Free The Uneven Score by Carla Neggers Page B

“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