
invincible, I guess.”

“She looks tired,” Angelina said.

“My God,” Daniel interrupted, “the woman’s been working night and day for months! What do you expect?”

“You have to understand,” Bradley went on, “that Dr. Paderevsky is positively religious about getting eight hours of sleep each night. She doesn’t have a social life and would never risk the quality of her work by attending a rehearsal in a state of exhaustion. This week, however, she’s complained about staying up too late and awaking at dawn.”

“The lady’s not your basic insomniac type,” someone drawled—Lucas Washington, Whitney assumed; he was from Atlanta and getting him was another of Paddie’s impossible coups.

She could hear Daniel’s irritated sigh through the door, but there was more. During break on Monday, Paddie had spit coffee all over Yoshifumi, but denied that anything was wrong with her or the coffee. Afterward she was so distracted she came out with the wrong score. On Tuesday she was called away in the middle of rehearsal for an important phone call—what in Paddie’s life could be more important than a rehearsal?—and returned almost immediately, looking haggard and drawn. The janitor had been outside her office and said Paddie had listened all of three seconds before she told the caller to leave her alone and hung up.

“This has all been happening since Harry Stagliatti decided to miss a few rehearsals, hasn’t it?” Whitney was sure she recognized Thomas Walker’s cultured drawl. “Well, perhaps she’s just worried others will follow his lead and is trying to show you, in her own way, that she is human. I’ve been expecting something like this myself. As Daniel says, she’s been going flat out. She’s never had total responsibility for a major orchestra before. She’s young, inexperienced, and—”

“We know your prejudices, Father,” a male voice—Matthew Walker’s—said with strained pleasantry.

“Yes, Matthew,” Thomas said, “and we all know you’re supposed to be general manager of this orchestra. Doesn’t that woman listen to you?”

“Frankly,” Rebecca Graham interrupted, picking up the threads of the conversation, “I wouldn’t think Mr. Stagliatti’s departure would have this kind of effect on Dr. Paderevsky. He said he’d be back, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Yoshifumi said, “but he left abruptly, and apparently without reason. Dr. Paderevsky has a right to be angry, but we’re concerned that more than anger is involved.”

“They weren’t close, were they?” Rebecca asked, surprised.

The musicians all answered no. Whitney tried not to laugh. If only Harry were here!

“Matthew,” Daniel said, “what do you think?”

“Losing Harry one week before opening night has been a terrible blow,” he said, pausing to clear his throat, “especially with the premiere program featuring the horn section.”

“Oh, come on, son,” Thomas Walker put in. “Dr. Paderevsky must know horn players are a dime a dozen.”

Whitney decided she didn’t like Thomas Walker. Resisting an urge to kick down the doors and choke him, she gritted her teeth and rubbed the ache in her back. What did that idiot know about horn players?

“Truly fine hornists are not a dime a dozen,” Yoshifumi said. “However, I believe that Dr. Paderevsky’s problem goes deeper than a simple reaction to the walkout of one of her musicians. I could be wrong, of course, but my instincts tell me otherwise.”

 Smart man, Yoshifumi, Whitney thought.

“What you’re saying,” Daniel said, “is that you think Dr. Paderevsky is cracking.”

“We’re just alerting you to a potential problem,” Angelina replied, businesslike. “There is one other incident you should be aware of. I’m not sure it means anything myself, but
...
well, at this morning’s practice, Dr. Paderevsky told us that Whitney McCallie, Harry’s replacement— We think she’s replacing Harry a little prematurely, but never mind that. Anyway, Whitney’s supposed to be arriving this afternoon, and she—Dr. Paderevsky, that is—was actually nice. I don’t know how to explain this. Lucas, you were there.”

“The lady described Whitney as her ‘one true friend,’ which just isn’t how the doctor talks, you know?”

It certainly wasn’t, Whitney thought. Paddie was cracking up! Whoever was trying to drive her crazy had already succeeded.

“Dr. Paderevsky and Miss McCallie know one another?” Daniel asked.

“Certainly,” Bradley Fredericks said.

“That’s right,” Yoshifumi added. “The only senior performance recital Dr. Paderevsky ever attended was Whitney’s. They were great friends.”

Passing acquaintances, Yoshifumi, Whitney thought, straightening up and preparing to make her escape. But to where? She could not let Daniel pick her brains before she’d talked to Paddie. They would have to confide in him, but that wasn’t a decision Whitney could, in good conscience, make alone.