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him you acted alone. He will want to talk to me, of course, which means you can’t stay here.”
    “Why not? If he comes around, I’ll just hide. He won’t search your closets—”
    Paddie was shaking her head. “No, impossible.”
    “Victoria, this is no time to protect your privacy. Everyone in the music world knows you prefer to live in seclusion, but if someone’s trying to ruin you, you should let me stay here with you and run interference. I can intercept the obscene phone calls and…”
     Paddie was still shaking her head.
    “All right, all right. Where do I stay, then? You have made other arrangements?”
    ‘‘No’’
    “Terrific.”
    “Whitney, Whitney, I have been unable to think clearly. I myself would find elsewhere to stay, but I am afraid to do anything suspicious.”
    Whitney snorted in disbelief. Paddie was using her fake Lithuanian accent, which meant she was either lying or expostulating. In this case, lying. Thus far, Paddie had greeted all her bizarre happenings with irritation and contempt, but not fear—at least not overtly. Underneath, Whitney sensed a certain desperation in Paddie’s actions. But, on the surface, as far as Paddie was concerned, the entire business was nothing more than a nuisance. She hadn’t felt Daniel Graham’s iron-hard grip or looked into his sea-green eyes— Whitney caught herself: What did Graham’s sea-green eyes have to do with anything?
    She got Paddie’s point, however: She couldn’t stay at the cottage. She threw up her hands in half-mock, half-real despair. “So here I am in Florida during the peak tourist season—at nine o’clock at night, no less—with no place to stay. And I’m exhausted. Some thanks I get for risking my life with a lunatic.”
    “What about your friends in the orchestra?”
    “They’d be even less likely than you to cover for me if Graham came around asking questions and suggesting I was a thief—and they don’t know I’m in Florida, remember? No one expects me until tomorrow.”
     Paddie nodded thoughtfully. “Yes,” she said, “and perhaps it is best that they don’t find out. To explain to them would cause unnecessary strain and gossip. Already I am dissatisfied with their progress, especially with the Stravinsky.”
    She said Straveenshy. Expostulating. But Whitney knew better than to suggest her life and freedom ought to be more important than the Central Florida Symphony Orchestra’ premiere performance of The Firebird Suite. Whitney felt like a fugitive with nowhere to run.
    “I have a tent,” Paddie was saying.
    ‘Whitney couldn’t stop her jaw from dropping. “You’re not serious.”
    “It’s in the storage closet. It was here when I arrived. I believe it’s old, but I’m sure it’s still serviceable.”
    “You expect me to sleep in a tent? Victoria, I haven’t slept since dawn!”
    “I have a blanket.”
    “How generous. And where am I supposed to pitch my tent?”
    “In the grove, here. You’ll be safe. It’s a large grove—two thousand acres.” Paddie hesitated, as if about to say something else, but changed her mind. She smiled. “I’m sure there’s a charming spot to camp. And tomorrow you can find a place to stay.”
    Not “we,” Whitney noticed, but “you.” She swore under her breath, but Paddie was already lifting her bulk off her wooden chair. “What about food?” Whitney asked, trailing after the conductor into the cottage.
    “I’ll give you some to take with you—no, that might attract animals.”
    “Victoria!”
    Whitney argued and cajoled, but Paddie was convinced she’d arrived at the perfect solution. She would leave food on the deck, and Whitney could sneak up in the morning and get it, like a raccoon. Whitney watched, amazed, while Paddie dug happily in the closet until she came up with an army green, foul-smelling pup tent. “See,” she said, thrusting the thing at Whitney, “all the stakes are here. If I was smaller and younger, I would leap at the