Part 4: The Missing Cello

The cello belonged to a retired music teacher named Evelyn Price. My father had agreed to repair its case and check the strings. The ledger included her phone number and a note that she intended to lend it to a scholarship student after the repair.

The administrator called Ms. Price with Priya and Daniel's attorney copied on the correspondence. She said she had not collected the cello. She remembered delivering it in a brown case on a rainy Tuesday, and she had a receipt in my father's handwriting.

Daniel searched the workshop with the administrator present. They checked the storage cupboards, the loft, and the space beneath the workbench. I joined them after lunch. The cello was not there.

My mother arrived while we were checking the garage. She said a dealer had collected several instruments after the funeral. She believed they were my father's property and wanted an estimate before the estate was divided.

“Who authorized the collection?” the administrator asked.

“I did. They were in my husband's workshop.”

The administrator explained that possession did not necessarily mean ownership. He asked for the dealer's name and any receipt. My mother produced a card and a handwritten list. The cello was on it.

We called the dealer from the workshop table. He said he had not sold anything. He had taken the instruments to his shop for appraisal and would hold them until the administrator confirmed ownership. He agreed to provide a complete list and photographs.

The next morning the administrator and a representative from the music school visited the dealer. They compared the instruments with the ledger and Ms. Price's receipt. The cello was there, still in its case. The dealer returned it to the administrator, who arranged for Ms. Price to collect it after documenting the transfer.

When she arrived at the workshop, Ms. Price thanked the administrator and asked whether she could see my father's workbench. She ran her hand along the edge of the wood.

“He repaired my first violin when I was twelve,” she said. “He wouldn't take payment because my mother brought him a jar of plum jam every autumn.”

Daniel offered to carry the case to her car. She accepted, then asked what would happen to the workshop.

“We're still deciding,” he said.

“Please don't decide because you feel you have to preserve every object exactly where it is. Your father cared about people making music, not about keeping dust on his shelves.”

After she left, my mother sat at the kitchen table. She admitted that she had asked Daniel to say the piano bench was empty because she feared I would use the ledger to delay the transfer. Daniel said he had told her only that it was locked. She had made the rest sound certain when she spoke to the attorney.

“I wanted the house settled,” she said.

“You wanted it settled before we knew what was in it,” I replied.

She looked at Daniel. “Your lender won't wait forever.”

“Then I'll ask for more time,” he said. “I can't use instruments that belong to someone else as part of my business plan.”

The administrator requested an extension for the inventory and sent the dealer a formal notice not to release any remaining items until ownership was confirmed. The immediate problem had been resolved because the cello had not been sold. We were fortunate, and I did not mistake that luck for a good process.

That evening Daniel sent me a revised studio plan. The storage wall was gone. In its place he had drawn a small practice room for students from the music school. At the bottom he wrote: Only if the numbers work, and only if we agree.