The Uneven Score
Carla Neggers
Prologue
The telephone rang during Whitney's second hour of practicing études for the French horn. It was March in Schenectady, a dull and dreary time of year. The sap was running, the snow was melting, and Whitney was ensconced on a straight-backed chair in the living room of her little house on the Mohawk River. Her cat, Wolfgang, was stretched out in front of the stone fireplace, the glow of the flames flickering on his orange fur. His ears twitched when the ring of the telephone clashed with the high B-flat Whitney was playing.
“I’m not out of tune," she said, getting up, “the phone is." Most musicians Whitney knew used answering machines during their practice hours, but she treasured interruptions, often finding a chat with a friend or bill collector refreshing. Especially when practicing études, she thought, especially during March, when life was almost unbearably quiet. She tucked her horn under her arm, picked up the phone, and said hello.
“Whitney," a vaguely familiar voice said, "this is Victoria."
“Victoria?" Whitney frowned thoughtfully. There was a Victoria in the flute section of the Mohawk Valley Community Orchestra, of which Whitney was the conductor, but she was only eighteen. This Victoria sounded older and irrepressibly self-confident and no, Whitney thought, it couldn't be!
"Is Harry there?" Victoria demanded. "The fink. Has he called?"
Whitney almost dropped her horn. "Victoria Paderevsky!"
“Yes, of course."
Victoria Paderevsky was the music director of the newly formed Central Florida Symphony Orchestra and one of the most controversial and brilliant conductors in the world. She was controversial because she was a woman in a man's profession, singularly unattractive, egotistical, and notoriously tyrannical. Her view of her position harked back to the days of Serge Koussevitzky and Arturo Toscanini, when a conductor was lord and master of his musicians, free to be tolerant or intolerant, however he saw fit.
But she was also undeniably brilliant. At age thirty-eight she had an immense repertory of orchestral works, possessed a rare and gifted musical voice, and had led some of the best orchestras in the world during her years as a freelance conductor. Although early in her career she had served as an assistant conductor with the New York Philharmonic, she had never had a major podium of her own. The offers had just started to come in, but Victoria Paderevsky had decided to accept an offer from a group in Orlando, Florida, to start her own orchestra. Because she had conducted all over the world, she knew thousands of musicians—and knew exactly which ones she wanted. And with blinding speed and no discernible concern for anyone she might alienate, she'd gone after them, and gotten them.
Now, with the CFSO's premiere less than two weeks away, the music world was watching and waiting for the emergence of a major orchestra—or the downfall of Victoria Paderevsky. Whitney didn't envy her position: The pressures had to be enormous.
She hadn't seen Paddie, as she was known behind her back, in eight years. But eight years ago, during Paddie's tenure at the New York Philharmonic, they had been friends—as much as anyone could be friends with Victoria Paderevsky.
"What a surprise," Whitney said, "but what's this about Harry?"
Paddie huffed. "He's an imbecile, an ingrate. I take it he's not there?"
"No, I haven't heard from him since—I don't know—last week sometime. He calls every week or so. Why?"
Harry Stagliatti was Whitney's teacher and mentor, and the CFSO's principal horn. Whitney, who fancied she knew him better than anyone else, was still mystified at how Paddie had lured Harry to Florida from his farm in the Adirondacks and a premature retirement. He hadn't bothered to explain, but, as he had packed his bags, had merely said, "I want to see if Florida and Dr. Paderevsky are both as godawful as I remember." Like Paddie, Harry was not known for his charm.
"Humph," Paddie said. "Then perhaps he does mean to resign, the scoundrel."
Not knowing what to think; Whitney licked, her lips, slightly numb from practicing, and reminded herself that Paddie was also known for her fine-tuned sense of the dramatic. "Victoria, I'm not following you. Are you saying Harry has quit the CFSO?"
"So it would seem," Paddie said tightly.
"But he wouldn't walk out this close to opening night! Where is he? Has he said anything—"
"He left me a letter saying he was going to be away for a couple of days and would miss rehearsal."
"Oh." Whitney relaxed. In Paddie's book, a musician who purposely missed a rehearsal might just as well have chopped off one of her toes. Whitney had always thought tyrannical conductors were martyrs at heart. "Did he say why?"
"No, but I thought you might know."
"I'm sorry, Victoria, but I don't. Something must have come up. He'll be back, I'm sure."
"Not to my orchestra he won't! I will fire him."
"Oh, Victoria." Whitney shook her head, slipping back into the relationship she and Paddie had cultivated eight years ago. Paddie had always tolerated a certain amount of argument—and honesty—from her young friend the horn player. Whitney was never sure why, but thought perhaps it had something to do with the nonjudgmental stance she took toward the controversial conductor. Somehow Whitney's objectivity—it couldn't be called understanding—penetrated Paddie's otherwise thick hide, and something had erupted between them. It wasn't a rapport, and certainly not a close friendship. A tolerance, Whitney thought. An acceptance. She sighed and went on, "You're not going to fire your principal horn this close to your world premiere—and certainly not Harry Stagliatti. He's probably the greatest hornist playing today, and you know it."
"He's missed two and a half days of rehearsal."
"So? That's no reason to fire him. He knows those parts upside down and sideways."
Paddie refused to bend. "And what happens if he doesn't come back? We'll have no one to play principal horn."
Whitney could smell a trap. "He'll be back, Victoria. He said so in the letter, didn't he?"
“Yes.”
"Then believe it."
There was a short, ominous silence. Then Paddie said in an unusually hushed voice, "I wish I could."
The fire crackled, and Wolfgang yawned. Whitney shivered. It's just the weather, she told herself, and too many years living alone…or was there something creepy and foreboding about Paddie's tone? No, she thought, Paddie was just being dramatics Harry had probably needed a break from what he regularly referred to as "that egotistical tyrant" and had taken a few days off. Who could blame him? But he was also a professional; he would return.
"Whitney," the conductor went on, didactic and under control once again, "you must come to Florida."
“What?”
"I've arranged for you to take the eleven-thirty flight out of New York tomorrow morning. We'll pay your fare, of course."
"Victoria, please, you know I can't—"
"Only you can do Till the way Harry does."
Paddie referred to Richard Strauss's Till Eulenspiegel's Merry Pranks, which featured a difficult but coveted horn solo and was the opening piece of the CFSO's world premiere. "That's not the point, Victoria," Whitney said lamely. "You can't fire Harry and put me in his place: He's my teacher. Imagine what that would do to our relationship."
"But if he doesn't come back, I will need a principal horn—one who can do for this orchestra what Harry could, the cretin. Whitney, you must come."
The presumption of Paddie's tone grated. "I have other commitments.”
"I'm only asking for three weeks. Your little orchestra meets once a week. You will miss three rehearsals—no problem. And your wind quintet and brass ensemble don't perform again until late in April. You can come, Whitney. You must."
Leave it to Paddie to do her homework, Whitney thought, but had to acknowledge an unsettling desperation in her words. Victoria Paderevsky was a high-strung woman in a vulnerable position, and Harry Stagliatti's walkout, temporary or not, was a challenge to her authority and a threat to her concentration. It was also, Whitney thought, an incredibly insensitive act on Harry's part. Intensely loyal as she was to him, she knew his faults better than most. And Whitney had been rooting for Paddie for years. They were both women in a man's profession, but, above all, they were musicians. If Whitney could calm Paddie down now by agreeing to fill in for Harry, she owed it to herself and her art at least to try. Chances are, she thought, Harry'll be back by the time I land in Orlando and we can lambaste him together, and I can have an all-expenses-paid weekend in the sun.
"What about Harry?" Whitney asked, not willing to give in too easily. "Are you going to fire him?"
She could almost see the conductor's sly smile. "It depends on who plays Till better."
"All right, I'll come—but I won't replace Harry. When he returns, he gets his seat back and I quit, regardless of what you want to do. Fair enough?"
"Fair enough."
"And, Victoria?"
"Yes?"
"Harry is all right isn't be?"
"I don't know, Whitney."
Dramatics, Whitney thought. "Did you two fight or something?"
"No more so than usual."
"He didn't say why he was leaving?"
"But he said he would be back?"
"Yes."
Whitney sighed. "Victoria, are you telling me everything? You're sure there isn't something more to this?"
"Just be on that plane tomorrow, Whitney. If Harry hasn't returned by then, perhaps we can come up with a way of finding him."
"Perhaps," Whitney said, and hung up.
Chapter 1
The slush and grayness of March in upstate New York had been replaced by a March so green and beautiful Whitney knew she should have been meandering through Lake Eola Park in downtown Orlando all agog. Instead she was walking with slow but purposeful strides, her horn tucked under one arm, her eyes peering up at a glass high-rise across the street. On the twenty-first floor was the office of the vice president of Graham Citrus, Inc. His name was Daniel Graham, and besides being vice president of a large national citrus corporation and a member of a powerful citrus family, he was chairman of the board of directors of the Central Florida Symphony Orchestra.
And, more to the point, he was the man Victoria Paderevsky suspected had kidnapped Harry Stagliatti.
Yes, Whitney thought wearily, kidnapped. Harry's "couple of days" had now turned into four days, and Paddie had greeted Whitney at the airport with tales of a kidnapped hornist and her dastardly chairman of the board and the Machiavellian politics of her orchestra. Sensing the conductor's growing desperation and paranoia, Whitney had ushered her off to an airport bar and insisted Paddie explain.
"Yesterday you were fairly reasonable," Whitney said, "but today you sound like a raving maniac. What happened?"
Paddie had pursed her lips stubbornly. "I no longer believe Harry left this orchestra of his own free will. I believe he was kidnapped."
''Why?”
"To drive me crazy.”
Whitney thought it characteristically egotistical of Paddie to think she was at the center of the misfortunes of one of her musicians, but didn't say so. "All right. First, why would anyone think kidnapping Harry would drive you crazy?"
"Not anyone. Only the right person would know that a defection by Harry Stagliatti would upset me more than a defection by any other member of my orchestra. My horn section is my weakest, and yet I have dared to feature it in my opening program. With Harry in first chair, I have every confidence that my gamble will pay off. Without Harry—I don't know.''
"And not knowing where Harry is or what he's up to would definitely rock you this close to the premiere. All right, fair enough. I would think someone would try several more standard ways of driving you crazy before resorting to kidnapping French horn players, but—"
"They have been tried," Paddie had said in a near-mumble.
"What? Victoria—"
"I have not wanted to tell you this, Whitney, but I see now that I must confide in someone. Whitney, Harry's disappearance is part of an ongoing plot to drive me from my podium—to make it look as though I cannot handle the pressures of my position. Even before he left, there were episodes. Threatening phone calls—"
"Like what?"
"The usual—leave Florida or pay the consequences, that sort of thing. I tried to ignore them as pranks spawned by jealousy. One morning there was soap in my coffee—or maybe poison, I don't know. I spit it out."
"Did you bring a sample to the police to be tested?"
"No, of course not. I was not injured, and the publicity would only hurt my orchestra. And what if it had only been soap? Who would believe that I had not put it there myself to garner attention? No, I would not risk the police. I still will not. There have been other incidents—a score with the wrong cover, which made me look foolish before my musicians; scores that were hidden so I would seem absentminded to my orchestra and be forced to conduct from memory. And at night at the cottage I have rented there have been noises, lights— Someone is watching me, I'm sure." Paddie looked at Whitney with her alert, beady little eyes. "Even now, telling you these things, I can see how crazy I must sound."
"You're under a great deal of pressure…”
"Yes, and these incidents only make matters worse. They are not extravagances of my imagination, Whitney. They have happened, and I fear Harry is mixed up in it somehow."
"But not responsible?"
"That I cannot believe."
Whitney had nodded glumly, sipping her beer. "Why do you think he's been kidnapped? Just because he's been gone four days?"
"Four days is too long, yes," Paddie admitted. "But that is not enough. Whitney, yesterday after talking to you I received another obscene and threatening phone call, and I began to wonder if maybe something had cracked inside Harry Staliatti's cantankerous brain and he was behind all these incidents. So I drove out to the residential hotel where he was staying. I had already called, of course, but the desk clerk had said Harry was to be gone for a while but had retained his rooms. I wondered if perhaps this was part of his ruse. In any case, I went upstairs, intending to get into his rooms and search them for clues of where, if anywhere, he had gone. And do you know what I found?"
Her stomach knotted with tension, Whitney shook her head. Paddie's sense of drama was getting to her.
"My chairman of the board."
"You're kidding!"
"No," Paddie said gravely. "He did not see me, of course, but I saw him go into Harry's rooms and I saw him leave, carrying a sack of Harry's things."
"Oh, Victoria, no! You can't think your chairman of the board is behind this! Why on earth—"
"You haven't met him, Whitney. Daniel Graham is the kind of man who has always stood in my way. He acts chivalrous and he's terribly handsome, but he does not know what to do with a strong woman. I threaten men like this. It is absurd, of course, but it happens."
"Handsome, chivalrous men don't put soap in people's coffee!”
"Perhaps he didn't do this himself, but he is at the heart of the plot against me."
"Victoria, this is awful. Are you sure—"
"Am I sure I'm not crazy? Hopelessly paranoid?"
She smiled, knowing exactly what Whitney was thinking. With her abominable taste in clothes, her excess flesh, her overbite, her thin graying hair, and her deservedly lofty opinion of her skills, Victoria Paderevsky appalled people. She knew it, and didn't care. "No, Whitney," she went on, "I am not crazy or paranoid, although I do admit I have wondered during the past few days if my critics are not right after all. This is absurd, naturally, but, as you say, the pressures on me are tremendous."
"But you enjoy them."
"Yes, I suppose I must."
Whitney had sighed deeply, wondering if Paddie was finally falling apart, but refusing to believe it. "This Daniel Graham doesn't sound like the kind of man who would need to go around kidnapping French horn players to get rid of someone he didn't want around. Tell me about him."
Paddie had done her best to give Whitney an overview of CFSO politics and Graham's role in them. Although representative of the growing area's broadening industries and interests, the orchestra's board was dominated by two prominent citrus families, the Grahams and the Walkers. Daniel Graham was chairman of the board and had almost single-handedly secured the majority of financial backing for the risky venture, and his mother, Rebecca Graham, had recommended and fought for the appointment of Victoria Paderevsky as music director. Thomas Walker was a vociferous opponent of Paddie's, and his son, Matthew, was the CFSO's general manager, a soft-spoken proponent of Paddie's, and, to further complicate matters, a friend of Daniel's.
"Why would Daniel Graham want to ruin you?" Whitney had asked finally. "Wouldn't he come out looking bad, too?"
"Not for long, no. People would tend to feel sorry for him and blame me. In the beginning I believed he was on my side, but had to pacify those who oppose me.”
"Play both sides against the middle, you mean?"
"Yes. But now I'm afraid he has been converted by my opposition and believes that I will bring the orchestra to ruin. If he can get rid of me now before the premiere, then he may still be able to save the orchestra."
"That doesn't make any sense!"
"Yes, it does. If he had gotten rid of me two months ago, the CFSO would have died then and there. But now everything is ready. The orchestra is prepared, the programs are set, the publicity is in place. If I suddenly died or left town, the orchestra could conceivably survive. Someone like Daniel Graham would think it could easily survive."
"But where would he find another conductor on such short notice?"
"It can be done."
Whitney had sighed miserably, her doubts slowly being erased by Paddie's calm, rational explanation. "How could anyone believe you'd ruin the CFSO?"
"I am the fat, ugly lady who dares to do music. Who would want to come see my orchestra?"
"Anyone who knows anything about music!"
"Not everyone agrees with you, Whitney."
"But that's disgusting! What difference does it make what you look like or whether you're a man or woman?"
"You know it makes a big difference to far too many people."
"Yes," Whitney said, deflated, "you're right. The question is, what are we going to do about it?"
Paddie's eyes had lit up. "I have a plan."
Now, as she left Lake Eola Park and crossed the busy street, Whitney wondered if perhaps she had been too credible. Looking up at the gleaming high-rise, she wondered why on earth a man like Daniel Graham would go to the extreme of kidnapping a French horn player and making threatening phone calls just to harass Victoria Paderevsky into giving up her podium. He was the vice president of a national citrus corporation, for heaven's sake! Whitney had drunk a glass of Graham premium orange juice that very morning!
It was impossible, she told herself She was just going along with Paddie's bizarre scheme to pacify her, to calm her frayed nerves. Whatever Harry was up to was perfectly legitimate, if ill-timed, and had simply taken a bit longer than he'd thought. He'd be back. And everything else was just what Paddie had originally thought it was: nasty incidents spawned by jealousy.
Yet how did Whitney explain Daniel Graham's visit to Harry's rooms?
She couldn't, not to her satisfaction.
Besides, there was the chance, however slim, that Paddie was right, and Harry had been kidnapped, wasn't there? And as long as that chance existed, Whitney would remain cautious and open-minded. She simply couldn't bear to have anything happen to Harry—or, for that matter, to Paddie.
The revolving doors at the front of the building were still unlocked. Whitney went through them and smiled at the security guard. He smiled back. She went straight to the elevators, banged the up button, whistled Mozart while waiting, and walked in when the doors opened up. The nonstop rise to the twenty-first floor was smooth but fast, and Whitney's stomach, already not in the best of shape, flip-flopped several times. She did deep-breathing exercises and, when the doors opened and the bell dinged, walked out onto the gold-carpeted floor with her stomach intact.
It was after five, and the reception area was empty. Whitney fished out the key Paddie had presented her and walked past two secretarial desks and down a hall to the last door on the left. Glancing up and down the hall, she stuck the key in the lock, held her breath, and turned the key; to her immense surprise and relief, the door opened.
It was a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows: quiet, cool, and even more elegant than Whitney had expected. The view of Orlando was stunning. A huge antique walnut desk stood in front of the windows, and there were leather chairs and a leather couch, shelves, two nineteenth-century landscape paintings, and an Oriental carpet. There was absolutely no clutter and certainly no indication whatsoever that the man who occupied this office had kidnapped Harry Stagliatti or poured soap into Victoria Paderevsky's coffee.
It hardly seemed the man's style, Whitney thought.
"I don't know what you'll find," Paddie had said. “I don't even know what you should look for, but if you can find something... a clue as to his motive, or proof of his intentions, or an idea of where Harry might be…I will be indebted to you, Whitney."
At the time, it had seemed a reasonable proposition. As Paddie had explained, Whitney wasn't really breaking and entering. She had a key, didn't she? (Paddie had shrugged off questions about where she had procured a key to Daniel Graham's office; she was a resourceful woman.)
But now, sensing the power of the man whose office she was about to search, Whitney wondered if she had made a grievous mistake in going along with Paddie. What would happen if she was caught? Guilty or innocent, Daniel Graham wouldn't be pleased. But Paddie had said Daniel Graham was to be at her four o'clock rehearsal, and she would keep him there at all costs. Whitney was safe.
She started with the shelves and worked her way around the room. Everything she touched and examined suggested that Daniel Graham was a wealthy and cultured man…and not an especially old one, as Whitney had anticipated. The diploma displayed on one of the shelves, just below the decanters of scotch and bourbon, was only fifteen years old. The man had graduated from the University of Florida the same year Harry had introduced Whitney to the glories of Mozart horn concertos.
She moved to the desk and began rifling through the in nocuous drawers, despairing of finding anything incriminating. Clearly, Daniel Graham was the type who would cover his tracks—if he had any to cover. But Paddie would want details, and Whitney was determined to give them to her.
Then, as she was trying to open the bottom right drawer, she heard footsteps out in the hall.
"Just my luck," she muttered to herself, and, not wasting a second in self incriminations, grabbed her horn and scuttled off to the closet.
With her heart pounding in her chest, she leaped into a dark corner of the closet, which she had already searched, and pulled a herringbone jacket down on top of her, curling up under it and tucking her feet under a tennis racket. The wooden coat hanger made a horrible clanging noise and fell on her head. She was about to toss it aside, but seized it instead, clutching it to her side, listening. If worse came to worse, she wondered, would she be able to beat Daniel Graham over the head with a wooden coat hanger?
The footsteps stopped, and Whitney sat very still, wondering if the oppressive silence was good news or bad news. She was uncomfortable and claustrophobic and furious with Paddie for getting her into this mess and with herself for letting Paddie get her into this mess. It was just a janitor, she told herself; nothing to be worried about.
Then the daunting silence exploded. "You might as well come out," a deep, male, and very alert voice said in a distinct drawl. "I assure you, you don't want me to come after you."
Whitney grimaced and held her horn tightly with clammy hands. Breathing the stale, stifling air under the jacket, she acknowledged the dreaded truth: The man beyond the closet door didn't sound at all like a janitor.
"I wouldn't try anything foolish," he said with an annoying air of self-confidence.
Too late for that, Whitney thought dispiritedly. She began to picture herself on a chain gang in some bug-infested swamp. Having waited until age twenty-nine to step foot into Florida, she had her preconceived notions. She pursed her lips and sweated.
"I have a gun," he announced matter-of-factly.
Whitney was not surprised. There was an off chance he was just a security guard doing his job, but she doubted it. He sounded more like Paddie’s rendition of Daniel Graham. Probably the gun had been in the locked drawer. And since she had so brilliantly hidden in the closet, Graham had had plenty of time to slip into the drawer and arm himself. From his perspective, she was a possibly dangerous burglar. From her perspective, she was a harmless woman hiding in a closet with a coat hanger and a nickel-plated French horn for protection.
The closet door creaked open, light filtering through the herringbone jacket. Whitney wondered what kind of idiocy had prompted her to hide in a closet. It was a dead end. She breathed through her nose and tried to remain calm, silent, and still. All she needed now was to hyperventilate. She hadn't hyperventilated since high school when she'd played the horn solo in L'Après Midi d'un Faun. Nerves. Harry had thrown a paper bag over her head and whacked her on the back. A horn player needed to know how to breathe properly.
So, apparently, did a burglar.
"You will remove the jacket from your face—very slowly."
He spoke in a confident, sonorous drawl, but, of course, he could afford to be confident. He was the one with the gun. It occurred to Whitney that the roles were reversed. She was the burglar. He was the innocent bystander.
"Need I remind you that I have a gun?"
"You needn't," she replied with as much lighthearted and irreproachable good cheer as she could manage.
Slowly—very slowly—she removed the jacket from her face and wondered what Daniel Graham was making of his dangerous burglar. Once she had agreed to Paddie's scheme, Whitney had disappeared into the women's bathroom at the airport and changed into attire she considered more suitable for breaking into a corporate office: gray sweat pants, a Buffalo Sabres hockey shirt, and pink ballet slippers. She had even tied her ash-brown hair back with a length of thirty-pound fishing line that she had tucked in her horn case. Ordinarily she used the line to string up the complicated valves on her instrument, not to string up her bouncy, dangling curls. She considered herself a strong, sturdy sort of woman—a French horn player had to be—and, with her wide blue eyes, straight nose, and good cheekbones, not unattractive.
She couldn't make out the features of the dark-haired figure in the light of the doorway, but she did see his gun. "I'm not armed," she said in a clear voice. "I know this must look odd, but—"
"Stand up—slowly. We'll talk in a minute."
Whitney was not encouraged. She didn't want to talk. She couldn't talk. She had promised Paddie. Not, she thought, that Paddie had kept her end of the bargain. She had vowed to keep Daniel Graham at her four o'clock rehearsal, and unless Whitney was very much mistaken, Daniel Graham wasn't at the Orlando Community College auditorium. He was in his office ordering her about with a gun. Brilliant conductor though she might be, Victoria Paderevsky was not a reliable cohort.
"I can't stand up slowly," Whitney said. "I mean, if I do I'll hit my head on the closet pole and mess up your suits and—"
''Up.”
She shook off the jacket, tucked her horn under one arm, and leaned forward, at the same time pulling her feet under her so she could get up slowly, without losing her balance. She had a mad urge to catapult herself out of the corner, but stifled it. The individual giving orders looked very much as though he would shoot her given sufficient provocation. Or insufficient provocation.
"What in hell's name have you got—"
He broke off with a growl and grabbed Whitney by the wrist. She screamed something about lunatics and all this being a mistake as she and her horn went flying out of the closet. They landed in a heap on the fringe of an Oriental carpet. Her horn ended up on the bottom.
"You idiot!" Whitney yelled, prudence gone where her horn was concerned. "You made me bend my bell!"
But Graham wasn't listening. He pounced on her, pinning her to the floor, and yanked the horn out from under her. There was a flash of muscled thighs straining against creased gray linen, and then she was free.
"You maniac!" she groaned into the carpet and rolled over, sitting up. No wonder Paddie thought him capable of kidnapping poor Harry!
She shut up at once, regretting her rash comments as she took in exactly what kind of man she was dealing with. Clearly he was not an idiot or a maniac. He stood before her, flourishing her horn in one hand, holding his gun steadily in the other; tall, intrepid, and solid, just the sort of aggressive and physical man Whitney had expected from her search of his office. There was nothing kindly or gentlemanly about the way he was glaring at her, nothing restrained and businesslike about his dark, wild hair, nothing that indicated he was a corporate vice president. His features were angular, striking, but not pampered, and their ruggedness suggested he didn't spend all his time behind a desk. Instead of a suit, he wore casual pants and a gray gabardine safari shirt. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing tanned and finely muscled forearms. And yet there wasn't a single doubt in Whitney's mind that this was the man whose office she had invaded. This was Daniel Graham.
"What's this?" he demanded, raising her black-encased instrument.
Elbows straightened, palms flat on the wool carpet behind her, Whitney stared up at him. His gun was leveled calmly at her. This isn't happening to me, she thought; it really isn't. If she told him he was brandishing a French horn, he would assume she was connected somehow with the Central Florida Symphony Orchestra, which she was. But he wasn't supposed to know that. If she didn't tell him it was a French horn, he would assume the worst. Once, on a New York subway, a dangerous-looking man had tried to buy her "machine gun" for an ungodly sum. She had finally had to take out her horn and belt out a hunting call before he'd believe it really wasn't a weapon.
"It's nothing," she said lamely. "Just a— No! Don't throw it! Please. I think you've already bent my bell. I mean— Oh, blast it all."
The gun didn't move a fraction of an inch; neither did his eyes. They were, Whitney observed in spite of herself, an engaging shade of sea green. She wished his expression was engaging, too, but it wasn't. It was grim and suspicious and not at all reassuring. Paddie had said he was "terribly handsome," hadn't she? Handsome and chivalrous. Only Whitney had yet to see any indication of chivalry.
"All right, all right," she said. "If you must know, it's a bomb. It's set to go off in ten minutes, but you've probably tripped the timer. Why don't we make our exit? You take the stairs; I'll take the elevator.”
He gave her an incredulous look, the sea-green eyes narrowing, and turned the case over. On the other side were frayed Tanglewood and Saratoga Performing Arts Center stickers—dead giveaways. "You're a musician," he said. "All right, what's going on? What is this—a horn?"
"Oboe."
"I've seen an oboe case before. This is a French horn."
"Is it?" Whitney shrugged. "I wouldn't know. It's not mine.”
"You did say I'd bent your bell, didn't you?" His voice was curiously mild, almost as if he were enjoying himself.
"I don't know, did I? I was in hysterics. Look, I'm unarmed, so would you mind putting your gun away? It's making me nervous."
"I hadn't noticed."
Nevertheless, he laid the gun and her horn on the edge of his desk and folded his arms across his broad chest. With a growing sense of doom, she realized he looked every bit as threatening without his gun as with.
"Well, what are you doing here?" he demanded,
"Visiting. My sister works two floors down. I got lost." She tried not to wince at her own lie. But who would visit her sister in downtown Orlando dressed in sweat pants and pink ballet slippers? Maybe she should have kept on her raw silk suit.
"I see. And you just happen to play French horn and I just happen to be chairman of the CFSO."
Whitney blinked. "Of the what?"
He heaved a sigh and rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek. If he meant to indicate a certain impatience, he had succeeded, she thought. She could just see him dragging Harry off. "The Central Florida Symphony Orchestra. I suppose you're going to tell me you've never heard of it."
"No, of course I've heard of it. But I had no idea you were the—what?"
"Chairman of the board of directors."
"Are you really? My, what a coincidence." Paddie's going to kill me, Whitney thought, unless I kill her first or unless Daniel Graham gets us both. "Look, Mr.—um—"
"Graham," he said, indulging her, but not patiently or with any amusement "Daniel Graham."
"Oh, well, I guess that stands to reason, this being the offices of Graham Citrus and all." She smiled and went on in her most convincing tone, despite the gnawing uneasiness in the pit of her stomach. "My sister said I could use the ladies' room up here. I guess I lost my way. I'm sorry if I caused you any alarm."
Graham, however, did not appear to be convinced.
"Anyway, Mr. Graham, suppose I just take my horn and go and don't come back?"
He leaned against his desk. "You're not a particularly convincing liar," he said.
I'm not a particularly convincing burglar, either, she thought. "You have a suspicious mind, Mr. Graham."
"Only when I find strange women in my closet. What's your name?"
"Jones. Sara Jones."
"I see. With an h?”
“No.”
He smiled. "You're improving."
"But you still don't believe me."
"Hardly. How did you get in?"
"Into your closet?" She shrugged, purposely obtuse. She knew what he meant. “I just crawled in. I was mindful of the tennis rackets, don't worry."
The muscles in his forearms tightened impressively. "Into my office—how did you get into my office?"
She tried to look both innocuous and reasonable, an elusive combination at best, but, under Graham's intense scrutiny, nearly impossible. "I came through the door," she said. "I thought—I made a wrong turn, Mr. Graham. This is all just a silly mistake."
"Your sister on the nineteenth floor?"
The understated incredulity, the small, wry-smile, and the quiet sarcasm did not bolster Whitney's courage, but they were playing on her nerves. Obviously she couldn't tell him the truth, but now she didn't want to. He was enjoying himself far too much. And if he was the kind of man who accosted harmless burglars with a gun, why wouldn't he be the kind of man to kidnap Harry? What if Paddie had been right all along!
"As a matter of fact, yes," she said coolly. "I stumbled into your office while hunting up the ladies' room, and when I heard you coming, I panicked and ducked into the closet. It's as simple as that. Honestly. Just a case of countering one mistake with another. Remember Watergate? Now, if it's all right with you, I'll just apologize and be on my way.”
He pushed one foot out in front of the other, bending his knee, his casual, confident stance augmenting his overall air of menacing arrogance. "It's not all right with me," he said blandly.
Whitney pulled her lower lip up over her bottom teeth and bit down hard. She had been afraid it wouldn't be.
"As you know perfectly well," he went on in that quiet, menacing drawl, "my office door was locked."
"Yes," she said, "you're right."
He dropped his hands to his sides and gripped the edge of the desk, the muscles in his powerful arms and legs tensing visibly. The change was small, but perceptible. Daniel Graham was losing patience. "Then how did you get in?" he asked shortly.
"I used a key."
If possible, his look became more threatening.
"You see," she went on blithely, trying to ignore her growing nervousness, "I'm the new custodian."
Graham clenched his teeth and exhaled at the ceiling. "Miss Jones, if you were a cat you'd be well into your ninth life." He dropped his gaze back to her. It was steady now, his eyes a cool and probing green. "And I'm only calling you Miss Jones for the sake of argument. Your name isn't Sara Jones and you’re not a custodian. A custodian," he went on more emphatically, "doesn't hide in closets with a damned French horn!"
She had forgotten her horn—momentarily. "It's my dinner break. I practice on my breaks—in an empty office"
"You have an answer for everything, don't you?”
She smiled. "I'm just trying to sort this out—"
"—to your advantage."
"Self-preservation runs high and strong in my bones," she said cheerfully. "May I go now?"
"Miss Jones," he said, sitting on the edge of the desk, "the building custodians do not have the key to this office."
"They don't?"
She looked him straight in the eye and said, "Then how did I get in?"
"A key," be said, "which you will give me before we leave—along with an explanation of where you got it and what you're doing here. I have a feeling I'm not going to like what I hear, but I'll be damned if— What do you think you're doing?"
Whitney didn't take the time to answer. She was on her feet and gone—through the door, past the reception area, to the elevators. It had been Paddie's idea to break in after five—Paddie's ideas, Paddie's keys, Paddie's suspicions. Whitney's hide. She banged the down button, realized there wasn't time to wait, and hunted for the stairs.
She saw the red exit sign down the hall and ran.
- Our ebooks are listed at:
