Free The Uneven Score by Carla Neggers

weren’t necessarily—or even obviously—connected. Harry was a fifty-seven-year-old adult male who could walk out on an orchestra if he damned well felt like it! It did not mean he’d been kidnapped.
    And yet...
    Whitney sighed. And yet could she take the chance that he wasn’t in danger—and that Daniel was not involved?
    Paddie had seen Daniel Graham in Harry’s rooms! That had to mean something .
    But what?
    So Whitney did the only thing she could do: She searched Daniel Graham’s house.
    It was by no means a simple project. The house consisted of six bedrooms, a master suite, a library, an office, a study, a formal living room, a formal dining room, a pantry, a kitchen, two storage rooms, and four bathrooms. At first Whitney dawdled, enthralled by the straightforward elegance of the decor and the beauty of the view. Through every window she could see the endless rows of citrus trees, their gorgeous white blossoms glinting in the sunlight against their dark, waxy leaves. It was a magnificent sight. God’s country, someone had called this part of Florida. On a morning such as this, Whitney could see why. In front of the house, the lake sparkled blue, with huge old cypress trees and pink dogwoods and white azaleas along its banks. Last night’s rain, and all the fear and doubts that went with it, seemed far away.
    But why had Daniel been parading through his property with a rifle slung over his shoulder? Corporate vice presidents and wealthy citrus growers didn’t do such things. And his tale about poachers ranked with some of her lies. As far as the eye could see, the groves were in bloom. There was only that one section near Paddie’s cottage where Whitney had actually seen any oranges. And whoever was harassing Paddie, it wasn’t a poacher. How would a poacher know the faces of so many of the world’s famous conductors? And how would a poacher know that that particular drawing would be so insulting, so degrading, to Victoria Paderevsky?
    Whitney shoved her questions aside—and continued her search. In the large kitchen trash basket, she came upon her sweat pants and sweater. Gathering them up, she ran them through the wash. Now that she knew her way around the big house, she felt quite at home.
    Dennis Brain was belting out the third movement of Mozart’s Horn Concerto No. 4 in E-flat and Whitney was humming along, picking through the trash for any clues, thinking she should be practicing her horn, when the back door opened and Daniel and an older man and woman walked in. The woman was well into middle age, almost as tall as he was, with the same straight, somewhat arrogant-looking nose. She wore a teal-blue suit and good shoes, and she was the kind of woman who made Whitney wonder if she’d ever grow up. The other man was short and heavyset, dressed in a blue seersucker suit.    
    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