Eleven on Top (Stephanie Plum 11)

I lured him into the house with the hot dog and locked up. Morelli was still on the couch with his foot on the coffee table. The room was trashed around him. Empty soda cans, newspapers, a crumpled fast-food bag, a half-empty potato chip bag, an empty doughnut box, a sock (probably Bob ate the mate), assorted sports and girlie magazines.

“This room is a Dumpster,” I said to him. “Where'd all this stuff come from?”

“Some of the guys visited me.”

I doled out the hot dogs. Two to Morelli, two to Bob, two to me. Morelli and I got a Bud. Bob got a bowl of water. I kicked through the clutter, brushed potato chip crumbs off a chair, and sat down. “You need to clean up.”

“I can't clean up. I'm supposed to stay off my leg.”

“You weren't worrying about your leg last night.”

“That was different. That was an emergency. And anyway, I wasn't on my leg. I was on my back. And what's with the scratches on your arm and the torn clothes? What the hell were you doing? I thought you were supposed to be working in the office.”

“I fell down the stairs.”

“At Rangeman?”

“Yep. Do you want another beer? Ice cream?”

“I want to know how you managed to fall down the stairs.”

“I was rushing to leave, and I sort of crashed into Ranger, and we fell down the stairs.”

Morelli stared at me with his unreadable cop face. I was ready for him to morph into the jealous Italian boyfriend with a lot of arm flapping and yelling, but he gave his head a small shake and took another pull on his Bud. “Poor dumb bastard,” he said. “I hope he's got insurance on that building.”

I was pretty sure I'd just been insulted, but I thought it was best to let it slide.

Morelli leaned back into the couch and smiled at me. “And before I forget, your cello is in the front hall.”

“My cello?”

“Yeah, every great cel

lo player needs a cello, right?”

I ran to the hall and gaped at the big bulbous black case leaning against the wall. I dragged the case into the living room and opened it. There was a large violin sort of thing in it. I supposed it was a cello.

“How did this get here?” I asked Morelli.

“Your mother rented it for you. She said you gave yours away, and she knew how much you were looking forward to playing at Valerie's wedding, so she rented a cello for you. I swear to God, those were her exact words.”

I guess the panic showed on my face because Morelli stopped smiling.

“Maybe you should fill me in on your musical accomplishments,” Morelli said.

I plunked down on the couch beside him. “I don't have any musical accomplishments. I don't have any accomplishments of any kind. I'm stupid and boring. I don't have any hobbies. I don't play sports. I don't write poetry. I don't travel to interesting places. I don't even have a good job.”

“That doesn't make you stupid and boring,” Morelli said.

“Well, I feel stupid and boring. And I wanted to feel interesting. And somehow, someone told my mother and grandmother that I played the cello. I guess it was me... only it was like some foreign entity took possession of my body. I heard the words coming out of my mouth, but I'm sure they originated in some other brain. And it was so simple at first. One small mention. And then it took on a life of its own. And next thing, everyone knew.”

“And you can't play the cello.”

“I'm not even sure this is a cello.”

Morelli went back to smiling. “And you think you're boring? No way, Cupcake.”

“What about the stupid part?”