Played to Death by Meg Perry

of a cello solo. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

 
    Scott
    When Scott woke up Monday he panicked momentarily, thinking he must have overslept - then relaxed when he realized he was on summer vacation. The Philharmonic was off from Memorial Day through mid-July, when rehearsals resumed. Usually during the summer Scott would attend a festival, but this year he’d decided not to. He was going to attend a week of master classes, led by the principal cellist of the Philadelphia Orchestra, in San Francisco during the first week of July. Until then, for the rest of June, he was going to catch up on his reading and enjoy being single.
    He was playing - even when the Philharmonic was on break, he played three hours a day - when, from a distance, he heard his phone ring. He never let a phone call disturb his playing, so he’d left the phone in the kitchen. When he finished the piece, he went downstairs and listened to the message.
    His stomach fell when he heard the voice. It was Jamie.
    “Hey, Scott, it’s Jamie. Sorry to hear you’ve gotten tangled up in that wedding murder. But I’m calling about something different. There’s been a theft from our music library, and you might be able to give me some background information that would help.” A wry-sounding laugh. “I figure you’d rather talk to me than the police, although I’m not sure about that… Anyway, if you could stop by my office this afternoon, that’d be best, but if you can’t you can call me.” He recited a number. “That’s my office number. I’ll be here from three until six. Thanks.”
    Scott checked his watch. If he went to see Jamie around four, it might be easier to find a parking space.
    Having resigned himself to the prospect of having to see Jamie, he climbed back into the loft, picked up his bow and resumed playing.

 
    Jamie
    Scott didn’t call back, and I wasn’t sure he’d show up. If I didn’t hear anything by the end of the day, I’d sic Aguilar on him.
    But at 4:15, Lance Scudieri called from circulation, speaking formally for the benefit of the visitor. “Dr. Brodie, there’s a gentleman named Scott Deering to see you.”
    “Thanks, Lance, I’m expecting him. Send him up.”
    A minute later Scott appeared in my doorway. “Hi.”
    I stood up. “Come on in.”
    Scott walked into my office and looked around. “You redecorated. It suits you.”
    “Thank you.” It did suit me. Because I hadn't gotten a new office during the renovation, the library administration had allowed me to redecorate the concrete-block cell that I lived in. I'd painted the walls a soothing color, sort of a light moss green, and lined the walls to my right and left with bookshelves made of 1x6 boards stained a warm dark brown. Most of the shelves were jammed with books, but the top shelf was at eye level and contained photos and memorabilia.
    Scott went to the shelves and examined one of the photos of Pete and me, taken up at Eagle Rock during a hike. It was one of my favorite pictures of the two of us. “This is your partner? The guy I met at the wedding?”
    “Yeah. Pete Ferguson.”
    “How long have you been together?”
    “Three years. We started dating pretty soon after you broke up with me.”
    “Hm.” Scott examined the rest of the pictures. “Is this a recent one of your dad?”
    “Yeah. That's his girlfriend.”
    “He has a girlfriend now?”
    “It’s a casual thing.”
    “He looks great. Hasn't changed a bit.”
    “It's only been three years.”
    “True.” Scott took down a picture of my nephews Colin and Gabe from earlier in the year. “These are Jeff's kids?”
    “Yeah. They've changed some, huh?”
    “Kids will do that.” He replaced the photo and turned to face me. “Listen, before we talk about this music thing, I want to apologize to you.”
    I asked, although I knew the answer. “For what?”
    “For breaking up with you the way I did. That was a dick move.” Scott bit his lip. “I was going to talk to you