After calling the police and debating whether the two men were actually after something or just skulking, Paddie and Harry decided to take their chances. The moment Fats and Carl were out of sight, they raced out to Paddie’s car and made their exit.
Fats and Carl meanwhile attacked Daniel before he even got to the cottage. Or, according to their story, he attacked them. Either way, in the scuffle that ensued Daniel was stabbed and lost control of his rifle, but managed to get away into the brush. Fats and Carl probably would have found him, but Yoshifumi and Bradley had shown up and planted themselves on the deck.
And then Whitney had come whistling onto the scene. “Beethoven, wasn’t it?” Daniel had asked sarcastically.
“His Seventh,” Whitney had replied blithely. “Second movement.”
He had gritted his teeth and resumed his tale: He had overheard Fats’s and Carl’s talk with her, but there was nothing he could do. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, Daniel didn’t think they would go so far as to murder her. Nevertheless, he had crept into the cottage through the back and prepared to provide cover, if it came to that. He was hoping it wouldn’t. Whitney would do as she was told, Bradley and Yoshifumi and, as it turned out, Matthew would all leave quietly, and the police would arrive in time to apprehend Fats and Carl.
“It wasn’t all as neat as I had hoped it would be,” he had said in conclusion, “but we did all survive.”
Jim had simply shaken his head in disgust.
Fats and Carl had stuck to their bare bones story. Victoria Paderevsky had rented a cottage that had been unoccupied for several years in, from a poacher’s point of view, a strategically located area. That part of the grove was isolated from the rest of Daniel’s property, but had good access to a major highway. And it was on the border of Daniel’s huge, late-ripening, high-priced Valencia orange grove.
But it was also in Paddie’s front yard, and her constant comings and goings posed a threat to the poaching operation. Fats and Carl were afraid she would stumble on them and blow their little business wide open. They wanted her out of the cottage—but how to get her to move? Apparently they thought about it and came up with their little scheme of harassment. Paddie was under a great deal of pressure, she wasn’t personally popular, and she was a woman. It would be a simple matter to harass her into quitting her job and leaving town. And, in the bargain, who would blame a couple of poachers when the woman had an entire orchestra that didn’t especially like her? There were suspects galore!
Of course, they hadn’t counted on Paddie being Paddie ... or on Harry and Daniel and Whitney.
Whitney pointed out that that was rather elaborate thinking for the likes of Fats and Carl. How would they know to switch covers on a score? “Ask them,” she had said. “They probably don’t even know what a score is!” Jim promised he would take care of all that but Whitney sensed he thought she was maligning Florida men, which was ridiculous. She had dealt with Fats Gillibrew and Carl Johnsbury! And they weren’t Daniel Grahams. Definitely and decidedly not. It seemed to her—and, of course, she said so—that Fats and Carl were not the ringleaders of their poaching operation.
But Fats and Carl insisted they worked alone and only were stealing fruit from Daniel. Jim mentioned the entire county had been troubled by what appeared to be a fairly organized ring of poachers, but he couldn’t say if the two men were part of it or not. He was confident, however, that they would “share some more information with us.”
It was how they all had left it. Paddie and Harry had gone back to the cottage, Whitney and Daniel had gone back to the house. On their way out of the police station, Jim had warned them that the press would be calling. Obviously he didn’t think a few musicians should merit media attention: The world premiere of the Central Florida Symphony Orchestra had been news to him.
“What are you going to do now?” Daniel was asking.
“I don’t know,” Whitney said, wiggling her stocking-covered feet at the fire. “I guess it depends on Paddie and Harry—Harry, mostly, I would think. If he can’t play, of course I’ll stay. And …” She paused, thinking carefully of what to say next, what she had to say. “And it depends on you, Daniel. Regardless of what Paddie and Harry do, I’ll stay if you want me to. This afternoon—this afternoon meant a great deal to me.”
Daniel said nothing. The fire crackled. Whitney felt her eyes fill with tears, and hugged the blanket close. The house was big and drafty; her nose was cold. Finally Daniel rose and tossed another log on the fire, then stood in front of it, his uninjured arm on the stone mantel.
“For how long, Whitney?” he asked, not looking at her.
“What do you mean?”
He turned then, one side of his face glowing in the light of the fire, the other dark. “I mean two weeks isn’t enough, but I’m not prepared to let you go … or to keep you here. ‘This afternoon’“—he smiled wryly, sadly—”meant a great deal to me, too. More than I had ever imagined. But it won’t happen again, Whitney. It can’t. Two weeks just isn’t enough time. We’re adults. We can stop what we’ve started.”
“If that’s what you want,” she said simply, holding back the tears.
“Maybe it’s what has to be. I don’t want to uproot your whole life for a relationship three days old.”
“Maybe my life could use a little uprooting.”
“You have commitments in New York.”
“Musicians are romantics. They’d understand.”
“And what’s here for you, Whitney?”
“You.”
“That’s not enough, and you know it.”
She attempted a smile. “Maybe we could kidnap Harry.”
“That’s my Whitney,” Daniel said wistfully. “An answer for everything.”
“Daniel … I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I know it hasn’t been long, but it’s right. I want to know you better, but I think—I know how I feel.” She bit her lip. “We’re both tired. We can talk tomorrow.”
His hand dropped to his side, and he looked at her, started to speak, stopped, and walked out of the room. He had a press conference to attend.
As the tears flowed freely down her cheeks, she decided there was no point in her going to the press conference.
Chapter Thirteen
The press conference was being held in an ensemble room across the lobby from the main concert hall. Whitney sidled up to the open door and peered in. She hadn’t changed her mind about not attending; she just wanted to check and see where everyone was. Reporters and two camera crews occupied the near end of the room. In a row of chairs at the front sat the core group of CFSO people: Angelina, Yoshifumi, Bradley, Lucas, Matthew, Thomas, and Rebecca. It was an impressive show of unity.
Paddie was resplendent in bright red and a gaudy necklace. She had the microphone, of course. Beside her, Harry was picking lint off his sling. As far as Whitney was aware he didn’t need a sling, but, knowing Harry as she did, she assumed he had added it for effect.
Standing to the side—tall, impressive, and sober—was Daniel Graham. He looked out at their audience, his eyes narrowed, and automatically Whitney flattened against the wall. It was as if he had sensed her presence. But she didn’t want him to call attention to her. If she could have had him at her side now, she would have—but that was not an option. The press conference had to go on without interruption, and she had to do what she had come here to do. Daniel couldn’t help her.
“You have my statement, ladies and gentlemen,” Paddie was saying. “Now I would be happy to discuss the orchestra.”
Whitney wondered if that was the first time Victoria Paderevsky had referred to the CFSO as the orchestra instead of her orchestra.
“What are the names of the two men apprehended?” a reporter asked.
“This is not for me to divulge,” Paddie replied stiffly; she obviously preferred to discuss her plans for the CFSO.
There were more questions of a nonmusical nature. Reporters were much more interested in Paddie’s opinions on poachers and her harassment than on Beethoven and Stravinsky. Paddie wasn’t getting her way, but Whitney was relieved. The press conference wasn’t in danger of breaking up any time soon.
She tiptoed back down the hall and out into the lobby. Everyone was accounted for. Everyone. She had only to get backstage, perform her little investigation, and slip back out. She’d parked the Jeep near the door so she could make a quick exit. Daniel had taken the Porsche.
The Jeep was not a sensitive vehicle. On her way to Paddie’s cottage, Whitney had nicked two trees and run over a scrub pine. Screaming through citrus groves in a Jeep with no suspension to speak of was not her forte. But the experience, at least, had delivered her from the last of her sniffles. They had been foolish from the beginning, she had decided as she’d searched for Paddie’s duplicate set of keys. Why was she crying over a relationship three days old? Because she was in love?
Humph, she had thought, quoting Victoria Paderevsky. Besides which, she thought now, creeping into the dark auditorium, Daniel hadn’t wanted to ship her off to Schenectady. He had wanted her to stay. It was the details that concerned him. Uprooting her life. Phooey! He was just being honorable.
“And why are you thinking about Daniel Graham now?” she muttered under her breath.
In addition to his Jeep, Whitney had also borrowed one of Daniel’s flashlights. He had several in the back room with the washer and dryer, but she had chosen an unobtrusive one about the size of her middle finger. She had even checked to make sure it worked. She had considered taking along a weapon this time, but Daniel’s gun closet was locked.
She fished the flashlight out of her jeans pocket and flicked it on. Its thin ray of light seemed pitiful in the vast darkness of the empty auditorium. But Whitney had ushered at Lincoln Center for years. She would manage.
And finding her way backstage was by far the easiest part of what she meant to do. The hardest part would come later, when she had to confront the man or woman who had drawn the caricature of Paddie and the dozen other world-famous conductors.
Whatever else remained uncertain and negotiable, that, in Whitney’s mind, did not. Fats Gillibrew and Carl Johnsbury had
not
drawn that nasty little picture. And Whitney was convinced that the person who had was at the heart of the events of the past week. Fats and Carl themselves had, in their overheard conversations, referred to a third person.
And that was who Whitney was after.
She crept onto the stage and wove through the music stands and chairs. To anyone else, it would have been a maze worthy of King Minos. To Whitney, it was as intelligible as a set of dining room furniture. She had practically grown up in an orchestra. She could find her way around one blindfolded.
Still, her heart was pounding when she emerged backstage. She wanted to turn on a light, but didn’t dare. Instead she leaned against the wall and allowed herself one wish. It was simple enough: Daniel Graham. She wanted him here, beside her, urging her on, working with her;
Loving her.
But, of course, Daniel would never have let her come. That, she thought, was something to work out during the next three days of their relationship. More details.
Now came the difficult part of her self
-
imposed mission: She had to find the orchestra library. Suddenly her little light seemed ridiculously inadequate. She edged forward down the hall toward Paddie’s office, flashing the light on the doors as she went. Only Paddie’s was marked. Her only consolation was that Paddie’s string of keys were all neatly labeled. Stopping in the hall, Whitney dug them out and found the one to the library.
She hoped the members of the Orlando media were tenacious and Paddie stuck her foot in her mouth:
But she could just see Daniel stepping forward and cutting them all short. “Ladies, gentlemen,” he would drawl, “thank you for your time. Good night.”
And they would all get up and leave. Daniel Graham had that kind of effect on people.
Daniel, Daniel ...
No, she said firmly to herself; she would not think about him now. But how could she stop?
Willpower. The same stubborn pride that’s kept you playing horn all these years.
The key fit into the lock on the fourth door she tried. Holding back a cry of relief, she pushed the door open slowly, careful not to make a sound. Then she shut it behind her and flipped on the light.
And felt foolish and sneaky.
The black concert folders were all stacked neatly in boxes. Paddie refused to let program music off the premises, insisting that players, whom she regarded as little more than irresponsible children, use their own or backup copies for practice.
In the folders Whitney expected—hoped, dreaded—to find a clue. A scrap of paper, a doodle, a drawing, a note, something, anything, that would prove to her, if to no one else, that the “business” hadn’t ended with the arrest of Fats and Carl. Then she could do what had to be done to protect Victoria Paderevsky from a lunatic still at large in her orchestra.
She began with the violin section.
She discovered that the second violinists had a penchant for trivia games and the trumpet section whiled away long tacets, sections during which their instrument wasn’t required, by playing hangman. There were lots of doodles, but none bore any resemblance in quality or subject to Paddie’s shredded drawing. Yoshifumi’s folder was immaculate. So was Bradley’s. Angelina’s held a review of a concert she had played in Miami. Lucas’s music was dog-eared.
Breathing more easily and feeling foolish, Whitney sat back on her heels and wondered if she’d simply been reacting to Daniel’s mood. Maybe if he had kissed her, just once, she wouldn’t have gone on this wild goose chase. But had she really thought Yoshifumi or Angelina or Bradley or Lucas capable of such nastiness? She didn’t, she told herself; she was just entertaining the possibility. And just because she hadn’t found anything damning in their folders didn’t mean they were exonerated.
Yes, she thought bitterly, now she ought to check the bathroom graffiti.
She was beginning to regret her impulsiveness.