1.

Monday, June 6, 1967
6:35 p.m.
 
            Layers of smog, burnt orange in the waning light, draped the horizon.  Along a web of freeways crawled scarlet taillights of rush hour traffic.         
 
            In the Hollywood Branch of the Los Angeles Public Library, a woman in her early forties strolled to the Subjects section of the card catalog and slid open the drawer labeled "C." 
 
            "Crafts," she muttered, fingering the 3x5's.  "Credit.  Cricket."  Finally, there was the genre she was after. 
 
            Crime, True.        
 
            She jotted down the appropriate Dewey Decimal number, stepped to the shelves, and examined book spines.  Only half a dozen volumes, she saw, and grimaced.  Terrific.  Stole a blonde wig, donned sunglasses, wore a gaudy brown dress she wouldn't be caught dead in, and all for nothing.  Should have gone to the Main Library downtown.
 
            She had about given up when a faded green book on the lowest shelf caught her eye.  Hmmmm.  Maybe.  She slipped it out, blew dust off, and opened the cover to the Table of Contents.
 
            Yeah.  Maybe that chapter.
 
            She settled at a table and studied the pages.  Oh yeah, this would do.  Some adaptations would have to be made, of course, but this fit the bill.
 
            Out of a large white shoulder bag she drew a spiral notebook.  Careful to cover her writing immediately after she penned it, she began a list:

   
           Gun with silencer
            Bullets (7)  Buy out of town.  Use cash!
            Gloves
            9 volt batteries (3)  Cheap kind--drain one ASAP 
            Cardboard box
            Trowel
   
            The binding was so tight between pages 150 and 151 that the book refused to lie flat.  Smashing it down with her left hand, she picked up her pencil and was about to continue when a little girl in yellow braids plopped down opposite her and opened Dr. Seuss' The Cat in the Hat. 
 
            "Go away," she hissed.
 
            The girl ignored her, placing a finger under each individual word and reading them in a voice just audible enough to be annoying. 
 
            She sighed and, returning to the chapter, wondered how to modify things if she wanted to avoid leaving the same clues this murderer had.  Think.  Think of a way to do it differently.
 
            But it was impossible to think.  The wig, a size too small, pinched her scalp.  Worse, that anapestic beat and Dr. Seuss rhyming was one hell of an irritation when trying to plot a murder.
 
            "Hey," she said to the kid.
 
            The child glanced up.
 
            "Know what I eat for breakfast?" she said.
 
            The girl shook her head. 
 
            Leaning across the table, she whispered, "Children."
 
            The child's eyes widened.  Leaving The Cat in the Hat, she tore across the room, screeching.
 
            A brunette woman grabbed the girl's arm, swatted her rear.  "Haven't I told you to be quiet in the library?"
 
            "But Mommy!" she howled, pointing.  "That lady said she eats children!"
 
            "Don't be ridiculous.  Of course she didn't say that."
 
            "But she did!"
 
            "She did not.  You want another spanking?  For lying?"
 
            The woman snorted.  Stupid kid.  Mother was even stupider.  She thumbed through the chapter again, re-read the part about burnt gunpowder residue and some weird thing called a paraffin test.  Got that covered.  But the car battery could take hours to drain, and that was much too long.  Frowning, she tapped her pencil.  
 
            But why drain it at all? 
 
            It occurred to her she didn't have to.  A corner of her mouth rose and she added two more items to the list:
 
            Dead car battery (get from junkyard?)
             Jumper cables


            Flipping the page in her notebook, she began a step by step plan.
 
            1. Obtain all items on list
            2. Wipe gun of prints--wear gloves!
            3. Load gun, screw on silencer.  Extra bullet in purse.
            4. Fresh 9 volt battery in walkie-talkie.  One fresh and one dead 9 volt battery in purse.
 
            She wrote steadily, occasionally fingering back through the pages to check something.  By 7:45 she was finished and slid the volume onto the shelf where it, once again, began to collect dust.
 
Friday, June 24
9:30 p.m.
 
            "And now," the disc jockey announced over a timpani roll, "this week's number one song.  The Young Rascals and 'Groovin'!"
 
            Music swelled, then faded as the song began. 
 
            "No," Angel whined, grabbing the transistor radio from under her pillow.  "Not now."  She turned up the volume all the way, but it was no use.  The battery was dying.
 
            She rolled out of bed and crept across the room.  Beatle bobble-head dolls nodded when she jerked open the top dresser drawer.  Angel swept platinum blonde hair behind her ears and, in the dark, felt among her underwear.  There was a fresh battery in there somewhere.
 
            Harsh voices too mushy to understand floated up from downstairs.  Frowning, she forgot about the battery and opened her bedroom door a crack.
 
            Light spilled along the perimeter.  The voices were louder but still unintelligible.  Angel slipped outside and folded legs under her rear at the top of the stairs.
 
            One of the voices belonged to Aunt Mazie.  "Just what are we supposed to live on?"
 
            "You're a CPA," Angel heard her mother reply.  "I'm sure you can find--"
 
            "Oh, sure.  Lots of jobs for women accountants.  Have you ever read the classifieds?  Help Wanted Female?  Waitresses, stewardesses, secretaries."
 
            Her mother's golden bouffant hair strolled into view.  "She doesn't want to do it anymore.  Angel's tired of acting.  She's wants to be a regular kid, go to school, make friends."
 
            Aunt Mazie's short tight red curls stepped alongside her mother.  Cigarette smoke coiled upward.  "She's only fourteen, too young to know what she wants.  Doris, it's a million dollars.  A million dollar, four picture deal.  All in color, all starring Angel.  I swear, you put me in complete control, and by the fourth one, I'll have her name above the title."
 
            Angel sighed.  Same old argument.
 
            Her mother said, "Did you even read the scripts?"
 
            "Teenage beach pictures are very popular."
 
            "Gidget is not what they have in mind.  There's no way on earth I'll let them turn my daughter into a sex symbol, especially with a five year renewal clause in the contract."
 
            Aunt Mazie smashed her cigarette butt in an ashtray. "They're not going to give Angel that kind of money to play Shirley Temple.  Doris, you're making the biggest mistake of your life.  She could be wealthy, famous."
 
            Her mother sauntered out of view.  "Then it's my mistake to make."
 
            Aunt Mazie's gaze wandered upward, caught her sitting by the top of the stairs.  Eyes narrowed.  The corners of her mouth rose in smile that reminded her of Saturday morning cartoon villains.  Angel gulped, crawled to her room, jumped into bed.
 
            The front door slammed.  A few moments later, the engine of Aunt Mazie's car vroomed.  Tires squealed down the driveway.
 
            A silhouette of her mother appeared at the bedroom door.  "How much of that did you hear?"
 
            Angel sat up in bed, clenched her blanket.  "Is she right?  Will we have nothing to live on if I quit?"
 
            Mom crossed the room, hugged her.  "No.  I've set aside most of what you've earned.  There's plenty to get you through high school and college."  She stroked her daughter's forehead.  "You've worked so hard.  Now it's time to have some fun."
 
            Angel settled into bed.  Mom kissed her cheek, tucked in her blanket, and tiptoed out the door. 
 
            Crickets chirped and stars hung in the summer sky.  Her eyelids drifted closed and within minutes she slept.
 

2


Saturday, June 25
1:50 p.m.
 
            Gasping for air, Elizabeth fled, her pink nightie rippling in the breeze.  Bare feet smacked the slats of a bridge suspended above raging white water.  She was almost three-fourths across when a disheveled man clutching a hunting rifle stepped into view, barring the exit. 
 
            Her deep blue eyes widened.  She spun around and tore back across the bridge.  She hadn't gotten more than five steps when another man with a rifle blocked the other end.  Smirking, the two ambled toward her, stepping closer, closer.
 
            Gazing up at herself on the screen, Angel panted in rhythm to Elizabeth's breathing.
 
            "Louder, faster," the director spoke into her headphones.
 
            At a close up, Angel breathed heavier, quicker.  Elizabeth backed to the railing and flung a leg over.
 
            "I'll jump!" Angel cried into the microphone.
 
            "Cut!"
 
            She glanced outside the sound booth.  Aunt Mazie, smoking a cigarette, sat at the console along with the director and sound editor.
 
            "Sweetie," the director said, "I'm not hearing any terror in your voice."
 
            "It's harder to do it here," she protested.  "That bridge was so rickety, I really was scared.  Can't we use what we recorded on location?"          
 
            "I already explained.  Roar of the river was too loud.  All of this has to be dubbed, every bit of it."
 
            Aunt Mazie shook her head in disgust, stabbed her cigarette butt in an ashtray.  "This is ridiculous.  Twelve takes.  Isn't it bad enough we have to do this on the weekend?"
 
            The director brushed gray hair back from his face.  "Miss Marsden, we've been behind schedule all through production."
 
            "You wouldn't be," Aunt Mazie said, "if you could get this child to cooperate."
 
            Angel frowned but then brightened when a freckled man with reddish hair strolled into the control room. 
 
            She waved.  "Hi, Paddy."
 
            "Hey, kiddo," Paddy said.  "How's it going?"
 
            "Not so great."
 
            "Terrible," Aunt Mazie commented, glancing at her watch.  She scooped up her walkie-talkie.  "I need some air.  Paddy, see if you can talk some sense into her."
 
            Paddy slid into the chair Aunt Mazie had been occupying.  "You can do it, kiddo.  C'mon, visualize."
 
            "We'll pick it up from 'I'll jump,'" the director said.  "Ready to give it another try?"
 
            Angel nodded.  It would be easier now, without Aunt Mazie glaring at her.
 
**          
 
            Mazie stepped into the California heat.  Double-checking her purse, she lifted the gloves and spied the silver gun, silencer screwed on, nestled within.  In a zippered compartment lay the extra bullet.        
 
            A couple stagehands shuffled past Mazie as she hiked toward the back of the studio lot.  Finally alone, she depressed the send button on her walkie-talkie.  "Doris, you on the lot?"
 
            Static was followed by, "Say again.  Can't hear you."
 
            Louder, she said, "I asked if you were on the lot."
 
            "Almost.  Just turned on Figueroa."
 
            "Meet me behind Stage 5."
 
            "Why?"
 
            "I'm parked there.  I have a surprise for Angel, and I want you to see it."      
 
            "All right.  Why'd you park there?  I thought Angel was dubbing today.  It's much farther."
 
            "Habit, I guess.  See you there."
 
            Time was crucial now.  Trying not to walk so fast that she called attention to herself, Mazie rounded the corner of Stage 5.  An open wooden gate led to a dirt roadway.  Rarely did anybody venture back here, not since the silent movie years.  Then the studio had walled up the only other exit in an attempt to soundproof the nearby New York set.  Parked near a couple of jacaranda trees was her black sedan.  It was the only car in the tiny alcove.  She inserted her key into the trunk and unlocked it but kept the lid down.        
 
            "Come on, where are you?" she muttered, tossing the walkie- talkie into her car.  "Let's get this done."
 
            Poppings of gunfire drifted into the alcove.  Some filming, she realized, was going on nearby.  Good thing she had a solid brick wall between herself and that set.
 
            A few moments later Doris's white sedan drove into view, slowed, and idled onto the dirt path.  She parked alongside Mazie's car, killed the engine, and rolled down her window.
 
            Mazie opened the passenger door, rolled down its window as if she were helping relieve the heat, then closed the door.  As Doris began to remove her key from the ignition, Mazie said, "Do me a favor.  Stay there just a moment."
 
            Doris frowned.  "Why?  And what's the big surprise?"
 
            "I'll show you in a minute.  But first I want to do something that's rather difficult, and it would just help if you stayed there."
 
            "But what do you have to--"
 
            "Just a second," Mazie said, setting her purse onto the ground and reaching inside to retrieve the gloves.  "I want to apologize," she continued, slipping them on.  "She is your daughter, and of course you know what's best for her."
 
            Doris smiled.  "I'm glad you finally understand."
 
            "Oh, I do," she said, grasping the pistol and clutching it behind her back.  "I understand all of it very--"  Her gaze focused beyond Doris to a jacaranda tree on her sister's left.  "Hey, isn't that cute?"           
 
            Doris swerved.  "What?"
 
            Mazie raised the gun and aimed at the back of her head.  "Those two squirrels.  The way they're playing with each other."
 
            "Where?"
 
            "On that low branch," she said, easing the weapon inside the car through the open window.  C'mon, she thought.  Turn just a bit.  Face forward, please.
 
            Doris did not disappoint her.  Her head began to swivel back.  "I don't see any--"
 
            Perfect aim at her temple.  Mazie squeezed the trigger.  Splut!
 
            Smoke rose from the silencer, breezes wafting it toward her face and obscuring her vision.  For one anxious moment she worried she had missed.  But the fumes settled, revealing a blank stare of death in her sister's eyes.
 
            Beautiful.  No time to admire her handiwork, though.  Mazie laid the gun on the passenger seat and grabbed from her purse a list entitled "After."
 
            1. Close gate
 
            Keeping the gloves on, she rolled the gate along its track, ensuring the privacy she needed.
 
            2. Exchange batteries--jumper cables!
 
            The hoods of both cars were raised.  Mazie unhooked the battery in Doris's car, yanked it out, and, grunting under the weight, hefted it into the trunk of her own car.  Tugging an older battery out, along with a pair of jumper cables, she carried them to Doris's car.  The dead battery was inserted, jumper cables applied.  Digging in her own purse, she found her car keys, and turned the ignition.
 
            Vrooom!
 
            Now to Doris's car.  The keys were nowhere in sight.
 
            "Damn it, Doris.  Where did you put the keys?"
 
            A frantic search showed them on the floor.  Mazie sighed with relief, slipped onto the passenger seat, jammed the key into the ignition, and, using her left foot, depressed the accelerator a bit.  The engine coughed into life.
 
            "Next," she muttered, checking the list.
 
            3. Replace spent bullet, fire second shot.
 
            Mazie opened the gun's cylinder, dug in her purse for the seventh bullet, and inserted it.  She carried the gun around to the driver's door, opened it, and set the gun in Doris's hand, making sure both finger and palm prints were impressed on it.  Cradling the gun in her sister's hand, Mazie aimed at the ground.
 
            Splut!
 
            4. Remove silencer
 
            That unscrewed quickly.  From the passenger seat, Mazie dropped the gun, allowing it to tumble to the floor.
 
            5. Dig bullet out
 
            Mazie snatched a trowel and an empty cardboard box from the trunk.  A couple scoops of dirt thumped into the box.  "C'mon," she said, shaking it.  "Where is it?"
 
            A golden glimmer poked through the dirt.  She slipped the bullet into a pocket, dumped the soil into the hole she had made, and patted it with her shoe.
 
            6. Radio and heat on
 
            The box and silencer were tossed into the trunk of her own car.  Mazie leaned in the passenger side of her sister's car, set the radio on low and the heat on high.  Vents were aimed at Doris's slumped body.
 
            7. Cars off.  Remove jumper cables
 
            Mazie killed both engines, but left the accessories on in Doris's car.  The radio played, heat streamed from the vents.
 
            8. Walkie-talkie
 
            She grabbed Doris' walkie-talkie, replaced the battery with a fresh one, turned the unit on, and jammed it between the seat and gear shift so the send button was continuously depressed.  Putting her own walkie-talkie to her ear, she heard the radio coming through.
 
            9. Hoods down, windows up, doors unlocked, trunk locked
 
            That was quickly accomplished. 
 
            10. Gate open
 
            A peek showed nobody in sight.  Mazie rolled the gate open, took one quick check back.  The radio could not be heard from here, except on her walkie-talkie.  She stripped off the gloves, flicked the walkie-talkie off and strolled back to the dubbing studio.  On the screen the two villains were yanking Elizabeth out of the river. 
 
            "She's doing a bit better," Paddy reported.
 
            "You're in my seat," Mazie complained.
 
            "Sorry."  Paddy rose.  "Hey, kiddo," he told Angel, "I got to get back to work.  Come say goodbye before you leave, okay?"
 
            "Okay," Angel said.  
 
            His image reflected in the glass of the sound booth, and Mazie watched it as Paddy strolled out.  When he was well gone, she sauntered into the ladies' room.
 
            11. Burn this list.  Don't forget to exchange battery when radio dies.
 
            She thumbed her cigarette lighter, its single flame engulfing the paper.  Mazie held it a moment, then dropped it into the basin and turned on the faucet.
 
4:10 p.m.
 
            Mazie smacked open the door of the ladies' room.  Six trips, and it still wasn't done.  How long did that damn battery take to drain?  Must not have been as dead as she thought.
 
            She switched on her walkie-talkie and was rewarded with nothing but static.  Whew.  Angel was almost finished dubbing.  That was cutting it close.  But since the radio was silent, the car battery must have died.  And that, of course, turned off all the accessories, including the blower for the heat.  Actually, the timing, Mazie thought, couldn't be better.  The coroner would now assume from the fact that Doris's body was still warm that she had died much later than she actually had. 
 
            Mazie slid open the back of the walkie-talkie, inserted a dead battery and chucked the other one into the trash. 
 
            "Aunt Mazie," Angel asked when she returned to the control booth, "are you all right?  You're going to the bathroom a lot."
 
            "Too much iced tea.  Are we almost done here?  She's already ten minutes over her allotted time."
 
            "Please, Miss Marsden, we only have one more," the director said.  "We finish today, she won't have to come back."
 
            "All right.  One more."
 
            "I want a bit of whine," the director told Angel.
 
            She nodded.  On the screen, Elizabeth, soaking wet, tore along the river bank and into her father's outstretched arms.
 
            "Daddy?" Angel whimpered into the mike.                
 
            "Beautiful!  You got it in one!"
 
            Angel ripped the headphones off, flung up her arms.  "Yay!"
 
            Mazie interrupted the moment.  "When is your mother supposed to get here?" she asked, checking her watch.
 
            Angel said, "Two o'clock.  Isn't she here yet?"
 
            Mazie put the walkie-talkie to her ear and depressed the send button.  "Doris, you on the lot?"  She let the button up and shook the unit.  "I'm not getting anything, even static.  Battery must have died.  Tell you what.  Why don't you go see if she's here?  This morning she told me she'd park near Stage 5."
 
            "But I promised to tell Paddy goodbye."
 
            "Well, you go take a look, then we'll find Paddy.  Your mother will probably want to say goodbye too."
 
            "Okay."
 
            Angel skipped out of the room.  Mazie strolled to the restroom one more time.  Gazing into the mirror, she reapplied some coral lipstick.  Important to look good for what was ahead.
 
            "You," she told her reflection, "are an absolute genius.  And you're going to be incredibly rich."
 
3
Saturday, June 25
4:45 p.m.
 
            A dark-haired man in a rumpled raincoat braked and peered out the window of his silver Peugeot.  "Excuse me," he said to a young woman dressed in the buckskins and beads of a Native American.  "Perhaps you can help me.  I'm a little lost.  I'm looking for Stage 5."
 
            "You can't park there," the woman said.  She pointed to her right.  "Parking lot's that way."
 
            "I saw that," he said and idled alongside her as she began walking.  "Ma'am," he added, digging his badge out of a pants pocket and showing it to her.  "My name's Columbo.  I'm from the police."
 
            "Oh," she said, fingers covering her mouth.  "Oh, you're here for . . . is she really dead?"
 
            "I don't know," Columbo said.  "I haven't gotten there yet."
 
            "Follow this street all the way to the end and turn left.  You can't miss it."
 
            "Thank you," he said and accelerated.
 
            He motored past men carrying scenery, actors dressed in war paint.  When he bore left, the flashing lights of police cruisers came into view.
 
            "Finally," he muttered.
 
            So many vehicles blocked the way that he was forced to park several yards from the scene.  The Peugeot's door creaked open and he stepped out.
 
            Despite the heat, he did not remove the coat.  Instead, he paused, yawned, and shook his head a bit, trying to clear it.  He had been on duty since five a.m., and stubble on his cheeks announced he had not shaved since well before then. 
 
            Glancing downward, he discovered an untied shoe.  He stooped to tie it.  These brown shoes were scuffed and hopelessly out of style, but he didn't care.  They were comfortable, and a cop spent many hours on his feet.       
 
            "Lieutenant!" a patrolman called.  Columbo rose.  The officer strolled past him to converse with a balding gray-haired man near the Coroner's Van.  "Lieutenant Brenner!"
 
            A few yards away, a young man with a blonde crew cut was interviewing witnesses.  Towering a foot higher than Columbo, he looked more like a beach lifeguard than a police sergeant.  Bronze from the California sun, muscles bulging from weight lifting, he was everything Columbo wasn't.
 
            "Miller," Columbo said, approaching him.
 
            Miller glanced up from writing in his notepad and said, "You're late."
 
            "I got lost.  Did Brenner notice?"
 
            "Of course he noticed."
 
            "Great."
 
            "Let me fill you in," Miller said, scanning his notes.  "Deceased is one Mrs. Doris Wilson.  Gunshot wound to the head, looks self-inflicted.  Soon as the photographer and print guy are out of the way, we'll take a closer look."
 
            Columbo viewed the scene.  Two cars, an occasional flash bulb popping inside the one with a door open.  By some trees, observers mingled.  Cradled in the arms of an Irish-looking man, a young girl cried.  Flip hairstyle, he noted, with the whitest hair he had ever seen on someone so young.
 
            "Who's the kid?"
 
            "Victim's daughter," Miller reported.  "Child actress.  Found the body."
 
            "Ah, geez.  Can't be more than twelve.  Is the guy the husband?"
 
            "Nope.  Stagehand by the name of Paddy O'Haran."
 
            "Well, who does the other car belong to?"
 
            "Sister.  Tall redhead with the cigarette."
 
            She goes to the stagehand for comfort? he wondered.  Not the aunt?
 
            He scrutinized the aunt.  Hand holding the cigarette was calm.  Steel blue eyes.  Her tight red curls, he thought, looked more like a helmet than a hairdo. 
 
            She could be questioned later.  Best now to inspect the scene.
 
            Columbo strolled to the car, peered into the passenger side.  A gun lay on the floor, but the photographer, a young dark-haired man, blocked his view of the body. 
 
            "How's it going, Bob?" he asked.
 
            Bob snapped another picture.  "Okay.  Got a suicide here."
 
            "What's that?" he asked, pointing at a long rectangular gray object sticking up next to the passenger seat.
 
            "A walkie-talkie," Bob said.  "And she left the power on."   
 
            That raised his eyebrows.  "Do we know who has the other one?"
 
            "Victim's sister."
 
            Maybe it was time to talk to her, after all.  Columbo drew a cigar from an inside pocket, bit off the end, and approached her.  "Excuse me, do you have a match?"
 
            She slipped a lighter from her purse and flicked it.
 
            Unusually tall for a woman, he noted, almost six feet.  Late thirties or early forties.  Hand still steady.  Way too disinterested in what was going on.        
 
            "Terrible thing," he said, puffing until the end caught fire.  "Absolutely tragic."
 
            She put a hand on her hip.  "Who are you?"
 
            "Oh, excuse me, ma'am," he said, flipping open his ID.  "My name's Columbo.  And you are . . . ?"
 
            "Her sister.  Mazie Marsden."
 
            "Mazie.  That's an unusual name."  He frowned.  "Have we met before?"
 
            "No."
 
            "Are you certain?  It's just that . . . Mazie.  I've heard that name somewhere."
 
            She drew on her cigarette.  "Believe me, I would remember if I had met you."
 
            "I suppose so."  He gestured at Doris's car.  "Such a tragic thing when a person takes her own life.  Your niece seems very upset, and I can see just how upset you are too.  May I ask . . . where's the girl's father?"
 
            "Angel's father died in Korea before she was born."
 
            "Oh, Korea.  Yeah, I was in that.  In the army.  Um, can you think of a reason why your sister would take her own life?"
 
            She exhaled a cloud of smoke.  "No.  I would like to get out of here, officer.  I think my niece has had enough, and I would like to take her home."
 
            "Ma'am, the lieutenant may have some more questions.  And I believe that's your car next to your sister's.  He may not want it moved just yet."
 
            "Well, could you ask him?"
 
            "First I want to ask about the walkie-talkies.  Your sister's is in her car, and I'm told you have the other one."
 
            "That's true," Mazie said and slipped one out of her purse.
 
            "Did you two normally carry these?"
 
            "A movie lot is a big place, officer.  We used these to keep in communication."
 
            "Ah.  I see.  Very smart.  Um, did you speak to your sister on yours today?"
 
            "No.  In fact, I just discovered a little while ago that my battery had died."
 
            Bit of a coincidence, Columbo thought, blowing cigar smoke.  "Gee, that's too bad.  I mean, maybe she was trying to reach you but couldn't."
 
            "I guess we'll never know, will we?"
 
             He was about to reply when Lieutenant Brenner called, "Sergeant Miller!  Sergeant Columbo!"
 
            Miller and Columbo approached him.  Brenner put hands on his hips, a gesture he made when annoyed.  "You're late," he told Columbo.
 
            Columbo stared up at the man.  Seemed like everybody here, except the kid, was taller than him.  Brenner looked every bit the ex-Marine, his gray eyebrows knitted in disapproval.  "Sorry, sir.  I got a little lost--"
 
            "I don't want to hear it.  And, for heaven's sake, get rid of that cigar.  What kind of image are you trying to portray for the LAPD, anyway?"
 
            Columbo eyed the cigar longingly.  Just begun.  What a waste.  Sighing, he let it drop and stomped it out.
 
            Brenner marched toward the car, his two sergeants following.  "Body was still warm when the first unit arrived.  Medical Examiner's set the time of death between 3:30 and 4:15, when the body was discovered.  Now," he said as they arrived at the sedan, "what can you tell me?"
 
            Great, Columbo thought.  Another test.  Why are you still testing me when it's Miller you're going to recommend for promotion?
 
            He gazed inside the driver's window.  "Lady's eyes are wide open," he said in surprise.
 
            "Something besides the obvious," Brenner said.
 
            "And she's damp," Columbo added, feeling her forehead.  "Very sweaty."
 
            "And in the summer, Columbo.  Give me something more substantial, if you can."
 
            From the passenger side Miller said, "The key's turned in the ignition.  Not much powder burn on the head wound."
 
            Columbo squeezed eyes shut in disappointment.  He hadn't been able to view those details at all from his vantage point.
 
            "The scarcity of powder burn tells you . . . ?" Brenner prompted.
 
            "She held the gun back a bit," Miller said.
 
            "Or somebody else fired it," Columbo added.
 
            Brenner said, "So what we need now is . . ."
 
            Miller and Columbo said in unison, "A paraffin test."
 
            "Right."
 
            A patrol officer carrying a paper strolled up to them.  "Lieutenant, gun is registered to the studio."
 
            "Prop room," Brenner said.  "Columbo, check it out."
 
            "Yes sir," he said, taking the paper.  Grunge work.  Miller always got the plum assignments.
 
            He approached the few observers still mingling about and asked, "Can anybody tell me how to get to the prop department?"
 
            The man who had been identified to him as Paddy O'Haran said, "Go down this street, turn right, then left at the palm trees, then left again.  You can't miss it."
 
            "Wait.  A right, then two lefts."
 
            "Right."
 
            Two steps away, he paused.  "I'm sorry.  When you said, 'right,' did you mean I was correct or that I should turn right instead of left?"
 
            "One right.  Two lefts."
 
            "Right."  Oh, well.  If he got lost, somebody would be sure to point the way.
 
**


            Jimmy combed two sweaty hands through his brown hair.  Hazel eyes brimmed with worry.  Only twenty years old, he was about to be fired from his first job. 
 
            "What if the police find out?" he whispered to his Uncle Frank.  "We'll both be in trouble.  This is my fault.  I shouldn't have asked you to cover for me." 
 
            Frank's graying hair, even his mustache, was bushy and disheveled.  "We don't even know that it was the gun," he said.  "Besides, if we stick to the story, there's no way they can--"  He interrupted himself as a rather confused-looking man in a raincoat stepped inside the room.
 
            "Excuse me," the man said, and held up a police badge.  "I hope you can help me.  Is this the prop department?"
 
            "That's what it says on the door," Frank said.
 
            "I'm Sergeant Columbo," the man said.
 
            "Frank Taylor, property master.  My nephew, Jimmy."
 
            "Is Mrs. Wilson really dead?" Jimmy asked.
 
            "I'm afraid so," Columbo said.  "And, Mr. Taylor, I could use your help.  Uh . . ."  He patted his pockets.  "I know it's here.  I just had it.  I couldn't have lost it alread--wait.  Here it is."  He slipped a paper from an inside pocket.  "I need to ask you about this gun, a silver .32 caliber--" 
 
            "It's missing," Jimmy blurted.
 
            Columbo started.  "Excuse me, but I haven't given you the serial number yet."
 
            "What Jimmy means," Frank said, "is that there is a .32 caliber silver gun missing, and he's just assuming it's the one you're asking about."
 
            "Serial number 2355--"
 
            "Yeah, that's the one."
 
            "You didn't call the police?"
 
            Frank said, "I thought I had just mislaid it and it would show up."
 
            "May I ask," Columbo said, "when you discovered it missing?"
 
            "After lunch, about one o'clock."
 
            "I better write this down," Columbo said.  Another search through the pockets furnished him with a pencil.  Jotting in his notepad, he added, "Now, the guns . . . they're kept locked, aren't they?"
 
            Frank hooked his thumb behind him.  "In the firearms room."
 
            "May I see?"  Columbo inspected the door.  "Who has keys to this lock?"
 
            "I do," Frank said, "and the other property master, Jim Spelding.  But he's not here today."
 
            "Was it unlocked?"
 
            "As far as I know, Sergeant, this door has been closed and locked all day."
 
            Columbo frowned.  "If it's been locked all day, how did you know there was a gun missing?"
 
            "Well, I . . . I assumed you meant if anybody else had been in there."
 
            "May I see the paperwork?"
 
            Frank handed him a register.
 
            "Oh, you have a logbook.  I see this was a recent acquisition, purchased in May.  Only checked out once, on June 17th, for a movie, The Ransom of Elizabeth, by Jimmy Taylor.  Is that you?" he asked Jimmy.
 
            "Yes."  Hurriedly, he added, "I checked it back in at the end of the day."  
 
            "Did that gun have a silencer?" Columbo asked.  "I caught a glimpse of it, and I just happened to notice it has a threaded nub on the end for a silencer to screw onto."
 
            Jimmy said, "Right.  I checked that out June 17th too."
 
            "Well, is it missing too?"
 
            "I can't find it either," Frank said.
 
            "I wonder what happened to it," Columbo said, scratching his head.  "Why would she take a silencer?  Is it around here somewhere, on the floor perhaps?"
 
            Jimmy said, "We searched for the gun, didn't find it or a silencer."
 
            "Gee, I wonder where it went.  Strange.  Well, we'll look for it later.  Now, in the movies, you mostly use blanks, right?"
 
            "Yes," Frank said.
 
            "Is live ammo ever used?"
 
            "Rarely."
 
            "You have live .32 caliber?"
 
            "Also kept locked," Frank said.
 
            "Any missing?"
 
            "We don't keep quite as careful as record of that.  There could be a few bullets missing."
 
            "I see.  Well, thank you for your time."  Columbo stepped to the door but turned back.  "Is there anything else you want to tell me?"
 
            "No," Frank said.
 
            "No," Jimmy echoed.
 
            Columbo nodded and slipped outside.
 
            "He knows," Jimmy wailed.  "I'm telling you, he knows."
 
            "He hasn't got a clue," Frank said.
 
**                            
 
            Columbo, after making a few wrong turns, stumbled upon the crime scene again.  Only two patrol cars, three uniformed officers, and the photographer were left.  
 
            "Brinski," he said to a tall officer with jet black hair.  "Where'd everybody go?"
 
            "We got a call," Brinski reported.  "Councilman Davis has been taken into emergency.  Doc says he's been poisoned, might not make it.  Brenner and Miller are headed over there.  Brenner said for you to finish up here."
 
            Columbo closed his eyes.  Great.  Again Miller got the choice assignment while he got mop up detail. 
 
            He said, "Please tell me you got everybody's names and addresses."
 
            "Right here."  Brinski handed him a clipboard.
 
            "Okay," he said, scanning it.  "Listen up, guys.  First, I want the car impounded."
 
            "Tow truck's already on the way," Brinski said.
 
            "Very good, thank you.  Second, this gun has a missing silencer.  Brinski, help me search the car.  You two, fan out between here and the property room.  If she got rid of it, she probably just casually tossed it aside.  Look for it along the perimeters of walkways, places like that.  If you find it, don't touch it, just come get me."
 
            The photographer said, "Sergeant, can I go now?"
 
            "Sorry, Bob, I'll need a picture of where the silencer is if we find it."  He walked to Doris's car.  "Brinski, why don't you start with the back seat, and I'll--"
 
            Frowning, Columbo dropped to his hands and knees.  "Did you see this?"
 
            "What?" Brinski asked.
 
            "This soil has been disturbed.  See that?  Right by the driver's door.  This looks very fresh.  Bob, get some pictures."
 
            While the photographer snapped away, Columbo slid into the car, opened the glove compartment, and riffled through it.
 
            Brinski's head popped up from the back seat.  "So when's the big day?"
 
            "Supposed to be yesterday," Columbo said. 
 
            "You want a boy or a girl?"
 
            "Oh, it don't matter.  My mother wants a boy, but my mother-in-law wants a girl.  So I figure either way somebody's going to be disappointed.  And either way, somehow I'll get blamed."
 
            Brinski grinned.  "You two pick out a couple of names?"
 
            "You know, we can't seem to agree on any.  Kid's probably going to go through life being called just by his last name."
 
            "I'm not finding it," Brinski said.
 
            "Neither am I."
 
            "Tow truck's here.  Carlson and Rodriguez are coming back, shaking their heads."
 
            "All right," Columbo said, easing out of the car.  "Who's the M.E.?  Doc Kinner?"
 
            "Yeah."
 
            "Radio ahead, tell him I want the paraffin done right away.  I'll stop by for the results tonight."
 
            "You think maybe it's not a suicide?"
 
            Columbo squinted.  "I'm not sure.  A couple of things bother me, especially the missing silencer.  But I guess there could be hundreds of places between here and the prop room where she could have discarded it.  If she even came directly from there to here.  Or, by now, somebody could have picked it up and walked off with it."  Shoulders shrugged.  "It's probably nothing.  Yeah.  I think we're done."
 
6:30 p.m.
 
            The man's body lay open by the coroner's usual Y incision, vital organs exposed.  Dr. Kinner lifted the heart and was about to deposit it on scales when the door swung open.  Columbo took one step inside, paled, and backed out.
 
            "Come on in," Kinner called, knowing full well the sergeant would not take him up on his offer.  "You should see the liver on this guy."
 
            "That's quite all right," Columbo said from the other side of the door.  "Do you think we could talk out here?"
 
            Kinner set the heart down and shouldered the door open.  "How can a homicide detective be so squeamish?"
 
            "No, it's not that," Columbo said, resting a hand over his stomach.  "I think I ate some bad chili."
 
            "Well, it must have been bad," Kinner teased, "because it looks like it's going to come back up any second."
 
            "Yeah.  Um, did you perform the paraffin on the Wilson woman?"
 
            "It was positive."
 
            Columbo blinked, seemed to forget all about his nausea.  "You sure?"
 
            "Positive for gunpowder residue on her right hand.  Also on the head wound, though less than usual.  Between that and the amount of stippling, I figure the gun was about five to six inches back."
 
            "But she did pull the trigger."
 
            "I'm calling it a suicide, unless you can think of a reason why I shouldn't."



            "No."  Columbo shook his head.  "No, I can't.  Well, that's it, then.  It's a suicide."
 
3:08 a.m.
 
            Mazie eased open the bedroom door.  "Angel?" she called.
 
            No answer.
 
            She approached her bed, shook her.  "Angel?"
 
            Deep in slumber, she did not respond.
 
            Mazie picked up a glass from her nightstand, noticed an ounce of milk left.  Some powder from the crushed sleeping pills had collected at the bottom.
 
            She carried the glass downstairs, rinsed it, and placed it into the dishwasher.  A check of her watch showed it was 3:10.  A paisley scarf enwrapped her hair, and she grabbed her car keys and was out the door.
 
            Merging onto the Hollywood Freeway, Mazie rolled the window down part way.  Cool night air streamed in.  On the radio Sinatra sang "Strangers in the Night," and she whistled the melody.  She laughed out loud as she remembered how, at the studio, a cop had backed the car out so poor little Angel wouldn't have to get into it next to her mother's dead body.  Dumb cop had actually helped her remove the evidence.
 
            The Hollywood Freeway looped onto Interstate 10, the Santa Monica.  She exited at Lincoln, heading toward Marina del Rey.
 
            The harbor slept, boats peacefully bobbing.  Mazie shifted into reverse, backed as close as she could to the water, and unlocked the trunk.  A quick scan of the area showed no one in sight.
 
            The cardboard box, containing the gloves, car battery, silencer, and extra bullet was heavy, and she groaned under the weight.
 
            Splash!  Dark waters swallowed the evidence.
 
            She snorted.  It was so easy.  Couldn't believe how stupid the cops were, especially that one in the raincoat who had questioned her.  And here she had gone to so much trouble just in case they didn't believe it was a suicide.  Oh, well.  Better safe than sorry.
 
            A quarter moon hanging amid the stars rippled on the water.  The trunk slammed shut.  Mazie gunned the motor and pealed out.
 
4
 
Monday, June 27
7:15 a.m.
 

            Angel awoke, and for a second everything was all right.
 
            Only for a second.  Then she remembered.
 
            Pain washed through her again.  Glancing about, she saw her room appeared the same.  Pink curtains, Beatles poster, record collection.  It was the same, but different.
 
            She slid out of bed, tried the door.  Still locked. 
 
            It hadn't taken Aunt Mazie long to move in.  One of the first things she'd done Sunday morning was have this lock installed.  Then men had arrived and put bars on all the windows.  She'd said her mother had ordered them, but Mom had told her she was planning on selling the house, had said they would move into an apartment, just the two of them.
 
            Since she had nothing else to do, Angel thumbed her transistor radio on and dressed, slipping on a pair of cutoff jeans and a lavender T-shirt.  The Rolling Stones couldn't get no satisfaction, and the Beatles wanted to hold her hand.
 
            A teletype chattered and the news began.  "President Johnson has ordered more ground troops into Vietnam . . . "
 
            Angel lowered her hairbrush and was about to change the station when she heard her mother's name.  " . . . Doris Wilson, found dead in her car at the studio.  Police have ruled her death a suicide.  In sports . . . "
 
            "No!" she cried, flicking the radio off and hurling it across the room.  A fresh batch of tears sprang up in her eyes.  How could they think that?  Mom wouldn't have, never.  Choking, she threw herself onto the bed.
 
            A key scraped into the lock.  Angel sat up, saw the door open.
 
            "Are you still blubbering?" Aunt Mazie said.
 
            "They're saying Mom killed herself," Angel sobbed.
 
            "Well, of course.  What did you think?"
 
            "But she wouldn't!"
 
            "Sometimes I can't believe how stupid you are," Aunt Mazie said, folding her arms.  "I hope going to bed without supper has changed your attitude somewhat."
 
            Angel hung her head.  "I realize I have to work so we have something to live on.  It's just that I want to make serious pictures, like The Ransom of Elizabeth.  Bikini Babe is just fluff."
 
            "Well, all right.  I see.  Come downstairs."
 
            Angel frowned.  Aunt Mazie was giving in on this much too easily.
 
            She followed her aunt down.  Her stomach rumbled, but breakfast would mean a trip into the kitchen.  Through the door, she could see the cake, a box of candles nearby.  Maybe she could go in there long enough to get a bowl of cereal, bring it to the coffee table, eat it there.
 
            Angel stepped toward the kitchen, but Aunt Mazie grabbed her wrist.  "What are you doing?" Angel cried as she was yanked out the front door.
 
            "There!" Aunt Mazie said, flinging her onto the driveway.  Hands broke her fall, palms scraping on the cement. 
 
            "You're so spoiled," she added.  "During the Depression, when I was growing up, we were lucky to have anything to eat.  You can spend the day learning what it's like to do without."
 
            "Aunt Mazie?" Angel whined, sitting up.
 
            Her aunt locked the front door.  "I'm going to go sign the contract, get everything set.  I'll be back tonight."  She slid into her car.  "You're doing that movie.  You can do that movie or live on your own."
 
            Angel stared at her in disbelief.  The engine roared, and she was gone.
 
            Shaking, she wondered what to do.  She tried both the front and back doors, but they refused to yield.  New bars covered the windows.
 
            Already the sky was bright blue, indicating the day was going to be another scorcher.  Angel stepped inside the garage, where at least there was some shade, and huddled on the floor. 
 
            Through a shaft of light floated dust motes.  A spider crawled along a web.  Oil stained the floor where her mother used to park.
 
            The car was gone.  Her mother was gone. 
 
            How could they believe she'd killed herself?  She wished she had a phone, could call the police to tell them they were wrong.
 
            Angel rose and glanced around.  Maybe something in the garage could help her break into the house.
 
            Discarded paint cans.  A lawnmower.  Some folding chairs.  Nothing she could use.
 
            A dusty old map lay on a shelf.  She picked it up.  Los Angeles, 1959. 
 
            She sat and spread the map on the floor.  Maybe she could go to the library.  At least it was air conditioned there.  At least she could read, have something to do.
 
            But they wouldn't open for hours.
 
            Another location on the map caught her eye.  She thought about it a while.  It was far, but what else did she have to do today?
 
            The map was folded up.  Angel stuck it into her back pocket and set out on a journey across town.                 
 
 
11:32 a.m.
 
            Columbo jogged down a corridor and bore left into Lieutenant Brenner's office.
 
            "You're late," Brenner complained. 
 
            "Sorry.  I think my watch stopped," Columbo said, dropping into a chair next to Sergeant Miller.  He tapped the crystal, held the timepiece to his ear.  "Nope.  Not ticking," he added and wound it.
 
            "We just got word from the hospital," Brenner said to the two men seated before him.  "Councilman Davis has died, and we now have a very important homicide on our hands.  The entire city will be watching this one, especially the Mayor and Chief.  Captain Sommers is holding a meeting at 3:30--Columbo, do you think you can manage to make it to that on time?--and I want our team to be the one that solves it.  Men, I'd really like to have this one to cap my career before I retire this Friday."
 
            He passed each of them a file.  "Davis had gotten a number of death threats, especially over some new rezoning.  The man had a propensity for making enemies.  We've got a list with over twenty names, and we've only begun to dig."
 
            Columbo flipped through the pages of the report.  "I see potassium cyanide was found in a pitcher of orange juice in his refrigerator."
 
            Miller said, "That's right.  We found it Saturday night."
 
            "Uh, Lieutenant, poisons are usually a very personal way to kill someone."
 
            "So?" Brenner said. 
 
            "I see here there was no sign of forced entry into the house.  And I wonder how the murderer knew Davis would drink the juice, instead of his wife or somebody else."
 
            Brenner said, "His wife doesn't like orange juice."
 
            "I wonder how the murderer knew that.  And somebody else, like a maid, could have ingested it first, gotten sick or died, and then the whole plan would have been uncovered.  Maybe we should be looking at a relative, a friend of the family--"
 
            "Columbo," Brenner interrupted, "the man had death threats.  That's the lead we're going with."
 
            He was about to protest when a voice behind him said, "Lieutenant Brenner?"
 
            Columbo turned.  A white-haired girl, not even five feet tall, stood behind him. 
 
            The girl from the studio, he thought. 
 
            "Young lady," Brenner said, "we're having a meeting."
 
            "I'm sorry to interrupt," she said.  "My name's Angel Wilson, and they told me downstairs you're the officer who investigated my mother's death--"
 
            "We're very busy," Brenner added.
 
            "But I heard on the radio the police are calling it a suicide.  My mother wouldn't do that, especially that day."
 
            "Look," Brenner said.  "I realize this is hard to accept.  But there's a test we can perform to see if a person has fired a gun, and it told us your mother did."
 
            "I don't care what your test says.  She wouldn't have."
 
            Brenner sighed.  "Miller, please."
 
            Miller rose, grasped Angel by the arm, and ushered her out of the room.  "I know this is difficult, but we know what we're doing."  He shut the door behind her.
 
            "Poor kid," Columbo said.  "I always hate how hard it is on kids."
 
            "Where were we?" Brenner asked as if nothing had happened.  "Oh, yes.  The death threats.  I want you to divide that list in two--"
 
            The door opened and Angel marched back in, hands trembling, but her forehead creased with determination.  "My mother did not kill herself.  That means somebody else did.  If you won't find out who murdered her, I will."
 
            "This is all I need," Brenner scoffed.  "Nancy Drew."
 
            She squinted.  "What did you say?"
 
            "I said you should leave police business to the police."
 
            "What?"  Wobbling a bit, she added, "I can't hear you."
 
            She was awfully pale and getting paler by the second.  "Are you all ri--" Columbo began and was out of his chair, much too slow, as her eyes rolled up and she collapsed.
 
            He dropped to his hands and knees, and, checking for a pulse, found it rapid but weak.
 
            "She all right?" Miller asked.
 
            "She's breathing," Columbo reported, fanning her with his file.  "Get a doctor, get some water, somebody do something!"
 
            "I'll get some water," Miller said and sprinted out the door.
 
            Brenner rose.  "She really is quite an actress."
 
            "Lieutenant, she's not kidding.  She's out.  Or she was," he said as her eyes opened a slit.
 
            "What happened?" she asked.
 
            "You fainted."
 
            "Sorry.  I didn't mean to.  Guess the heat got me."
 
            "Well, you are awfully sweaty.  Can you sit?"
 
            "I think so."
 
            He helped her up.  Miller returned with a cup of water and offered it to her.
 
            "Sips, not gulps," Columbo said, holding the cup back.  When she'd had about half of it, he asked, "Can you stand now?"
 
            She nodded.  He and Miller drew her to her feet.  Halfway up she teetered.
 
            "Whoa," Columbo said and seated her in his chair.  "Head between your knees.  Deep breaths."
 
            Palms are scraped, he noticed, squatting before her.  Wonder how that happened.  Heels bloody inside her shoes.  Holy moly, did she walk all the way here?  Must be five miles.
 
            Aloud he said, "When's the last time you had something to eat?"
 
            "Um, lunch.  Yesterday."
 
            Five miles in this heat on an empty stomach, he thought.  No wonder she collapsed.
 
            "Lieutenant," he told Brenner, "I'm going to take this young lady, get her something to eat, see that she gets home safely."
 
            "You do that," Brenner said.  As Columbo helped Angel up, he whispered into his ear, "Make sure she doesn't come back."
 
5
Monday, June 27
11:50 a.m.
 
            Silverware clanged, conversation murmured as Columbo escorted Angel into his favorite eatery.  They slid into a booth, its table gouged with the initials of teenagers declaring their love for each other. 
 
            "Bert!" he called to a brown-haired man in a chef's hat and apron.  "Bring this young lady a cheeseburger, fries, a chocolate shake, and a couple of bandages."
 
            Bert said, "Right, Sergeant.  You want your usual?"
 
            "Yeah."
 
            Angel's head rested in her hands.  "I must really be out of it.  I thought I heard you ordering bandages."
 
            "I did.  Your heels are bleeding."
 
            "They are?"  She inspected her feet.  "I didn't notice."
 
            "But for food you're getting a cheeseburger--"
 
            She glanced up in alarm.  "No!  I'm not allowed that."
 
            Columbo frowned.  "You have an allergy?"
 
            "Too many calories."
 
            His frown deepened.  She was so skinny, so pale. 
 
            "You haven't eaten in twenty-four hours," he pointed out.  "Calories are what you need."
 
            "Aunt Mazie will be really mad if she finds out.  She's never allowed me candy, pizza, anything fattening.  The camera adds pounds, and she says I have to stay thin."
 
            What a way for a kid to live, he thought.  But he gave her a conspiratorial grin and said, "I won't tell if you won't."
 
            Two bandages and the shake arrived.  Angel reached for the bandages, but he brushed them aside and pushed the shake in front of her.  "You need something in you first."
 
            She protested, "This has ice cream in it."
 
            "Never heard of a shake that didn't.  Try it."
 
            Angel sipped.  "Oh, that's good.  That's wonderful."
 
            "Drink some more.  Then we'll take care of your feet."
 
            He sat back, watching her take long sips.  "Is dieting the reason you didn't you eat dinner last night?"
 
            That slowed the sipping.  She gazed at the table.  "I got sent to bed without supper."
 
            "For?" he prompted.
 
            "For telling Aunt Mazie I won't do that stupid beach picture, Bikini Babe."
 
            The rest of the food arrived, a cheeseburger piled high with everything on it, and Columbo's usual chili with crackers.  She started in on the cheeseburger, wolfing it down.
 
            "Hey, hey!" he said.  "You eat it that fast, it'll come right back up."
 
            She swallowed then nibbled some fries.
 
            "Well, if you missed dinner," he said, "you must have been pretty hungry this morning.  Why skip breakfast?" 
 
            "I didn't have time."
 
            "You walked all the way to the police station," he said. 
 
            "How did you know I walked?"
 
            "Your heels."
 
            "Oh."
 
            "So I figure if you had time to walk, you had time to eat.  And, Angel, why walk?  Why not get someone to drive you or take a taxi?" 

            She twisted her fingers and stared at the wall. 
 
            Trying to decide whether or not to trust me, he realized.  Clasping her hands, he said, "Look at me."  When she turned her gaze his way, he added, "It's all right.  You can tell me."
 
            Angel bit her lip before replying.  "Aunt Mazie threw me out of the house."
 
            His eyes widened in shock.  "You're living on the streets?"
 
            "No.  No, nothing like that.  I mean she actually threw me, onto the driveway."
 
            He turned her palms up, exposing the scrapes on them.  "Is that how this happened?"
 
            She nodded.  "She told me if I won't do that movie, I could spend the day learning what it's like to live on my own.  Then she locked the door and left for the studio, to sign the contract and make arrangements."
 
            "Angel, there are laws against treating children like that.  I think we should contact Child Protective Services."
 
            She yanked her hands out of his.  "I knew I shouldn't have told you.  Now I'm going to be in bigger trouble."
 
            "This is not your fault.  You're not going to be in any--"
 
            "Sheesh!  You don't have kids, do you?"
 
            "Got a baby on the way," he said.  "Due any day now."
 
            "Well, you don't remember what it's like to be a kid."
 
            "Of course I do.  I was a regular juvenile delinquent."
 
            For the first time, he observed the hint of a smile.  "You?" she said.  "Really?"
 
            He knew an inroad when he saw one, so he decided to take it.  "Oh, nothing big," he said and shoveled in a mouthful of chili.  Swallowing, he added, "Just your regular mischief and mayhem.  Stealing candy, confiscating hubcaps, throwing rocks at anything breakable."
 
            The smile widened.  "But you're a cop."
 
            "Sometimes I think that's why I became one, to make up for all that.  But you see, I do remember what it was like."
 
            She shook her head.  "Well, one thing you don't remember is that adults have all the power.  Suppose some social worker comes to the house.  Aunt Mazie will just say I was really stupid and locked myself out."  She raised her bloodied palms.  "I was clumsy, and I fell.  And, golly gee, which one of us do you think the social worker is going to believe?"
 
            He let go of his spoon.  She had a point.  He made a mental note to contact social services anyway.
 
            "Is Aunt Mazie your only relative?"
 
            "Pretty much.  I mean, my Dad had a cousin somewhere.  I used to play with her kids when I was little.  But I don't know her name or where she lives."
 
            Realizing he wasn't going to get any further with her on that subject, he decided to ask the question that had been bothering him since she walked into Brenner's office.
 
            "What did you mean back at the station, when you said your mother wouldn't have taken her own life?  You said, 'Especially that day.'  What was so different about that day?"
 
            Immediately he wished he could backpedal.  Tears welled along her lower lids, shoulders shook.  But the question had been asked, so he decided to go for the answer.  Probably less painful to get it now than to have to ask again.
 
            "If you want me to help you," he said, "I need to know."
 
            "It was my half," she blubbered.
 
            Columbo frowned.  "Your . . . half?  Your half what?"
 
            Palms wiped her tears.  "My half birthday.  I was born on Christmas."
 
            "Oh.  Is that why you're named Angel?"
 
            She nodded.  "It's kind of neat, to be born on Christmas, but it's a really crummy day to have your birthday."
 
            "I think I get it.  You celebrate half-birthdays instead.  June 25."
 
            She choked, "When Aunt Mazie brought me home, there was a cake, and a box of candles, and a card, and a present . . ."
 
            He didn't remember moving to her side of the booth.  It seemed he was just there, her face in his chest, her tiny frame shaking with sobs.
 
            "It's okay to cry.  You go right ahead.  Cry it out."
 
            Fingernails dug into his wrist.  He ignored the pain.
 
            "You're very strong, you know that?" he said.  "Anybody who could walk five miles without a thing to eat . . ."
 
            The compliment had a soothing effect.  She sat up.  "I'm sorry.  I got your coat all wet."
 
            "Well, it is waterproof.  So, how old are you now?"
 
            "Fourteen.  Fourteen and a half."
 
            "And what was the present?"
 
            "I don't know.  I mean I know, but I don't."  At his frown, she added, "I can tell it's a record album, but I can't . . . I can't open . . ."
 
            He changed the subject.  "You get enough to eat?"
 
            "More than enough."
 
            "I'm taking you home."
 
            "The house is locked."
 
            "Good point.  Bert," he called, "Bert, could I borrow a spatula?"
 
            Bert rummaged through a drawer and plucked one out.  "This do?"
 
            "Yeah," Columbo said, sliding out of the booth and taking it.  "Put all this on my tab, okay?"
 
            "You got it, Sarge."
 
            Dazzling sunshine greeted them outside.  Columbo, blinking in the glare, twirled the spatula's handle between his palms.
 
            "What is that for?" Angel asked.
 
            "I'm going to get you back into your house."
 
            "With that?"
            "Have you ever seen on TV how a guy breaks into a house by sliding a credit card between the door and the frame?"
 
            "Yeah."
 
            "I don't have a credit card."
 
            He opened the car door for her, but she hesitated.  "Can I ask you a really stupid question?"
 
            "Only if you want a really stupid ans--"
 
            "Yeah, right.  It must be almost a hundred degrees, and it probably won't rain until October.  Why are you wearing a coat?"
 
            "This?" Columbo said, trudging to the driver's side and opening the door.  "I got it because I needed more pockets."
 
            "You wear it for the pockets?"
 
            "I kept losing things.  Sometimes the things I lost were evidence.  Nowadays sometimes I forget what pocket I've put something in, but I usually have it."
 
            "Oh.  I thought maybe you were going for an Inspector Clouseu kind of look."
 
            He revved the motor, unsure if that was a compliment or an insult.
 
            They merged into traffic and Angel asked, "Is it all right if I turn on the radio?"
 
            "Uh . . . okay.  As long as it's something I don't mind listening to."
            She fiddled with the dial, swept it through a news station and a sports broadcast, settling on some music.  "This okay?"
 
            "Yeah.  Yeah, I like that song.  I've heard it around town.  I was singing it just yesterday.  Why can't you kids listen to something like this instead of that awful Beatles stuff?"
 
            She burst into laughter.  "This is the Beatles."
 
            "It is?  The yellow submarine song?"
 
            "Uh, huh."
 
            "Oh," he said, scratching his ear and trying to think of a way to save face.  "Of course, you can't really go by the artists to tell how good a song is.  You have to go by the composers."
 
            That produced another fit of laughter.  "Two of them wrote it."
 
            He grinned in embarrassment.  "I guess you can tell I don't know much about the Beatles.  The only time I saw them play, I couldn't hear any music at all, only girls screaming."
 
            She gasped.  "Oh my gosh!  You saw them play?"
 
            "A couple summers ago, at the Hollywood Bowl.  I was assigned to their security."
 
            Her eyes widened.  "Oh my gosh!  You met them?"
 
            He shrugged.  What was the big deal?  "I told them to stay in their dressing room, or they'd probably get trampled."
 
            "You actually talked to them?"  She grabbed his arm.  "What was Paul like?"
 
            "Yellow Submarine" faded.  Lesley Gore began singing "You Don't Own Me."
 
            Columbo asked, "Which one's Paul?"
 
            "The cute one!"
 
            "Angel, they all kind of look the same to me."
 
            "My Mom has a friend in England who was in Help! and A Hard Day's Night.  But," she squealed, "I can't believe I'm riding in a car with someone who actually met the Beatles!"
 
            A newfound admiration shone in her eyes.
 
            It was, of course, totally undeserved.
 
            But he decided to take it anyway.
 
6
 
 
Monday, June 27
4:10 p.m.        
 
            Captain Sommers slapped chalk dust from his hands.  His face was weathered from almost sixty-five years of life, more than forty of which had been spent as a cop.  Behind him, the board was covered.  Before him sat more than a dozen police officers, most scribbling notes. 
 
            "I cannot emphasize how important this case is," he said.  "The Mayor has already called me twice.  We're going to comb the city until we find the nut who killed Councilman Davis."  He scanned their faces, saw Columbo near the back of the room, gazing into space and chewing on his thumb. 
 
            "That okay with you, Columbo?" Sommers asked.
 
            Everybody turned and stared.  Columbo didn't even blink.
 
            Sommers let out his breath.  Every one of his officers wore a pressed suit, shined shoes, and was rapt with attention.
 
            And then there was Columbo, slouched in his seat, tie askew, a lock of brown hair dangling over his forehead.  His shirt, which Sommers figured his wife had ironed, was hopelessly crumpled, and the left hem had worked its way out of his pants.       
 
            Louder he said, "Sergeant Columbo!"
 
            Columbo jerked out of his reverie.  "Sir?"
 
            "The rest of you are dismissed.  Columbo, I want to see you in my office."
 
            "Oh.  Certainly."
 
            Sommers marched to his office, Columbo following.  Once inside, he dropped into his chair.  "Close the door," he told him.
 
            Columbo obliged.
 
            "Sergeant," Sommers said, "how do you always manage to look like you slept in your clothes?"
 
            "Oh."  Columbo straightened his tie, tucked in his shirt.  "Sorry."
 
            "Your hair's starting to curl.  Get it cut."
 
            "Okay."
 
            "And you better be carrying your gun like I told you."
 
            Columbo sighed, held open the flap of his jacket, showed the gun resting in its holster.  "Is that it?" he asked, reaching for the doorknob.
 
            "That's hardly it."  Sommers leaned back, brushed a hand through his graying hair.  "I want to know what's bothering you."
 
            "Sir?"
 
            "I know that preoccupied stare of yours."
 
            Columbo paused a moment before replying, "It's the Wilson case."
 
            "Wilson case?  What Wilson case?  We don't have a Wilson case."
 
            "The suicide at the studio."
 
            "You're not so sure it's a suicide?"  Sommers leaned forward, folded his hands on the desk.  "All right, I'm listening."
 
            "Well, first of all, women usually don't shoot themselves.  They pop pills or turn on the gas and stick their heads in the oven."
 
            "There are exceptions."
 
            "But there wasn't much powder burn on the wound, not as much as there should have been.  And Captain, her eyes were open, I mean wide open.  A guy shoots himself, he closes his eyes, sucks in a breath, puts the gun right to his temple."
 
            "Open eyes could be a reaction caused by brain damage.  You did do a paraffin on this, didn't you?"
 
            "Of course."
 
            "And?"
 
            His shoulders sagged, making him appear even more rumpled than usual.  "It was positive."
 
            "Then there's your answer."
 
            Columbo slipped into the chair before his desk.  "There's more.  What kind of mother shoots herself where she knows her kid is likely to find the body?"
 
            "Ah, the daughter.  I heard she keeled over in Brenner's office, and you took her home.  Don't tell me she got to you, Columbo."
 
            "Maybe a little."
 
            "You should know better than that."
 
            "But Captain, this day the mother died.  It was supposed to be a special day, like a birthday.  And when I took the kid home, there was a cake and a present . . . anyway, I talked this girl into opening the present, and you know what it was?"
 
            "What?"
 
            "A Beatles album.  This kid is nuts about the Beatles."
 
            "So are my twin granddaughters.  I fail to see your point, Columbo."
 
            "Not just any Beatles album.  It was a British version.  The kid explained that in England, their songs are released on a different label than they are here.  Record's got a different list of songs on the back--"
 
            "Okay, a little special, but--"
 
            "It was autographed.  By all four.  Kid's mother had a friend who was in their movies, apparently got this for her.  Kid burst into tears, took me half an hour to calm her down."  He clasped his hands.  "Captain, if you had something like that to give your granddaughters, wouldn't you want to see the look on their faces when they opened it?  I mean, how do you figure it?  This mother spent the day baking a cake for her daughter and wrapping a present for her daughter.  Then she shot herself where she knew her daughter might find her."
 
            Sommers sighed.  "You should know by now that human behavior is unpredictable.  God knows we cops see the worst of it.  Besides, you have your paraffin test."
 
            "I keep thinking about Sergeant Gilhooley."
 
            "What?  Who?"
 
            "Sergeant Gilhooley.  A cop I knew in New York.  He told me once that in every case, all the evidence should fit, even the teensiest thing."  Columbo sat back.  "It seems to me we're relying too heavily on the paraffin test and trying to explain away everything else.  Suppose we assume this is a homicide.  Instead of explaining everything else away, we only have to explain the paraffin."
 
            "What, you mean another shot was fired, just to place burnt gunpowder on the woman's hand?  That would imply foreknowledge of police procedures.  Not exactly the sort of thing you'd see on Dragnet."
 
            Columbo gazed at the floor.  "Cap . . ."
 
            "Let me guess.  You've got a gut feeling."
 
            He stared straight into Sommer's eyes.  "I got more than a gut feeling.  I got alarm bells going off in my head.  I'm telling you, Captain, that suicide just don't add up."
 
            Sommers steepled his fingers.  A cop's instinct was nothing to be sneezed at, and Columbo had already proven on numerous occasions that he had it in spades.  He stared at the man a moment, saw a pleading, a hunger there.
 
            "I'm taking you off the Davis case," he said.
 
            "Captain, no."
 
            "You're useless to me this way, distracted like this."  He checked his watch.  "It's almost 4:20.  I want you to take twenty-four hours, go investigate your suicide.  If it turns out to be something more, we'll deal with it.  If not, at least you will have gotten it out of your system.  Twenty-four hours, and I want you to report directly to me, not through Brenner.  Understood?"
 
            Columbo nodded.  "Thanks, Captain."  He rose.  "And I know just where to start."
 
            "Where?"
 
            "Where else?  Scene of the crime."
 
**
                                                                                                                                                                
             In the parking lot, sunlight blazed from windshields and heat rippled.  Columbo, giving in to practicality, shrugged off his coat and draped it over an arm.  The gray suit he wore underneath proved to be just as shabby.
 
            "Charlie?" he called.
 
            A young brown-haired man in greasy overalls trotted over.  "Hey, Sergeant."
 
            "You have the keys and paperwork on FGW 053?"
 
            "I'll get them for you."
 
            "Thanks.  And where's the car?"
 
            "By the fence," Charlie said, stepping to his office.
 
            Columbo strolled over, inspected it from the outside.  White four-door.  Recently washed.  Gazing through the driver's window, he noticed a slight indentation in the side of the passenger seat.  From the walkie-talkie, he thought.  She must have kept it there a lot.
 
            Charlie returned with the keys and a clipboard.  "Anything else I can help you with?"
 
            "Maybe," he said, unlocking the driver's door and opening it.  He slid inside and rolled down the windows.  "Hot enough today?"
 
            "Supposed to be 102," Charlie said.
 
            "Last time I saw this car the ignition was turned, and I wondered if maybe it sat idling and ran out of gas."  He tapped the dashboard over the gas gauge.  "Don't you wish they made it so you could tell how much gas was in the tank without starting the engine?"
 
            "That'll be the day," Charlie said.
 
            Columbo turned the key.  Click!  Click!  Click!
 
            He raised his palms.  "Battery's dead."          
 
            "Well, you called it, Sarge.  Battery's dead, all right."
 
            "But if the battery's dead, how'd she drive to the studio?"
 
            "Maybe it had enough juice for that, then died."
 
            Columbo flipped down the sun visor and checked the vehicle registration.  "Car's less than a year old."  Sliding out, he said, "Let's take a peek under the hood."
 
            They stepped to the front of the car.  "Hold it," Columbo said as Charlie reached for the hood release.  "Got a clean cloth?  I don't want to disturb any prints."
 
            Charlie grabbed one from his back pocket.  He lifted the hood and raised the rod to hold it in place.
 
            "Don't touch anything," Columbo said, then added, "Well, will you look at that.  That make sense to you?"
 
            "What?" Charlie asked.
 
            "Engine's relatively clean, but the battery's filthy.  And," he said, poking his head well under the hood, "the terminals have corrosion.  Charlie, get me a print guy down here."
 
            While Charlie left to make the call, Columbo scanned the car's inventory.  Not much.  Owner's manual, maps of Los Angeles and Southern California, Auto Club membership, an umbrella, her walkie-talkie, the usual jack and spare tire.
 
            "Print guy's on his way," Charlie announced when he returned.  "Anything else?"
 
            "Yeah.  Can you get that battery out without touching it, and can you put in a new one?"
 
            "I got some gloves."
 
            "Use them, please."
 
            Columbo slid into the driver's seat and sat back, thinking.  Why would a murderer put in a drained battery?  He flipped open his notepad, wrote the question down, and stared at it.  Made no sense, no sense at all.
 
            "Battery's out," Charlie said.  "Joe's here."
 
            "Hey Joe," Columbo said to a short man in a business suit.   

            "All right, Columbo," Joe sighed.  "What weird thing do you want me to print this time?"
 
            "Car battery.  And the hood."
 
            "The battery," Joe said, shaking his head and opening his kit.  "Typical Columbo request."
 
            "She's in," Charlie said.  "You can start her up now."
 
            "Thanks."  Columbo turned the key, only to hear Dionne Warwick singing "Do You Know the Way to San Jose?"
 
            He flicked it off.  "The radio was on."
 
            "Maybe that's what drained the battery," Charlie suggested.
 
            "Yeah, but you would have to play it for hours.  Tank's half full.  So she didn't run out of gas."  He frowned.  "I hear a hissing.  You hear something hissing?"
 
            Charlie stuck his head inside the car.  "You got the air conditioning on."
 
            "No," Columbo said, cupping his hand over a vent.  "It's the heat.  The lever is set for heat."
 
            "Hey, you're right."
 
            Columbo tightened his fists on the steering wheel and winced as though in pain.  "Ever get the feeling you've done something before?"
 
            "You mean like déjà vu?"
 
            "Like you've done something before.  I could swear I've done this case before.  Suicide with a gun.  Dead battery in the car.  Heat and radio on.  Damn!  I know I've done this."
 
            He killed the engine, slipped out, and rounded the front of the car to the passenger side.
 
            "Sarge," Joe said in wonder, "I'm not finding any prints.  None at all."
 
            "Yeah, that's what I figured," Columbo said.  He leaned in the window, held his hand as though it were a gun.  Okay, she's sitting there.  I've got a .32 caliber.  With the silencer?  Without?  I fire, and . . .
 
            A welcome breeze drifting through the car windows brushed his face.  His eyes widened.  "Charlie, where's the phone?"
 
            "My office."
 
            He sprinted to the phone and dialed. 
 
            "Ballistics," a male voice answered. 
 
            "Jim.  Columbo.  Have you tested the Wilson gun yet?"
 
            A shuffling of paper told him Jim was checking.  "Sorry, no.  We've been backed up, and it didn't seem to be a priority."
 
            Columbo laid a hand over his heart.  "Oh, thank goodness.  Listen, Jim.  Put a note on it.  No one is to fire that gun.  I want to test for blowback first."
 
            "Blowback?  On a pistol?  That won't tell you anything."
 
            He hesitated.  "Actually, it just might."
 

7
Tuesday, June 28
8:35 a.m.
 
            Julie Winters checked herself in the makeup mirror.  "Thanks, Edna," she told her stylist.  How did the woman do it?  Her brunette hair, usually limp as wet spaghetti, was perfect: bouncy and softly curling under just above her shoulder blades.
 
            She hopped from the makeup table and stepped to the director, an older man with graying hair and a beard.  "I'm ready, Walter," she told him.
 
            "Okay," Walter said.  "Just run down the street and make a left at the restaurant.  Glance back as you round the corner, give us a smile when you realize you've lost the bad guys who were chasing you.  Be sure to hit your mark down there."
 
            "Got it," Julie said, limbering up.  She stepped to her starting point, several yards behind the camera.
 
            "Night filter on?" Walter asked.  The cameraman nodded.  "All right, this is a take."
 
            "Scene 56, take one!"
 
            "Action!"
 
            Julie dashed into the scene, high heels clicking the asphalt.  She hit her mark and glanced back, smiling, as she rounded the corner.
 
            A dark-haired man wearing a raincoat strolled down the alley.  Arms were spread wide, a large sheet of paper spanned between them.  His nose buried in his reading, he paid no attention to where he was going.
 
            She tried to brake, but it was far too late.  They collided in a chaos of arms and legs.  
 
            He was immediately apologetic.  "I am so sorry.  Are you hurt?  I didn't hurt you, did I?"
 
            "Actually, it was half my fault," Julie said as he helped her up.  "I wasn't watching where I was going, either."
 
            His eyes widened with recognition.  "Hey, aren't you Julie Winters?  Kate Kelly, Girl Detective?"
 
            "Yeah," she said, slapping dirt from her dress.
 
            He laid a hand on her wrist.  "Wow.  Don't tell my wife, but I've got a terrible crush on you."
 
            Usually she bristled at such declarations, but the way he phrased it, like a schoolboy, was so adorable that she found herself smiling.
 
            "Who are you?" she asked.
 
            "Oh.  Sorry," he said and plucked his ID from a back pocket.  "Sergeant Columbo, LAPD."
 
            She examined the ID carefully.  "You're a cop?  A real one?  You don't look like a cop."
 
            "You know, everybody says that," Columbo said, rolling up his paper.  "I can't figure out why."
 
            "C'mon," she said, grasping his hand.  "I want you to meet somebody."  Leading him back around the corner, she called, "Hey, Walter!  Look what I found.  A real detective."  She brought him to the director and added, "This is Sergeant Columbo, Los Angeles Police."
 
            Walter shook his hand.  "What are you doing on the lot, Sergeant?"
 
            "I'm investigating the death of Doris Wilson," Columbo said.  "You know, maybe you can help me."  He unrolled the paper.  "They gave me this map at the front office, but I'm still a little lost."  He pointed.  "If the front office is there, shouldn't the New York set be over there?"
 
            "You have it backwards," Julie said, swiveling him to face the broadcast antennas on Mount Wilson.  "That way's north."
 
            "Oh."  He reddened a bit.  "Right.  Mountains are north of the city.  I mean, I knew that, but," he tapped his head, "sometimes it's like I got twenty thoughts all going on at once up here.  So, if that way's north, then . . ."  He took a few steps, glanced to his left.  "Then that wall should be right there.  Yeah.  That looks like it.  Gray bricks, jacaranda trees on the other side.  Is that Stage 5?"
 
            Walter and Julie nodded.
 
            "Oh.  Well then, I found the right place.  Um, were you filming here Saturday afternoon, say, between two and five?"
 
            "As a matter of fact, we were," Walter said.  "We had a lot of re-takes to do for our last episode.  We were here all day."
 
            "Then you must have heard the shot."  At their confused expressions, he added, "A loud noise like a boom?"
 
            "We know what a shot sounds like," Walter said.  "We often use guns here.  Sometimes we hear gunfire from the Western set."
 
            Columbo frowned, checked his map.  "But the Western set's much farther away, way over there."  Pointing toward the wall, he shouted, "Excuse me, but did anybody hear a loud bang over in that direction Saturday afternoon?"
 
            Cast and crew members milling about ignored him.
 
            "Want to use my bullhorn?" Walter asked, offering it.
 
            "Oh, thanks.  How do I . . . ?"
 
            Walter showed him which button to push. 
 
            Columbo held up his badge, depressed the button.  "Could I have your attention?  Police business."  He backed up a step, bringing the bullhorn too close to the speaker.  Feedback whined.  Flustered, he twisted the speaker dial but only succeeded in magnifying the decibels to a harsh grating.  Crew members clamped hands over ears, squeezed eyes shut.
 
            Walter rotated the knob.  Feedback died.  "You're too close.  Step away."
 
            "Oh.  Sorry."  He took a couple steps forward.  "Sorry about that," he said through the bullhorn.  "I'm Sergeant Columbo, LAPD, and I could use your help.  Did anybody who was here Saturday between two and five hear a loud noise over in that direction?"
 
            Heads of cast and crew members shook.
 
            "Thank you," he said, handing the bullhorn to Walter.  "That's strange."  He gazed at the wall.  "Well, it is an alcove, and the soundstage's right there.  Maybe it's the acoustics."  He shook their hands.  "Thank you very much."  He began to walk away but turned back.  "Uh, Miss Winters?  Do you think," he held out the map, "do you think you could autograph this for me?"
 
            Julie smiled.  "Wouldn't you rather have an autographed picture?"
 
            "Yeah, but my wife might find it and start asking questions."  He dug a pencil out of a coat pocket.  "Please?"
 
            She scribbled on the map.
 
            "Gosh, thanks," he said, looking it over.  "That's terrific."  He frowned.  "How'd you know my first name?"
 
            "It's on your ID," she said.
 
            "Oh.  You're a pretty good detective, you know that?"
 
            Rolling up the map, he sauntered off.
 
            "If he's an example of the cops in the LAPD," Walter said, "heaven help us."
 
            "I thought he was kind of sweet," Julie said.  
 
9:03 a.m.
 
            The camera whirred.  Angel slowly rotated, executing a 360 degree turn.
 
            "Aw, c'mon," the director said.  "Give us a smile."
 
            She grimaced, all her teeth showing, in a smile that was more a snarl.  "These clothes make me look like a dweeb.  Nobody wears pedal pushers anymore."
 
            "We'll discuss the clothes later.  Decent smile, please."
 
            She was wondering how to muster one up when Sergeant Columbo roamed across the far end of the soundstage.  That produced a genuine smile.
 
            "Much better," the director said. 
 
            "Sergeant?" she called, bolting from her mark.
 
            "Hey!" the director said.  "Where are you going?  Cut!"
 
            "Sergeant Columbo," she panted, catching up with him.  "You came.  And I see you brought your pockets with you."
 
            "So I did.  And this one," he said, holding open a lower pocket on his coat, "seems to have peppermints in it.  Want one?"
 
            She sucked in her breath.  "I really shouldn't.  If Aunt Mazie found out . . ."
 
            "I won't tell if you won't."
 
            He slipped a lozenge into her hand.  She unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth.
 
            "Good?" he asked.
 
            She nodded.  "Tastes like a candy cane.  Guess what?  Aunt Mazie figures I must have had a spare key to get into the house.  She's already called to have somebody change the locks.  But I hid a spatula in the garage.  She does it again, I can get right back in."
 
            "What kind of scene are you shooting?" Columbo asked.  "I didn't see the light on, so I came in.  I hope I didn't ruin anything."
 
            She shook her head.  "Hair and wardrobe tests, to find the best look for my next picture.  Are you here to investigate my mother's murder?"
 
            "I want to talk to you about that," he said, clasping her hands.  "I'm going to poke around and ask some questions, but I don't want you to get your hopes up.  Even if I discover it's a murder, it's not like the movies.  Sometimes the good guys don't win."
 
            "I can help.  I can--"
 
            "Oh, no.  You are not to do any investigating yourself.  It could be dangerous.  Promise me that, or I'm leaving right now."
 
            "Okay," she said reluctantly.
 
            "Good.  I was looking for your aunt."
 
            "She's in wardrobe."  Angel pointed.  "Go out this door, make a right.  First bungalow on your right."
 
            "Angel!" the director called.  "Sometime today!"
 
            "Gotta go," she said, walking backwards.  "Hope you find what you're looking for."
 

8
 Tuesday, June 28
 9:15 a.m.
 
            "Yellow polka dots on the bikini," Mazie said.  "Like the song.  And the bottom has to be cut much lower, French style.  Add some ruffles to the top, make her look bustier.  See if you can put in padding, give her some cleavage.  The picture's called Bikini Babe.  Let's make her look like one."
 
            "Yes, ma'am," the wardrobe mistress said.
 
            "All right.  The prom dress.  Something slinky--" she began but noticed a man smoking a cigar walking amid the rows of clothing, fingering some of the dresses.
 
            Oh no.  That cop.  Terrific.
 
            Glancing up, he caught sight of her.  "Miss Marsden.  I was looking for you."
 
            "Uh, yes, Officer, uh . . ."
 
            "Columbo," he said, pointing at himself.  "Sergeant Columbo."
 
            "Right."
 
            "Boy, this is some place.  All these clothes.  I gotta tell you, if Mrs. Columbo--that's my wife--"
 
            She interrupted.  "I figured."
 
            "If Mrs. Columbo was here, she'd go nuts.  She'd want to try on everything.  That's the way she gets when she's clothes shopping.  One time she left me sitting in the car so long, I got sunburned."
 
            Mazie sighed.  "Is there something you want to see me about?"
 
            His tone grew serious.  "Uh, yes, ma'am.  It's about your sister's death.  I was hoping I could ask you some questions."
 
            "I thought she shot herself."
 
            "Well, we're not entirely sure."
 
            That raised her eyebrows.
 
            He continued, "Could we go for a walk?  Talk privately?"
 
            Mazie sighed.  "I suppose I can give you a few minutes.  But I'm very busy, Sergeant."
 
            "I'll try not to take up too much of your time," he said as she led him into an alleyway between two soundstages.  "I ran into your niece doing some kind of testing for a new picture.  I hear she's playing the lead."
 
            Mazie nodded.  "Angel is a million dollar property, going to be bigger than Marilyn Monroe.  Unlike Marilyn, she's a natural platinum blonde."
 
            "Well, let's hope she doesn't end up like Miss Monroe."  When Mazie produced a cigarette, he said, "Allow me," and lit it for her.  "I guess Angel must make quite a bundle," he added. 
 
            "I got one hell of a contract for her," Mazie said.  "Four picture deal, one million dollars."
 
            Columbo whistled.  "A million?  You mean $250,000 for each movie?  You must be quite a negotiator."
 
            Mazie nodded proudly.  "It's just the beginning."
 
     He puffed his cigar.  "You know, I remember reading something about a child actor, way back in the silent age, worked with Charlie Chaplin, I think.  Anyway, this kid, his parents took almost everything he made, and the kid ended up with practically nothing."
 
            "That was Jackie Coogan," Mazie said.  "He played Uncle Fester on The Addams Family."
 
            "You're kidding.  That's the guy?"
 
            "That's the guy."
 
            "I didn't know that.  Hmmmm.  What about the money Angel earns?  Surely a fourteen-year-old girl isn't mature enough to handle a million dollars."
 
            "In other words, Sergeant, you want to know if what happened to Coogan will also happen to Angel."
 
            "Well, uh, will it?"
 
            "Sergeant, under California law, a certain percentage must be set aside in a trust fund until Angel turns twenty-one.  In fact, it's called the Coogan Law."
 
            "Oh.  How high a percentage are we talking about?"
 
            "Fifteen."
 
            He slapped his forehead.  "Holy cow.  Is that all?  Boy, if Mrs. Columbo and I had to live on 15% of what I earn, we'd starve.  Fifteen percent.  Is that gross or net?"
 
            "Gross."
 
            "What happens to the other 85%?"
 
            "Well, of course, there's the IRS."
 
            He grinned.  "You don't have to tell me about that.  Every year it seems I end up owing.  Well, that would explain what happens to some of it.  What about the rest?"
 
            "Angel has expenses.  Food, clothing, mortgage--"
 
            Columbo interrupted.  "She pays the mortgage?  You mean, she supports herself?  I've heard of kids having paper routes, babysitting, but paying your own mortgage.  Wow.  And I understand you're her business manager and her agent.  You get a slice of it too?"
 
            "Of course."
 
            "May I ask how much?"
 
            So that's what he was after.  "No, Sergeant, you may not.  In fact, I find that question rather rude.  I wouldn't ask how much you make."
 
            "Oh, I'm sorry.  I apologize."
 
            She blew cigarette smoke.  "Frankly, I don't see what any of this has to do with my sister's death."
 
            "Oh, nothing.  No.  I was just curious."
 
            She turned to leave.  "Then, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
 
            Columbo stepped in front of her.  "Actually, I do have some questions I need to ask."
 
            A couple men dressed as green space aliens wandered by.  Both stared at Columbo, at the out-of-season raincoat, crooked tie, unkempt hair.  She caught a snatch of conversation as they passed: "What on earth do you think he's playing?"
 
            The sergeant fished in his pockets.  "Um, sometimes when I have questions, I write them down on cards."  He withdrew a couple of slightly warped 3x5 cards.  "I taped these to the mirror this morning so I could look at them while I was shaving.  I'm sorry the ink's a bit runny, but my wife likes to take steamy showers."
 
            He handed her the first card and she read aloud, "'When did Mrs. Wilson decide to take her own life?'  Sergeant, I have no idea.  Why would you even wonder?"
 
            "Well, there was no note left behind, and often in a case like that--not always, but often--it indicates the act was impulsive."
 
            Mazie nodded.  "I can tell you she was a very impulsive person.  If I had to guess, I'd say she decided that afternoon."
 
            "You mean on the way to the studio, or when she got here."
 
            "Yes.  Does that help?"
 
            "No.  No, because of this second question."
 
            He handed her the other card.  Again she read aloud.  "'Where did the bullets come from?'  Really, Sergeant.  You find this difficult?  The gun came from the prop room.  The bullets must have too."
 
            Columbo folded his hands.  "No.  That couldn't be."
 
            "Why not?"
 
            "Miss Marsden, I don't want to alarm you, but there's something about your sister's death that's very strange.  Very strange."
 
            "What?"
 
            "Well, guns in the prop room are kept unloaded.  That means she had to load it herself."
 
            "Of course.  So?"
 
            "When you load a gun, you pick up the bullets one at a time?"
 
            Mazie rolled her eyes.  "Sergeant, that's obvious."
 
            "That's the problem."  Columbo shook a finger at her.  "That's the problem right there.  You see, there were five bullets left in the gun, but your sister's fingerprints were not on them.  In fact, there were no fingerprints on them at all."
 
            Her breath caught.  "Maybe she wore gloves."
 
            "No gloves on the body.  No gloves in the car."
 
            "Then she must have gotten the bullets elsewhere, not from the prop room.  From a store, perhaps.  She must have loaded it earlier, when she was wearing gloves."
 
            "That would indicate planning," Columbo said, "and you realize where that leads us."
 
            "Where?"
 
            "Back to the first question.  When did Mrs. Wilson decide to take her own life?  And, Miss Marsden, it gives me another problem.  The gun did not disappear from the prop room until the afternoon your sister died."
 
            The hint of a smile appeared at the corners of her mouth as she realized she knew something Columbo didn't.  "Sergeant, I wouldn't necessarily believe that.  Frank Taylor, the property master, has been known to lose a thing or two and cover up about it.  That gun could have been gone long before Doris died."
 
            He blinked.  "Well, you may be right.  I did question him, and he and his nephew, uh . . . ."  He flipped back pages in his notepad.  "Yes.  'Frank Taylor.  Nephew Jimmy.  Seem evasive, avoid making eye contact.'  See?  I wrote that down right here."
 
            "Then there's your answer."
 
            "But it still doesn't explain why there are no fingerprints."
 
            An idea occurred to her.  "You know what?  I think I may have an answer to your first question.  Doris always wore gloves to church on Sunday.  What if she loaded the gun on Sunday?"
 
            He pressed a finger to his lips, thinking.  "Must not have been a very good sermon if she decided to kill herself afterward.  And I wondered why she waited six days before pulling the trigger."
 
            "Maybe she was trying to make up her mind," Mazie offered.
 
            "I guess that would explain it.  Well," he said, taking back his cards, "thank you for your time."
 
            Columbo strolled off, whistling "This Old Man."
 
            She started toward the wardrobe department when Columbo snapped his fingers, swerved around, and said, "Miss Marsden?  One more thing."
 
            "What?" she called.
 
            He reapproached her.  "I was just wondering . . . have you ever been on a bowling team?"
 
            "A bowling team?  No.  Sergeant, I wouldn't be caught dead bowling.  What does this have to do with anything?"
 
            "No, I just thought . . . I know I've heard the name Mazie before, and I thought maybe you had bowled against my wife's team."
 
            "No.  Not a chance."
 
            "Oh, well.  It'll come to me."
 
            "I thought you were leaving, Sergeant." 
 
            He checked his watch.  "Yeah, I got to get going.  Got lots to do.  Have an experiment to conduct and a report to write.  Well, you have a pleasant day."
 
            "Thank you.  I intend to." 
 
            She climbed the steps to the wardrobe department and made a point of slamming the door.
 
 
 
            "He couldn't possibly be the murderer," Kate Kelly, Girl Detective said.  "He's being framed.  I know because--"
 
            BAM!
 
            "Cut!" Walter shouted.
 
            "What the hell was that?" the sound man said, ripping off his headphones.
 
            Julie pointed.  "I think it came from over there."
 
            They glanced down an alleyway, saw Sergeant Columbo pop up in a jacaranda tree on the other side of the wall.
 
            "Did you hear it?" he yelled.
 
            "What was that?" Walter asked as they wandered toward him.
 
            "Nothing to be alarmed about," Columbo said.  "I fired a shot inside my car.  Into a box of sand.  But you heard it, right?"
 
            "Damn right we heard it," the sound man said.  "You ruined the take."
 
            "Oh.  Oh, I'm terribly sorry.  You can do it again, can't you?"
 
            "Of course," Walter said.  "We redo takes all the time."
 
            "Hi, Miss Winters," he said, waving, then grasped a branch in alarm as he came close to slipping.  A peek at the ground drained the blood from his face.  "I didn't realize I'd climbed this high.  Guess I shouldn't have been so eager to find out if you heard anything."
 
            "Do you need help?" Julie asked.
 
            "Uh, no," he said, gingerly stepping to a lower limb.  "Thank you.  I think I can manage.  You just go about your business."
 
            They turned but hadn't gone more than a few yards when they heard the crack of a branch followed by a whump!
 
            In unison, they spun back around.  From the other side of the wall floated a painful, "It's all right.  I'm okay."
 
            "Somebody should make a TV show based on that guy," Walter said, shaking his head.  "A comedy."   
 

9
 
Tuesday, June 28
2:00 p.m.
 
            Maryann Brooks grabbed a tissue, blew her nose, and resumed filing.  Man, she needed another file cabinet.  This one was jammed.  Too many kids needing too much help.
 
            She leaned forward to stuff a file into the lowest drawer and a lock of wavy brown hair that had come loose from her bun slid into her face.  She swept it behind an ear and continued working.   
 
            A knock rapped on the open door.  She glanced up.  "Sergeant Columbo.  Come on in.  I've been expecting you."
 
            He blinked in surprise but stepped into her office.  "You have?"
 
            "Let me guess.  There's this kid."
 
            "Well, yeah.  There is this kid--"
 
            Maryann raised her arms as if imploring heaven.  "If I only had a nickel for every time a cop's come through that door and told me that."  The arms dropped.  "Okay.  Fill out this form."  She handed him a paper and a clipboard.
 
            Columbo patted his pockets.  "Got a pencil?"
 
            She gave him one.
 
            "How'd you know I was coming?" he asked, pulling up a chair.
 
            "Well, let's see.  I heard you were here yesterday while I was out sick, asking for me.  You could have seen another case worker, but no, decided to wait.  You know, all you cops seem to think I'm a pushover.  Well, I'm not."
 
            "I'll keep that in mind," Columbo said, writing.
 
            For a while they concentrated on their work: Maryann with her file cabinet, Columbo with his pencil.
 
            Eventually he handed the clipboard back to her, and she seated herself at her desk and read.
 
            "Angel Wilson," she mumbled.  "Age 14, uh huh, uh huh . . . you've got to be kidding.  Is this all you got?"
 
            "The girl is being abused by her aunt."
 
            "Oh, I don't doubt it.  But I can't remove a minor from a guardian with this.  Superficial scrapes.  Sent to bed without supper."
 
            Columbo protested, "The aunt locked her out of the house."
 
            "Got any proof of that?"  At his crestfallen face, she added, "I didn't think so."  She held up the clipboard.  "Want to give a defense lawyer a good laugh?  Give him this.  Columbo, I've got kids with cigarette burns on their arms, welts on their backs."
 
            "But is this any way to treat a child who just lost her mother?  Emotional abuse--"
 
            "Is just as painful," she finished for him.  "And a thousand times harder to prove."
 
            Columbo drew a deep breath.  "I have reason to believe this girl's aunt murdered her mother."
 
            "Now, that's a different ball of wax.  Do you believe she's in imminent danger of being murdered herself?"
 
            He scratched his head.  "No.  I think she was the motive for the murder.  An $850,000 motive."
 
            "Got any proof?"
 
            "Not yet."
 
            Maryann dumped the clipboard onto her desk.  "Sorry.  I've got no cause."
 
            His eyes begged.  "Can't you at least look into it?"
 
            She swiveled her chair.  "Oh, don't do that.  Don't give me that lost puppy look of yours."
 
            "Lost puppy?"
 
            Maryann covered her eyes.  "Lost puppy.  Forlorn teddy bear.  Don't tell me you don't know you look like that.  But it's not going to work."  She glanced up and winced.  "All right, all right.  I'll check on it, see if there's anything more.  But I'm telling you flat out I probably won't find anything."
 
            "Thanks."
 
            As he rose to leave, she mumbled to herself, "Damn.  I really am a pushover."
 
4:05 p.m.
 
            Captain Sommers glanced up when Columbo knocked on his doorframe.
 
            "It's four o'clock," Columbo said.
 
            "Got anything?" Sommers asked.
 
            Columbo handed him a file folder and took a seat.  Working his left arm, he massaged the shoulder.
 
            "You get hurt?" the captain asked.
 
            "A bit."
 
            "How'd it happen?"
 
            "Fell out of a tree.  I'm okay.  Took some aspirin."
 
            Sommers grinned as he leaned back and opened the report.  "Okay.  Missing silencer . . . no witnesses heard shot . . . that thing about the car battery, that's weird . . . ."  His jaw dropped.  "You tested for blowback?"
 
            "Three times, actually."
 
            "Why?  Weren't you sure it was the weapon?  Wouldn't ballistics--"
 
            "Read the results."
 
            Sommers flipped to the back of the report and read.  Guy's more than brilliant, he realized, nudging his already high opinion of Columbo up several more points.  I never would have thought of doing this, never in a million years.
 
            "Columbo, sometimes your ideas are, uh . . ."
 
            "Unconventional?" he offered. 
 
            "I was thinking of a word more like 'innovative.'" Sommers scanned the rest of the report, then leaned back in his chair and chewed a corner of the file.
 
            "Well?" Columbo asked.
 
            "Oh, it's a homicide all right."
 
            Columbo slapped a fist into his other palm.  "Yes!"
 
            "Question is: who do I assign it to?"
 
            Columbo's eyes widened with alarm.  "I've been with it from the beginning.  I'm the one who discovered it is a homicide."
 
            Sommers sat up.  "Don't look so distressed.  I'm not doubting your abilities.  I just think I might not be doing you any favors giving you this.  I know you're up for promotion, you and Miller.  You did great on the written test, but, word is, not so well on the orals.  You do not impress, Columbo."
 
            The sergeant sat back, lips tightened in disappointment.
 
            "And," Sommers continued, "Brenner doesn't seem to think much of you.  You don't have his recommendation, and that weighs heavily."
 
            He stared at the wall.  "I know."
 
            "Columbo, I'm telling you flat out that the brass will look favorably on the guy who solves the Davis case.  I give you this, your attention will be split."
 
            "I've worked multiple cases before."
 
            "And been here till four in the morning.  I know you.  With a baby due any day, do you really want to be putting in several hours of overtime?" 
 
            Columbo pointed at the file.  "That's my baby too."
 
            Sommers mused as though he hadn't heard him, "This one looks like it's going to take a lot of digging.  I really should put someone on it full time."  He returned his attention to the sergeant.  "You take this," he warned, "and you can pretty much kiss your lieutenancy goodbye, at least for now."  He leaned back again, hoped the man didn't realize he was being tested.
 
            Columbo gritted his teeth, his forehead pleated with hesitation.
 
            C'mon, Sommers thought.  Show me what you think is more important: this case or making lieutenant.  Show me what you're made of.
 
            Finally the man spoke.  "Captain, you got nearly the entire department working on Davis.  And nothing can be done for him except bring his killer to justice.  The Wilson case, well, there's a kid's future at stake.  I'd like to think I can do something about that."
 
            Sommers nodded and handed the folder back.  "Then go find me the murderer.  And Columbo," he added as the sergeant rose and headed for the door, "Good call."
 
5:23 p.m.
 

           Carrying a movie script, a shooting log, and a can of film, Columbo sprinted up a flight of metal outdoor stairs, his shoes clanging the steps.  At the top, he managed to balance everything on his left arm and open the door.
 
            Peeking inside, he saw little but darkness.  A whirring indicated some kind of activity was going on. 
 
            "Excuse me," he called, "I'm looking for Milo Murray." 
 
            A voice said, "I'm Milo Murray.  But everybody calls me Murray."
 
            "All right if I come in?"
 
            "Sure.  Come on in."
 
            Columbo entered, closed the door.  His vision adjusted from the bright outdoors, and he was grateful to see a table inside.  He set down his things.
 
            Nearby, a projector cast its picture through a small window.  Cans of film lay about.
 
            A balding middle-aged man held out his hand.  "I'm Murray."
 
            Columbo shook it.  "Sergeant Columbo, LAPD."  He fished his ID out of a pocket and flipped it open.
 
            "You investigating Doris Wilson's death?" Murray asked.
 
            "Yeah," Columbo said, shoving the ID back into the pocket.  "And I'm told you're the man to see if I want some film run."
 
            "I'm happy to oblige you, Sergeant, but you'll have to wait until I finish showing some dailies."
 
            "Some what?  Dailies?"
 
            Murray pointed at a window.  "Look down there in the theatre.  Dailies are takes shot yesterday.  The producer and director are checking them, seeing if anything needs to be re-shot or--"
 
            "Is that Sheriff McMarshall?" Columbo asked, staring through the window.  He glanced back at Murray.  "Is that Arizona Tumbleweeds?  I love that show!  Mrs. Columbo and I try never to miss it.  Boy, it sure looks different in color."
 
            "You don't have a color TV?"
 
            "Well, I wanted to get one, but somehow we ended up with a dishwasher instead.  Though I got to tell you, I don't see the point of having a dishwasher if you got to scrub the dishes first, before you put them in."
 
            Murray grinned.
 
            "Let me ask you something," Columbo said.  "I noticed there were a couple of takes with the camera on Sheriff McMarshall, and then the same scene, with the same dialogue, with the camera on Deputy Hadley."
 
            Murray peered through the window.  "That's another angle, Sergeant.  Scenes aren't shot in the order you see them on television.  It takes time to set up the cameras and lighting, so all the scenes from one angle are shot, then the cameras and lights are moved to shoot from another angle."
 
            "Oh, I get it," Columbo said.  "And then the takes are edited to create one scene.  Uh, huh.  But they're shot at different times."
 
            "Sometimes even different days," Murray said.
 
            Columbo watched the film.  "Oh no.  Oh no!"  A palm smacked his cheek.  "This is awful!"
 
            "What?" Murray gasped.
 
            "Dusty's been shot.  Sheriff McMarshall's horse has been shot."
 
            Murray chuckled.  "It's just a TV show, Sergeant."
 
            Columbo turned.  "I know.  But still . . . ."  He glanced through the window again.  "Gee, I hope Doc Wilcox can save him."
 
            The tail end of the film threaded through the projector and flapped against the reel.  Over an intercom, a voice said, "Thanks, Murray."
 
            Murray flicked a switch and said into a microphone, "You're welcome."  He released the switch and added, "I can show your film now, Sergeant.  What have you got, anyway?"
 
            Columbo handed him the can.  "Scenes from The Ransom of Elizabeth.  A rough cut, whatever that is."
 
            "A work in progress," Murray explained.  "Music and sound effects haven't been added yet.  Go through that door, down the stairs, and make yourself comfortable."
 
            Carrying the script and shooting log, he headed downstairs into a theatre large enough to accommodate a dozen viewers and chose a seat in the middle.  "Murray!" he shouted, standing up and facing the projector.  "Okay if I smoke in here?"
 
            Murray's voice broadcast over a loudspeaker.  "Push the button on the armchair if you want to talk to me." 
 
            "Button.  Oh."  He depressed it and asked, "Okay if I smoke?"
 
            "That's fine."
 
            Columbo lit a cigar.  Lights dimmed.
 
            Smoke curled upward and dissipated through light shining from the projector.  Legs crossed, puffing the cigar, he sat back, watching Angel on the screen.
 
            After a few minutes, he sat up straight and felt in the dark for the button.  "Murray?"
 
            "Yes, Sergeant?"
 
            "Could you run those last few scenes again?"
 
            "Sure."
 
            The film began again, Columbo leaning forward for a better look.
 
            He hit the button.  "Murray?  Could you bring up the lights?"
 
            They brightened, and Columbo flipped through the shooting log, located a place he had circled before.  Opening the script, he cross-referenced the two.
 
            His hand slapped the log.  "Well, that explains that."
 
10
 
Wednesday, June 29
12:45 p.m.
 
            "I definitely know who the murderer is," Columbo said, studying his notes.  "I'm just not sure where it took place.  Or how."
 
            Paddy said, "Well, I'm taking the secret passage to the kitchen."  He moved his green token catty-corner across the board.  "All right.  I'm suggesting Colonel Mustard--"
 
            "Oh, that's me," Columbo said, moving his token into the kitchen as well.
 
            "--in the Kitchen with the Rope."
 
            Except for the Clue game, silence reigned on the soundstage.  Other workers were on lunch break.  At a small table Columbo sat with Angel, Paddy, and Jimmy Taylor. 
 
            Angel rummaged through her cards.  "Pass."
 
            Jimmy checked his.  "Pass."
 
            "Hold it," Columbo said.  "I think I have one of those."  He eased the Rope card from his hand and slid it, face down, across the board to Paddy.
 
            Paddy lifted the corner, marked his Detective's Notepad Sheet, and slid it back.  "Your turn, Angel."
 
            She rolled the die, moved Mrs. Peacock one square.  "I'm ready to make an accusation."
 
            "What?" Columbo gasped.
 
            "Professor Plum in the Conservatory with the Candlestick."
 
            "Can't be," Columbo said.  "Nobody can win that quick."  He snatched the cards from the Case Confidential Envelope and gazed at them in disbelief.  Plum.  Candlestick.  Conservatory.
 
            "Every time," Paddy said, throwing down his cards. 
 
            "How does she always win?" Jimmy asked.
 
            "But . . . but . . ." Columbo sputtered.  "You didn't ask a question this turn.  You didn't even move into a room."
 
            Angel said, "The rules don't say I have to."
 
            "Winner cleans up the mess," Paddy said, getting up to leave with Jimmy.
 
            "Uh, Jimmy?" Columbo called after him.  "Don't go wandering too far.  I need to talk to you in a bit."  To Angel he said, "How'd you do that?"
 
            She folded the board.  "I have a system."
 
            "What?  What system?"
 
            "Oh, I never tell anybody that."
 
            "Um, look.  Do you think you could make an exception?  Tell you what my problem is.  I got this brother-in-law, and when we play Clue, he always wins.  Every time he wins.  And then he does this little jig and crows about how I'm a detective and he's a plumber, and he beat me."
 
            She hesitated.  "Tell you what.  You solve my mother's murder, and I'll tell you my system."
 
            Columbo held out his hand.  "Deal."
 
            She shook it.  "Deal."
 
            "Uh, there's your aunt.  I need to talk to her."  Walking backwards, he said, "I'm going to hold you to that deal!"
 
            "Miss Marsden!  Miss Marsden!" he cried, running after Mazie. 
 
            Mazie turned.  "Sergeant, what is it now?"
 
            "Something I think you should see, ma'am."  He grabbed Jimmy's arm.  "You too.  Ma'am, it turns out you were right about something."
 
 **
 
            "Sorry for the interruption," Columbo told three men seated in the theatre.  He displayed his badge.  "Official police business."
 
            "We're trying to work here," one of them said.
 
            "Sorry.  Won't take long.  Be done in about fifteen minutes.  Mr. Kirshner, he's the head of the studio--"
 
            "We know who he is."
 
            "--said I could expect everybody's full cooperation."
 
            Grumbling, the men rose.  "Fifteen," the first one said.  "Not a second more."
 
            As they exited, Columbo ushered Mazie and Jimmy to seats. 
 
            "What are we going to watch, Sergeant?" Mazie asked.
 
            "A few scenes from The Ransom of Elizabeth.  Miss Marsden, I think you'll especially find this interesting.  Jimmy, you comfortable?"
 
            Jimmy shrugged.  "Guess so."
 
            Columbo seated himself between them and pressed the armchair button.  "Murray, we're ready."
 
            Lights dimmed, and the picture began.  "Even though these scenes appear early in the movie, they were some of the last ones shot," Columbo said.  "This is where the kidnappers break into the house . . . right there, they slip in through the sliding glass door.  One pulls a silver-colored .32 from his belt, silencer from his pocket, screws the silencer on."
 
            "We were there," Mazie said.  "We know what happens."
 
            "You know what gun that is?" Columbo asked.  "That's the gun that killed your sister."
 
            Mazie gasped.  "It is?"
 
            "Did you know that?" Columbo asked Jimmy.
 
            "Yes," Jimmy said.  "You said so the day she died, when you came to the prop room."
 
            "Okay," Columbo said.  "They creep up behind the nanny, she turns around, he fires, she's dead.  Up the stairs now . . . slowly they open the door to the bedroom.  And there's Elizabeth, that is, Angel, fast asleep.  One slaps a hand over her mouth . . . there's a struggle . . . they carry her down the stairs."  He crossed his legs.  "Thanks, Murray.  You can bring the lights up."
 
            When it was bright again, he asked, "Did you notice anything?"
 
            Mazie said, "I noticed I couldn't take my eyes off Angel.  The camera loves her."
 
            "No doubt about that," Columbo said.  "I can see why the studio wants her so badly.  You can tell, even now, that she's got a classic beauty coming.  And what an actress!  The way she's so terrified, my heart starts pounding."  He swiveled toward her.  "But I was talking about the gun.  Did you notice anything unusual about the gun?"
 
            "No."
 
            "Did you, Jimmy?"
 
            Jimmy squirmed before answering, "No."
 
            "Nothing?"  Columbo hit the button, asked, "Murray, could you run it again?"
 
            Murray's voice echoed from the speakers.  "Sure, Sergeant."
 
            "Hey," Columbo said, "don't you wish you could do this with TV?  Back it up and watch it again?  The other night, Mrs. Columbo and I were watching a murder mystery, and I got up to get a snack, and when I returned, my wife had fallen asleep, and I'd missed the ending.  I still don't know who done it."
 
            "You mean you can't even solve a television mystery?" Mazie asked.
 
            "Well, TV, that's different.  In real life--"  He interrupted himself as lights dimmed.  "Here we go.  Pay close attention to the gun.  Okay.  They break in, screw the silencer on.  Nanny gets killed, and up the stairs.  Now here's a long shot over one of the bad guy's shoulders when they enter the bedroom.  But now--here!--another angle, from Elizabeth's point of view, and you'll notice the gun has changed colors.  It's black.  Long shot again, it's silver.  A close up--it's black."  He hit the button.  "Thank you, Murray.  Lights, please."
 
            He turned to Jimmy, noticed beads of sweat on his forehead.  "According to the property room log, that silver gun was checked out only once, on Friday, June 17.  Shooting log shows that's the day those downstairs shots and long shots were taken.  Then the company broke for the weekend.  When filming resumed Monday, the close-ups were shot.  But now, either the gun has magically painted itself a different color, or it's a different gun.  Jimmy, you were in charge of the props both days.  You have an explanation?"
 
            Jimmy opened his mouth but closed it again.
 
            Mazie said, "Jimmy, if you know something, I think you should say it."
 
            "Miss Marsden is right," Columbo said.  "I would hate to charge you as an accessory to murder."
 
            Jimmy gulped.  "Murder?"
 
            "What?" Mazie cried.  "Murder?"
 
            Columbo held up a finger.  "Yes, I'm afraid so, and I'll explain in a minute.  Jimmy, your uncle claimed that gun disappeared about one o'clock Saturday.  But the guard at the gate told me Mrs. Wilson arrived at the studio around two.  I have to ask myself how she could have taken the gun an hour before she even got here.  Now, lying to your boss is one thing.  Lying to the police is something else."
 
            "I couldn't find it," he blurted.  "I searched everywhere.  I don't know how it disappeared."
 
            "This was at the end of the shooting day, on the seventeenth?"
 
            "Yes.  Please, Sergeant, I've never been in any kind of trouble."
 
            Columbo laid a hand on his shoulder.  "It's okay.  I believe you.  You may go."
 
            Jimmy bolted from his chair and was out the door.
 
            Mazie frowned.  "How can you say this was murder?"
 
            "I'm sorry," Columbo said.  "I can see just how shocked you are, and I will explain, but--"  He glanced at his watch.  "Perhaps we should talk outside.  I promised we'd be done in fifteen minutes."
 
            Mazie rose.  "Yes.  We should definitely talk."
 
 **
 
            "Over here, ma'am," Columbo said, leading Mazie to a low standing brick wall in the shade.  She grabbed a pack of cigarettes from her purse and shook one out.
 
            "Allow me," he said, lighting it for her.
 
            Columbo seated himself on the wall.  "Perhaps you'd be more comfortable sitting?"
 
            She sat, smoothed her skirt, drew from her cigarette and exhaled.  "I thought Doris was found with the gun."
 
            Her hand was steady, Columbo noted, frowning.  She had a detachment he rarely saw in someone who was actually guilty.  Cool as a cucumber.  Maybe, he thought, maybe he was wrong.  Maybe she wasn't the one.
 
            Or, maybe, she was a psychopath.  Maybe she was incapable of feeling guilt.
 
            "This is a little complicated," he said.  "See if you can follow along."  He slipped his gun from its holster.
 
            "Sheesh!  Be careful with that!"
 
            "This?  It ain't loaded."
 
            "You carry an unloaded gun?"
 
            "Well, my captain, he insists I carry it.  But he never actually said I had to put bullets in it.  I hate guns.  Seen too much of what they can do to people.  If I had my way, I wouldn't carry one at all.  But anyway, let's suppose this is the murder weapon.  Well, that gun's a little different.  It's a .32, and it has a nub on the end, a threaded nub for a silencer to screw onto.  We'll just pretend this gun has one."
 
            "Okay."
 
            "Do you know what happens when you fire a gun?"
 
            "Of course.  A bullet is shot."
 
            "I mean the technical aspect of it.  It's called firing a gun because there actually is a fire, a spark.  The spark ignites gunpowder, which produces gases, and that's what propels the bullet.  Did you notice in the film we just saw that smoke rose from the gun when it was fired?"
 
            "No.  But I'll take your word for it."
 
            "Well, the bullet is expelled, and smoke is expelled, and burnt gunpowder is expelled too.  Now, the bullet hits its target--whatever that is--and the smoke dissipates, but the gunpowder settles.  And in a small enclosed area, especially one with a very low roof--like the car your sister died in--air currents can bring some of the powder back to rest on the gun.  We call it blowback.  Now, I'm not talking much powder here, just a trace amount, but enough that we can test for it."
 
            "Okay, but I don't see the significance of this."
 
            "Well, at the police lab we have this stuff called paraffin.  It's a wax, and you spread it as a liquid, then it hardens.  It's great at picking up even the tiniest bit of burnt gunpowder.  A chemical called diphenylamine is applied, and, if it turns blue on the paraffin cast, the test is positive."
 
            "You found some on the gun?"
 
            "Yes, ma'am.  We expected that.  What we didn't expect was what we didn't find."
 
            Mazie frowned.  "I'm confused.  You didn't expect to find what you didn't find?"
 
            "I'm sorry.  Yes.  I didn't word that well.  What I meant to say was that something that should have been there wasn't."
 
            "And what was that?"
 
            "Allow me to demonstrate.  Okay, we're pretending this gun is the murder weapon, with a little nub for the silencer.  In fact," he clenched the nose of the gun with his left hand, "let's pretend my fist is the silencer.  It's screwed on, and it's covering the nub.  Now, here's what's interesting.  We found powder residue on the gun, all right.  But there wasn't any on the nub."
 
            He stared into her eyes, waiting for a reaction.  Fear.  Dismay.  Anything.
 
            Nothing.  She merely said, "Huh" and frowned.  "Wait.  Wasn't that gun fired in the movie?"
 
            "Yes, ma'am.  Three takes of the scene.  Fired each time, with the silencer on."
 
            "So couldn't this powder stuff have come from that?  Three shots, plus the one Doris died from, that's four.  Maybe just one shot wouldn't leave enough on the nub to be discernible."
 
            "You know," Columbo said, "you and I must think alike.  That occurred to me too.  So I ordered a second test.  We cleaned the gun, screwed a silencer on, and fired it.  And under the same conditions too, ma'am, I mean right in your sister's car.  And there wasn't as much powder that time, but we did find some, although, again, not on the nub."
 
            He stood.  "So of course I ordered a third test.  Cleaned the gun again, left off the silencer, and fired.  That time we found gunpowder on the nub."  Holstering the weapon, he added, "There's no question in my mind that a silencer was on that gun when your sister was shot.  But you see the problem, don't you?  We can't find the silencer.  What did she do, shoot herself in the head, then unscrew the silencer, go hide it, come back to the car, sit down and die?"
 
            Mazie dropped her cigarette butt, stomped it out, and shook another from the pack.
 
            "This is very interesting," she said.  "Um, did you run this . . . what did you call it?  A parakeet test?"
 
            "Paraffin, ma'am."
 
            "Did you run this paraffin test on my sister's hand?"
 
            He blinked in surprise.  Did she know the police always conducted one on a suspect's hand?  If she did, that would implicate her.  It would show she knew enough to place the gun in Doris's hand and fire a second shot.   
 
            "Why do you ask?" he said and held his breath. 
 
            "Well, I figure that if she was holding the gun, some residue must have floated down on her hand too."
 
            Columbo frowned.  What a strange thing to occur to her.  As though he were a player examining a chess board, he tried to see ahead to how the conversation might run.
 
            "Well, did you?" she asked.  "Perform a test on her hand?"
 
            "Yes ma'am, we did."
 
            "And?"
 
            "It was positive for gunpowder."
 
            "Did her hand have more or less on it than the gun?"
 
            He put fingertips to his forehead.  "Why do you ask?"
 
            "Well, it seems to me that if it's farther from the nose of the gun, it should have less.  Did it?"
 
            Eyes widened in realization of what she was after.  She was going to force him to tell her they normally tested for that.  She was, in other words, already preparing a defense in case this went to trial.
 
            "Well?" she asked.  "Was it more or less?"
 
            Stuck, he admitted, "More."
 
            Mazie blew smoke.  "Doesn't that invalidate your test?"
 
            She had him.  "No," he said.  "When a gun is fired, powder is also blasted out the back of the gun, onto the hand of the person holding it."
 
            Mazie sat back, the corners of her mouth turned up in a little smile.  "I didn't know that."
 
            The hell you didn't, he thought.   
 
            "Well, if Doris had so much powder on her hand, doesn't that mean she pulled the trigger?"
 
            "Not necessarily," he said.  "The murderer could have placed the gun in your sister's hand and fired a second shot."
 
            "I thought you told me there were five bullets left.  Doesn't that mean--?"
 
            "The killer replaced one."  He walked a few paces and lit a cigar.
 
            "You sound awfully certain."
 
            Columbo faced her.  "You'd be surprised what I'm certain about."  He blew smoke.  "I'm certain because something was missing on the gun."
 
            "Besides the silencer?"
 
            "Fingerprints.  Suppose Mrs. Wilson stole the gun on the seventeenth.  She'd leave a set of prints on it doing that.  Then, of course, she had to pick it up again later to fire it, leaving a second set of prints.  But there was only one set.  There are only two possible explanations.  Either she somehow managed to pick up the gun the exact same way the second time so her prints matched up--and, ma'am, that would be like lighting striking the same place twice--or somebody else placed the gun in her hand once."
 
            "I see your point.  Well, Sergeant, I think you're right.  Doris must have been murdered."
 
            Again he scrutinized her for a reaction.  Nothing.  No worry, no concern.  She must have really covered her bases, he realized.  Damn.  She probably had herself an alibi, and that meant he would have to crack it.
 
            He said, "Surely this must come as a relief to you."
 
            Puzzled, she asked, "Relief?"
 
            "To know your sister did not take her own life."
 
            "Oh.  Yes, of course.  But it is somewhat distressing to know somebody killed her."
 
            He sat next to her.  "Could you help me with that?"
 
            "Excuse me?"
 
            "With the investigation?  I mean, I can see you're obviously very intelligent, and she was your sister, so you knew her well."
 
            "Thank you, Sergeant, but what could I possibly do for you?"
 
            "Could you make a list," he said, "of people who might have had a motive for killing her?  And especially," he patted his pockets and tugged a paper out of one, "could you cross-reference it with the people on this list?  It would be a tremendous help."
 
            Mazie took the paper, skimmed it.  "How'd you come up with this list?"
 
            "Oh," Columbo said, pointing at it, "according to the log, these are all people who were on the set the seventeenth, when the gun was stolen."
 
            "Is there a particular reason why my name is at the top?"
 
            "No.  I just put them in order of people who knew your sister well."
 
            "Well, Sergeant, people do wander on and off a set all day."
 
            "Perhaps you noticed someone there who didn't belong?"
 
            "The seventeenth.  I wouldn't remember.  I'll have to give this whole business some thought."
 
            "Right.  I have some things I have to give some thought too."  He shook her hand.  "I appreciate your help, and thank you for your time."
 
            "Sergeant," she called as he wandered off, "how do you want me to deliver my list to you?"
 
            He turned.  "Oh, you'll be seeing me around.  In fact, ma'am, I believe you'll be seeing an awful lot of me."
 
11
 
Thursday, June 30
10:15 a.m.
 
            Columbo slipped through the soundstage door and glanced around.  Stagehands hefted furniture, props. 
 
            Nobody seemed to pay any attention to him.  Angel, he saw, was on the other side of the room, talking to a hairdresser.  She hadn't noticed him.  Good.
 
            He ducked behind a wall, only to have two grips move it, exposing his presence.  Creeping around a sofa, he collided with a floor lamp and barely caught it in time to keep it from crashing.
 
            But there was the object he was after: a box on the shelf by the wall.  Strolling backwards as though disinterested, he glanced around.  Angel had disappeared, but this was an opportunity he might not have again.
 
            Columbo turned, shrugged the lid off the box, rummaged inside, and withdrew a slip of paper.
 
            Ah, hah!  This explained how she had done it.
 
            He was feeling very pleased with himself when Angel spoke behind him.  "Just what do you think you're doing?"
 
            Oh, no.  Caught.  Sheepishly he turned, warmth rushing to his face.  She stood before him, arms crossed, tapping her foot.
 
            "I couldn't resist," he said.
 
            She snatched the paper from his hand.  "I said I'd tell you my system when you solve my mother's murder.  I thought we had a deal."
 
            "Uh, yes.  Yes, we do, and I admit you caught me.  Think you can find it in your heart to forgive me?"
 
            "Well, maybe if you've still got some peppermints."
 
            "No," he said, fumbling in his coat pocket, "but I do have some butterscotches."  He held one up.  "Peace offering?"
 
            She grinned, put out her palm.
 
            He handed it to her.  "Do you mind?" he asked, reaching for her Detective's Notepad Sheet.
 
            "Why not?  You've already seen it."
 
            "I noticed," he said, pointing at it while she sucked the candy, "that instead of a checkmark, you put down the initial of the person who holds a particular card.  Right here you put a 'C' by the Lounge, and I do remember showing you that card."
 
            "Right."
 
            "But I also noticed you put a 'C' over the words 'Billiard Room,' and I figure that's because, as I recall, you showed me that card."
 
            "Right again."
 
            "So that if I asked for it a second time, you'd be certain to show it to me again and make me waste my turn."
 
            "That was the idea.  It doesn't say in the rules I can't do that."
 
            "No.  In fact, it's very smart.  But, Angel, I also notice a 'C' next to Rope.  Now, I only showed the Rope card to one person, Paddy.  So I think I've figured it out."
 
            "You have?"
 
            "Yes.  The cards are marked."
 
            She shook her head.  "That would be cheating.  I didn't cheat."
 
            "But how else could you have known I had the Rope card?"
 
            Angel smiled.  "Solve the murder, and I'll tell you."
 
            Columbo rubbed his chin.  "All right.  You know, this case is full of mysteries.  Not just the Clue game.  I'm also trying to figure out where I've heard your aunt's name before.  Mazie.  Know I've heard that somewhere.  And it's even like I've done this case before . . ."
 
            He pressed a finger to his lips and stared into space.
 
"I wonder.  Maybe it was a movie I saw.  Apparent suicide in a car.  You know of a movie with a plot like that?  Maybe a TV episode?"
 
            "No.  Got another butterscotch?"
 
            Almost absentmindedly, he handed her one.  "I'll have to ask."
 
            "Ask Paddy.  He's a movie buff."
 
            From across the stage, someone yelled, "Angel!  We're ready for you!"
 
            "Gotta go."  She shook a finger at him.  "And no more cheating on our deal!"
 
            He grinned and held up a hand of resignation.

10:40 a.m.
 
            "Miss Marsden!" Columbo called, his raincoat flapping as he scurried to catch up with Mazie.  He dodged a couple stagehands carrying a sofa, then nearly collided with some cowboys taking a cigarette break.  They glared and he muttered an apology before continuing his pursuit.  "Miss Marsden, ma'am?"
 
            She slowed but continued walking.  "Sergeant.  How are you today?"
 
            "Fine," he puffed, catching up with her.  "And you?"
 
            "I'm great.  Looks like we're going to start filming some scenes next week."             
 
            "Oh," he said, trudging alongside her.  "Listen, have you ever been to the Policeman's Ball?"
 
            "You're not going to try to sell me a ticket, are you, Sergeant?"
 
            "No," he said.  "No, I was just wondering if you were there last year.  See, I'm still trying to figure where I've heard the name Mazie before."
 
            "I wasn't there."
 
            "Maybe it's just as well.  My wife, she likes to have a good time, and she was really partying that night, and, well, you would certainly remember if you'd been there."
 
            Mazie rolled her eyes and continued walking.
 
            Her legs were longer than his, and every few steps he had to sprint to keep up.  "Miss Marsden, um, I was wondering if you'd had a chance to work on that list I asked you to make."
 
            "As a matter of fact, I gave it a lot of thought last night."
 
            "And?"
 
            She stopped, hunted within her skirt pocket, withdrew a paper, and gave it to him.
 
            Columbo unfolded it, saw there was only one name.  "Mazie Marsden?" he said in bewilderment.  "You?"
 
            "You asked for a list of people who have a motive and who were on the set the seventeenth.  I was the only one I could think of."
 
            "Oh.  And just what is your motive, ma'am?"
 
            "Really, Sergeant.  A movie lot is kind of like an extended family.  People talk.  I know you've been asking how I got along with my sister, and you've found out I didn't.  Then there's that conversation we had the other day, about what happens to the money Angel makes."
 
            "Uh . . ."
 
            "You've been suspecting me all along.  You wouldn't be any good as a policeman if you weren't."
 
            "Uh, well, your name has come to mind." 
 
            "And," she continued, "I'm sure you've heard some gossip that Angel wouldn't be making Bikini Babe if Doris hadn't died."
 
            "Yes," he admitted.  "I have heard that."
 
            She began walking again.  "Well, that part isn't true."
 
            "It isn't?  The front office seemed under the impression--"
 
            "Surely you know what a bargaining tactic is, don't you?"
 
            "Oh.  I see.  You mean Mrs. Wilson feigned disinterest in order to jack up Angel's salary."
 
            "And it worked."
 
            "It must have.  A million dollars.  That's a lot of moola."
 
            "On the other hand, I own Angel now, and I obviously wouldn't have otherwise.  So why don't you ask me the question you really want to ask, Sergeant?"
 
            He struggled to keep up with her.  "What question is that?"
 
            She stopped.  "Where was I when Doris died?"
 
            Yeah, about time they got to that.  "All right, where were you?" he asked, deliberately neglecting to mention the time of death.
 
            "I don't know."
 
            "You don't know where you were?"
 
            Her lips rose in a smirk.  "I don't know what time Doris died."
 
            Oh, well.  It had been worth a try.  "The Medical Examiner set the time of death between 3:30 and 4:15."
 
            "And this was on Saturday.  Let me think.  I was in the dubbing studio.  Angel and Paddy saw me there, and so did Parker Raymond and John Olson."
 
            "Who are Mr. Raymond and Mr. Olson?"
 
            "The director and sound man."
 
            "And you were there the whole time?"
 
            "I think so."
 
            "Didn't step out?"
 
            "I went to the powder room a few times.  But everybody there could see the door to the ladies' room easily, and it doesn't have a back exit."      
 
            "All right."  Columbo tugged out his notepad, wrote Frequent trips to restroom???  "Of course, I'll have to verify all this."
 
            "Of course."
 
            "But I guess we can eliminate you.  You couldn't think of anybody else?  A jilted lover, perhaps?"
 
            "No.  Doris's life was centered around Angel."
 
            "All right.  Okay.  Thank you for your time."
 
            Columbo got about ten paces away when he snapped his fingers and turned back.  "Oh!  I almost forgot.  Miss Marsden, one more thing."
 
            "What?" she asked.
 
            He paused to let some whinnying horses be led by, then re-approached her.  "It has to do with your sister's car."
 
            "What about Doris's car?"
 
            "Maybe you can explain this to me.  The battery was dead."
 
            "It was?"
 
            He nodded.  "Not only that, but the battery under the hood was not the one that originally came with the car."
 
            "Oh.  Yes, I can explain that.  About a month ago, Doris's battery was stolen."
 
            "Stolen."
 
            "Yes.  She'd parked her car on the street, and when she came back, the battery was gone."
 
            "Hmmmm.  You know, they really should make cars so you can only detach the hood from inside the vehicle.  My car's like that.  Course, my car's French.  A Peugeot.  Um, but that doesn't explain something else."
 
            "What?"
 
            "Well, the battery in the car was rather old and dirty.  I can't understand why she would put in a used battery instead of a new one."
 
            Mazie nodded.  "She called a friend who's a mechanic, and he put it in for her.  I guess she just intended to use it temporarily but didn't get around to replacing it."
 
            "Strange.  I noticed she's a member of Auto Club.  I wonder why she didn't call them."
 
            "Auto Club won't replace your battery, Sergeant.  All they'll do is bring jumper cables or tow you."
 
            "Wait a minute.  I hadn't thought of that."  In his notebook he wrote Jumper cables? and circled it.
 
            "Who was this friend?" he continued.  "I called everybody in her phone book who lives in Southern California, didn't find anybody who was a mechanic."
 
            She remained unruffled.  "I don't know.  You'd have to ask Doris, but of course you can't."
 
            Columbo gazed into space.  "Strange.  Very strange.  Nope.  Just doesn't fit."
 
            "What doesn't fit?"
 
            "I tell you," he said, shaking his head.  "This is the darndest case.  Every time I turn around, there aren't fingerprints where there should be.  Like on the battery.  Now, how did this mechanic friend replace the battery without getting his prints on it?"
 
            "I don't know.  Maybe he wore gloves.  You'll have to ask him if you find him."
 
            "Mechanics usually don't care how dirty their hands get.  My wife's got a cousin who's one.  He's always got grease under his fingernails.  Then too, we did find some smears on the battery, as though somebody had wiped it."
 
            She shrugged.  "Like I say, you'd have to ask him."
 
            His eyes narrowed.  "Know what else I found?  When we put in a fresh battery, we discovered the radio was on."
 
            "That doesn't surprise me.  Doris often sat in the car and listened to the radio."
 
            "So was the heat."
 
            "That's not possible.  Why would Doris turn on the heat in June?"
 
            "I get the feeling," he said, "that you'll come up with an explanation for me."
 
            "Why do you say that?"
 
            "Because you knew your sister.  You knew the car."
 
            "Oh.  Well, let me think.  Sergeant, you know, there are two separate controls for the heater: one for the blower and one for the temperature."
 
            "Uh, huh."
 
            "Well, it's the same blower for the air conditioner.  And if you look at the dashboard, you'll see there's a lever for the temperature.  You move it to the left, you get heat.  To the right, you get cold.  Doris must have had the air conditioner on."
 
            "But it was set on heat," Columbo argued.
 
            "Most likely one of your men inadvertently moved the lever.  People were in and out of the car a lot that night."
 
            "Moved the lever," he mused.  "Possibly."
 
            "Anything else?"
 
            Columbo scratched his head.  "No, no, I guess that's it."
 
11:30 a.m.
 
            "Mr. O'Haran," Columbo called, jogging out the soundstage door.
 
            "Call me Paddy," the man said.  "Everybody else does."
 
            "Well, all right.  If you don't mind, I have a question for you."  They stepped under the shade of a tree with wide leaves.  "Uh, could you tell me about suicide in the movies?"
 
            "You mean like Marilyn Monroe, George Reeves?"
 
            "No," Columbo said, staring up at him.  Guy sure had a lot of freckles.  "I mean like the plot of a movie or a TV show.  Specifically, in a car with a gun."
 
            "Oh," Paddy said, folding his arms.  "One doesn't come to mind.  The Hays Commission frowned on the use of suicide, and network censors discourage it."
 
            "Huh.  The other question I wanted to ask: Do you remember where you were Saturday afternoon?"
 
            Paddy smiled.  "Am I a suspect?  Do I need an alibi?"
 
            "No, no.  I just have to tie up these little loose ends, account for everybody's whereabouts.  Where were you between two and five?"
 
            "Oh.  Well, that's a day I'm not likely to forget.  Angel was dubbing, and just before 2:00 I went to the sound studio to see her.  It was supposed to be her last day here."
 
            "So I've heard.  Who was in the studio, besides Angel?"
 
            "Well, Parker Raymond, the director.  John Olson, the sound man."
 
            "Miss Marsden?"
 
            "Yeah.  She was there."
 
            "Oh.  The whole time?"
 
            "No, she stepped out for some air when I arrived.  Angel was having a lot of trouble with a scene where she jumps off a bridge."
 
            "How long was Miss Marsden gone?"
 
            "Well, I didn't look at my watch or anything.  I remember she kicked me out of my seat when she returned."
 
            "And what was Angel doing?  When she came back?"
 
            "Oh, yeah.  Her character was being grabbed out of the river by two bad guys.  It wasn't much farther along in the film, but, like I said, Angel was having all kinds of trouble.  In fact, it took her about half an hour to get to that point."
 
            "So Miss Marsden was gone about that long."
 
            "Maybe a little less, maybe a little longer."  He frowned.  "What, you think she did it?"
 
            Columbo gazed up at him.  The man's face was clouded, anger flashing in his eyes. 
 
            "If she hurt Doris," Paddy growled, "she'll have to answer to me."
 
            "I don't see how she could have," Columbo said.  "The M.E. set the time of death at 3:30 or later.  According to you, she was back a full hour before then.  The director and sound man told me Miss Marsden was with them until Angel left, about 4:15, when she discovered the body."
 
            Paddy relaxed.  "Well, that's who my money would have been on."
 
            "Why?"
 
            "No love lost between her and Doris.  That woman is cold as ice, has no feelings at all.  I can't imagine Angel being raised by her."
 
            "About that . . . " Columbo said and spoke in lower tones.  "Have you ever seen her strike Angel?  Hurt her in any way?"
 
            "If you mean physically, no.  Can't say I have.  But she derides that kid all the time.  Angel told me the house seems more like a prison than a home now.  Did you know she had bars installed on the windows the day after Doris died?"
 
            Columbo frowned.  "I saw those.  Didn't know they were put in then."  Wouldn't you have to order those ahead of time? he wondered, flipping open his pad and writing a note about it.
 
            "You've been a big help," he added.  "Thank you.  I got something I have to check on."             
 
2:44 p.m.
 

            Columbo rapped on the doorjamb.  "May I come in?"
 
            Maryann Brooks glanced up from her reading.  "Sergeant.  Been expecting you again."
 
            He stepped into her office.  "Did you have a chance to research Angel Wilson?"
 
            "I did, and I have."
 
            "And?"
 
            "And I found exactly what I expected.  Nothing."
 
            Columbo's shoulders sagged.  "You sure?"
 
            She gestured him to a chair.  "Look, that kid was modeling a bikini, and I got to tell you, it was the skimpiest bathing suit I ever saw.  Bordered on indecent exposure."
 
            "I'm sure Angel didn't like that.  Can you get her aunt for that?  Indecent exposure of a minor?"
 
            "I said it bordered on, Columbo.  It didn't quite cross the line.  But it did afford me a good look at her body, and there's not a mark on it."  She yanked a file from the cabinet, handed it to him.  "The mother's will granted Miss Marsden custody of her daughter.  Also, the studio's in compliance with child labor laws.  She's not worked beyond the maximum hours, and her education is provided."
 
            He scanned the file.  "You say here she's underweight.  Eighty pounds."
 
            "Yeah.  'Emaciated' is the latest look, like that British model, Twiggy.  But unless you've got proof the aunt is starving her . . ."
 
            "I can't seem to get any proof in this case at all," Columbo complained. 
 
            "Tell you what," Maryann said.  "If I hear anything, find out anything else, I'll let you know."
 
            He shook his head.  "All right.  Well, thanks."
 
12
 
Friday, July 1
8:30 a.m.
 
            Columbo, holding his briefcase and waiting outside the wardrobe department, stared as half a dozen teenagers wearing tie-dyed shirts and bell-bottomed jeans strolled by.  One girl with long blond hair smiled and held up her index and middle fingers.  "Peace," she said.  "Flower power."
 
            "Okay," Columbo replied.
 
            "What are you supposed to be?" she asked.
 
            "A cop."
 
            She stopped in her tracks.  "Hey guys, it's the fuzz!"
 
            A brown-haired boy eyed him up and down.  "Mister, you don't look anything like a cop."
 
            "I'm enough of a cop to know you're not hippies."
 
            "Oh, yeah?" the boy said.  "What makes you say that?"
 
            "Well, for one thing," Columbo said, "your nails are manicured, and you boys are clean-shaven.  The flowers you girls have in your hair are artificial."  Approaching the boy, he added, "That long hair you're wearing doesn't match the color of your eyebrows, which means it's a wig.  You're actors pretending to be hippies."
 
            "Whoa," he said.  "You're right.  We're here to pick up some bucks playing extras."
 
            The girl said, "You're good.  You should be a cop for real."
 
            He couldn't help thinking, My lieutenant might not agree.  However, he merely shrugged and said, "Maybe I'll consider it."
 
            The teens wandered off, and someone tapped him on the shoulder.  Columbo turned to find Mazie Marsden frowning with impatience.
 
            "This better be important, Sergeant," she said. 
 
            "I'm sorry," Columbo told Mazie.  "I know I'm a pest.  But there's something I thought I should show you privately."  He dug in his briefcase and held up a file folder by its spine.  "This is a photograph you may find shocking.  I want you to be prepared for that."
 
            "Okay."  Mazie opened the folder, held it in both hands.  "You're right," she said dryly.  "I'm shocked."
 
            Columbo frowned.  "What?"  He checked the photo, saw it was an 8x10 black and white glossy of four smiling women displaying bowling trophies.
 
            He grinned sheepishly.  "Oops.  Wrong picture.  My wife's team won their tournament last year.  I keep forgetting to get that framed."  He took the folder back by its spine, slipped it into his briefcase, and handed her a different one.
 
            Mazie opened it to another glossy black and white, this time of Doris's slumped body inside the car.
 
            "Is there a point to showing me this?"
 
            "Sorry.  I know it's difficult to look at.  This was taken right after the police arrived at the scene, from the backseat.  Nobody was up front yet, not a thing had been touched there.  I had a couple blowups made, of two separate parts of the photo."  He flipped the picture over, showed a blowup of the spot where the passenger seat paralleled the gear shift.  "I find this very interesting.  You see your sister's walkie-talkie?  I checked it out of the evidence room and jammed it next to the seat just like it is there.  Did you know if you do that, the send button is continuously depressed?"
 
            "Yes, of course.  And you know I know.  Doris and I both used to jam in our walkie-talkies like that.  It freed up our hands for driving.  All she had to do was rotate the unit a bit to manipulate the send button.  Unfortunately, it also tends to leave an indentation in the side of the seat, just like the one you saw in my car when you were poking around it yesterday."
 
            Columbo said, "Uh . . ."
 
            "But, Sergeant, surely you remember I told you my walkie-talkie battery was dead that day.  I did not hear Doris speak to me on hers."
 
            "Right.  Too bad, or you could have heard the shot, given us an exact time of death.  But this other blowup here," he turned the first one over, "is of the dashboard.  As you can see, Miss Marsden, the temperature lever is clearly set on heat.  See that?"
 
            "Yes, I do," she said.  "But I don't understand why Doris would have the heat on."
 
            "She wouldn't," he said, "so she didn't."
 
            "Then who turned it on?"
 
            "The murderer.  Time of death was established by body temperature.  We tested the temperature inside the car under the same conditions: car parked in the shade, windows rolled up, heat on.  You know, it got over 150 degrees in that car?  Now, I talked to the Medical Examiner, asked him what the time of death would be under those conditions.  He said with an ambient temperature that high, it could have taken place much earlier, even as early as noon."
 
            "I see."
 
            "But your sister arrived a little before two.  That gives us a time frame between 2:00 and 4:15."
 
            "All right.  So?"
 
            He took his photos back.  "I'm afraid it ruins your alibi, ma'am.  You see, I did talk to the people who were in the dubbing room that day.  The director and sound guy, they weren't paying much attention, but Paddy tells me you left just around two o'clock and were gone about half an hour."
 
            Mazie smiled.  "Well, Paddy carries a hip flask of whiskey.  He's been known to be mistaken about a thing or two, especially the time."
 
            Columbo ran his thumb and index finger along the folder's spine.  "He seems very certain.  He remembers Angel was doing a scene where she's going to jump off a bridge.  And when you returned, the bad guys were fishing her out of the water.  Sounds to me like he remembers details pretty well."
 
            "What a shame," Mazie said, blowing cigarette smoke.  "And here I was hoping for such a strong alibi.  Of course, any good lawyer would destroy Paddy on the witness stand.  Where does this leave us?"
 
            "Well," Columbo said, scratching his head.  "The murderer has to be someone with a motive, like you.  It has to be someone who was there on June 17th when the gun was stolen, like you.  And it has to be someone who cannot account for her whereabouts during the time in question, like you."
 
            She put a hand on her hip.  "So why don't you just say it?  I know you're dying to."  
 
            He tried to keep the iciness out of his voice but wasn't entirely successful.  "I believe you killed your sister.  And I believe you are both using and abusing Angel."
 
            "There.  I knew that loathing was simmering just below the surface.  You missed your calling, Sergeant.  You should have been an actor.  You hide it pretty well, you know, with your polite façade, all the 'yes ma'am, no ma'am' talk.  But don't you feel better getting it out?"
 
            "No," he said.  "Not at all."
 
            "Well, are you going to arrest me?"
 
            He sighed, took a step back.
 
            "Aw, no proof?  Of course you don't have any."
 
            "Not yet."
 
            "There won't be any, Sergeant.  I didn't kill Doris.  As for Angel, I know all about that social worker you sent to investigate me, one Miss Maryann Brooks.  She didn't find a thing.  Too bad.  What, did you think you would be Cinderella's knight in shining, uh, raincoat?"
 
            Columbo raised a finger.  "I want you to take good care of Angel.  If I find out she's been starved, or beaten, or abused in any way, I will be coming after you."
 
            She blew smoke in his face.  "I'm so scared.  Speaking of abuse, what am I to make of an older man in a raincoat stalking my niece, offering her candy?"
 
            His fists involuntarily clenched.  "Angel will never support such an accusation."
 
            "She's too scared to," Mazie said.  "Or too naive to understand what's going on.  I haven't quite decided which yet."
 
            At that his temper flared.  It was bad enough she had taken a human life, but she was treating that sweet little girl like her own personal possession, and she knew that he knew she was doing it.  And now she was not only throwing his powerlessness in his face, she was turning her attack on him. 
 
            Words came out of his mouth without his intending them.  "You cold-hearted bitch.  Sponging off a child."
 
            "That's slander, Columbo.  I could sue you."
 
            "No, that was name-calling.  It's only slander if it damages your reputation, which it can't if there are no witnesses."
 
            "Good point.  Speaking of the law, I'm going to have to contact the studio's attorneys, get a restraining order.  Angel belongs to me now, and I have to protect my investment.  You won't be bothering either of us again unless, that is, you want me to call Internal Affairs and tell them you've taken advantage of a fourteen-year-old girl."  She stepped on her cigarette.  "It was fun playing with you, Sergeant."
 
            "You think this is a game?"
 
            "Everything in life is a game.  And I have to admit, Sergeant, you're one hell of a player, much better than I originally thought.  But who knows?  Maybe, in a few years, I'll play with you again."
 
            She smiled, then winked, turned, and strolled away.  His anger gave way to bafflement.  Stagehands and actors wandered by, and a horse, bucking, whinnied.  He stared at her retreating back, oblivious to it all, then gasped three words.
 
            "Oh my God."
 
1:00 p.m.
 

             Captain Sommers perused the report and glanced up.  Columbo, rubbing his forehead and staring at the floor, paced.
 
            "You haven't got it," Sommers said.
 
            "I got Motive."
 
            "Agreed."
 
            "I can show Opportunity."
 
            "But Means, Columbo.  You haven't got Means.  To commit the murder the way you say she did, she had to know about paraffin tests.  Why else would she slap the gun in her sister's hand and fire another shot?  Unless you can prove she had prior knowledge, no jury's going to believe she did it."
 
            "I know."
 
            "And this thing with the window bars.  Invoice shows they were ordered by Mrs. Wilson."
 
            "Over the phone," Columbo pointed out.  "A week before the murder.  But the company has a big selection.  Who orders bars without coming down to pick out the style they want?  And why pay extra to have them installed on Sunday?  What was the big rush?  Captain, I swear, those weren't put in to keep burglars out.  They're there to keep Angel in."
 
            Sommers said, "This is all circumstantial, every bit of it."
 
            He stopped pacing and begged, "I need more time."
 
            "You have any other leads?"
 
            "Not at the moment."
 
            "Time is a luxury I may not be able to give you.  Brenner and Miller have several suspects in the Davis investigation.  They need to be checked out.  So, unless you can find something more substantial, like a witness, it may be time to put this one on the back burner."
 
            Columbo blinked tears of frustration.  "Captain, I can't stand the thought of this girl living like a prisoner under the thumb of the woman who killed her mother."
 
            "Well, you may have to.  Columbo, sometimes the hardest part of this job is letting go.  This is why you shouldn't have gotten so emotionally involved."
 
            "I can't help myself.  I'm scared to death for this kid.  The aunt made an intimidation . . . she said the whole thing had been a game, and maybe we'd play again in a few years.  You didn't see the wink she gave me.  I swear, the moment Angel outlives her usefulness, her body's going to wash up on the shore or something.  She's the girl's closest living relative, and I swear this woman's planning on getting it all, even Angel's fifteen percent."
 
            "You're reading an awful lot into a wink."  Sommers handed Columbo back the report.  "File it, and let's move on."
 
            "Give me the weekend.  Give me till Monday."
 
            "Monday is the Fourth of July," Sommers said.  "And what if that baby of yours comes?  Besides, what else have you got to investigate?"
 
            "I don't know.  I'll go over it again."
 
            "And again and again.  I know you.  You'll be up all weekend."
 
            "Doesn't matter.  I won't be able to sleep anyway."
 
            Sommers rapped his fingers on the desk.  "If you really want to work through a holiday weekend, all right.  But unless you find something, Tuesday morning you go back on Davis."
 
            Through his window, Sommers watched Columbo shuffle to his desk, plop into the chair, flip open the folder and, head in hands, begin reading.
 
5:30 p.m.
 
             Carrying a flat brightly-wrapped present behind her back, Angel glanced around the squad room.  "Excuse me," she said to a uniformed officer.  "I'm looking for Sergeant Columbo."
 
            He pointed at a desk with hundreds of files stacked so high they threatened to topple over.
 
            She frowned, sauntered to the desk.  It seemed unoccupied, but then Columbo popped up from behind a mound of folders.  His coat and jacket were off, sleeves rolled up.  Perspiration stained his shirt.
 
            "Oh," he said.  "Angel.  What are you doing here?  Please tell me you didn't walk."
 
            "Paddy brought me.  It's our dinner hour.  He's downstairs talking to a policeman friend of his."  She gestured at the files.  "You sure seem to have a lot more work than everyone else."
 
            "Oh, these?  No, these are old files.  Remember how I told you this case reminded me of one from before?  I just can't seem to remember which."  He cleared a space in the middle of the desk and added, "Have a seat."
 
            She laid the package on the floor.  "This is an awful lot to read.  It's not going very well, is it?"
 
            Columbo leaned back in his chair, eyebrows knitted in . . . what?  His stare went beyond worry.  A touch of fear glinted in his eye.  Angel frowned in confusion.  Her mother had been murdered, true.  But certainly no one else was in danger here.    
 
            She wanted to question him about it, but he spoke.  "I told you when this started not to get your hopes up."
 
            "That bad, huh?"
 
            He said nothing, but his silence was an answer.
 
            Soreness ringed her throat.  "You don't think you're going to solve it, do you?"
 
            He played with a pencil instead of looking at her.  "Angel, I never give up on a homicide, never."
 
            She let out her breath.  "Well, at least you proved it wasn't a suicide.  I want to thank you for that.  And," she scooped up the package, "I have something for you.  Well, not for you.  For the baby."
 
            "Oh, man.  You shouldn't have.  Here I give you such bad news, and--"
 
            "Take it," she said.
 
            He hefted it in his hand.  "I'm guessing a book."
 
            "Open it."
 
            "Think I should?"
 
            "Why not?"
 
            He tore wrapping paper off, flipped the book over.  "Dr. Seuss.  Green Eggs and Ham."
 
            "You don't already have that one, do you?"
 
            "No," Columbo said, skimming the pages.  "No, we don't.  Thank you."
 
            "I'm sure your kid will love it.  I always liked Dr. Seuss."  She stared into the distance as though gazing into the past.  "I remember when I was three, and my mother took me to get a library card--"
 
            He interrupted.  "You had a library card when you were three?"
 
            "All you had to do to get one was print your name.  My mother told me to print it small, I guess so it'd fit in one space on the signature card.  But I made these teensy little letters.  I was so proud of how small I'd gotten it, but of course she made me erase it and do it again."
 
            Columbo smiled.
 
            "And then," Angel continued, "I checked out my first book.  It was a Dr. Seuss too.  Horton Hears a Who.  I must have made my mother read it to me every night for the next two . . ."
 
            Angel glanced at Columbo, saw he was staring at a corner of the ceiling.  He appeared not to have heard a word she said.
 
            "Sergeant?"
 
            No response.
 
            She rose, waved a hand in front of his face.  "Earth calling Sergeant Columbo."
 
            He came to.  "Of course!" he said, a palm smacking his forehead.  "Dr. Seuss!"
 
            "Huh?"
 
            He checked his watch.  "Is this the right time?"  Bounding from his chair, he spilled files onto the floor.  "Gotta go!"  A few steps away, he turned, raced back, grabbed his coat and the book.
 
            "Thank you so much," he said at the door.  "I'm sure Mrs. Columbo will love it."
 
            "Where are you going?" Angel asked.
 
            A grin spread over his face.  "Something I gotta check out." 
 
            He was gone.  Angel stared after him.  Another pile of folders tipped over, spilled.
 
            "That sure was weird."
 
13
 
Tuesday, July 5
9:30 a.m.
 
            Waves curled, rushed for shore, and hissed on the sand.  Cameras were rolled into position, makeup dabbed on actors. 
 
            Mazie stomped toward one of the trailers set up on the beach.  "What's the problem?" she asked Paddy.
 
            Paddy sat on the stairs with his arms folded.  "She says she won't wear it.  And I don't blame her."
 
            Mazie tossed her cigarette onto the sand.  "We'll see about that."  She slammed open the door of the trailer and stepped inside.  "What's this I hear about the bikini?"
 
            Angel hurled the few inches of cloth across the room.  "I won't.  There's lots of boys out there, watching the filming.  And I especially won't wear this on camera.  It's like barely wearing anything."
 
            Mazie scooped up the bathing suit.  "Now, you listen to me, young lady.  Why do you think we're being paid a quarter of a million for this picture?  Because the studio heads think they can sell tickets to teenage boys.  That's the whole reason for the suit, so boys can get a good look at you.  Do you know how many girls would love to have so many boys worshipping her?"
 
            Angel dropped into a chair.  "Then let one of them wear it."  She waved an arm toward the set.  "This is the dumbest movie.  Nobody dances the Twist anymore.  And that rock and roll group.  Their Beatle wigs are so phony.  Besides, how can they play electric guitars at the beach?  What do they plug them into, the sand?"
 
            "Teenagers are too stupid to think of something like that."
 
            "I thought of it.  You want me to have a career?  This movie will ruin it."
 
            Eyes narrowed, Mazie leaned against a counter.  "Well, okay.  You don't want to do it.  I'll tell you what I want.  Tonight I want to build a fire in the fireplace.  Of course, I'll need something to burn, like that new Beatles album of yours."
 
            Her chin quivered.  "Aunt Mazie, no.  Please.  That's the last thing Mom gave me."
 
            She flung the suit at her.  "Then get dressed."  She gestured toward the window.  "Everybody's waiting on you.  The director--"
 
            Through the window she spied Sergeant Columbo, carrying a large brown paper bag and flanked by two uniformed officers, stroll into view.  At the makeup tables he asked the workers a question.  One pointed in the direction of the trailer.
 
            Shaking her head, Mazie clenched her teeth.  "What do I have to do to get rid of him?"
 
 **
 
            "That trailer?" Columbo asked.  "The one with the blue trim?"
 
            "Yeah, that's Angel's," a blonde woman said, tugging a comb through an actor's hair.  "I saw her aunt go in there a couple minutes ago."
 
            "Thank you," Columbo said.  He gestured the officers on, and they climbed a bit of sandy incline. 
 
            Columbo handed the paper sack to Brinski and mounted the stairs.  He raised his hand to knock when the door sprang open and Mazie brushed by him.
 
            "I'm calling Internal Affairs," she said.
 
            For the moment, Columbo let her go and instead leaned inside the trailer.  "Angel?"
 
            "Yes?" she asked.
 
            "I think you better stay in here."
 
            Her eyes widened.  "What's going on?"
 
            "Just stay in here," he answered and closed the door.  "Miss Marsden?" he called, scrambling down the steps.  "Miss Marsden, ma'am?  I need to talk to you."
 
            Mazie, already several yards away, turned.  "I warned you, Sergeant, and now I'm looking for a phone."
 
            "Uh, ma'am?" Columbo said, darting after her, his shoes churning sand. "You can call Internal Affairs if you want, but, ma'am . . ." 
 
            She ignored him, her faster pace widening the gap between them.  Finally Columbo, beginning to pant for air, halted.  She was leaving him little choice.  He took a deep breath and bellowed, "I'm here to arrest you for the murder of your sister."
 
            Mazie braked so hard she teetered.  A few people within earshot gasped. 
 
            She whipped around, eyes wide in shock.  He plodded toward her and spoke in lower tones.  "I'm here to arrest you for the murder of your sister."
 
            Mazie regained her calm.  "You're joking."
 
            "I never joke about murder, ma'am.  You planned it, you set it up to look like a suicide, but you're the one who pulled the trigger."  He stopped before her.  "I can tell you how you did it."
 
            "Well, don't just tell me," she said, spreading her arms and raising her voice.  "Tell all of us!  Hey, Sergeant Columbo is going to explain how I killed Doris!"
 
            Columbo said, "Ma'am, I don't think you want an audience for this."
 
            "Oh, yes I do," Mazie said as cast and crew members, intrigued, wandered toward them.  "This time I'll have witnesses to your slander."
 
            His uniformed officers stepped alongside him, Brinski carrying the paper sack.  Columbo scratched his head.
 
            "Well, all right.  It's your funeral."  As a crowd of about three dozen encircled them, he patted his coat pockets.  "Uh, just a minute."  He whispered to Brinski, "You got a Miranda card?"
 
            "Don't you have it memorized?" Brinski said.
 
            "If I had it memorized," Columbo said, "I wouldn't need the card.  I don't want her walking on a technicality."  Brinski grinned, yanked one from his shirt pocket. 
 
            Columbo flipped it over so it was right side up.  "Okay.  You have the right to remain silent--though I doubt you will."
 
            "Oh brother," Mazie said.
 
            "If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law.  I would take that part seriously, Miss Marsden.  You have the right to an attorney--and I highly recommend it.  If you desire an attorney and cannot afford one, one will be appointed for you by the state.  Do you understand these rights?"
 
            Mazie snorted.  "Sure, Sergeant.  I'll play along.  I understand my damn rights."
 
            "Okay," he said, handing the card back to Brinski.  "You heard from Mrs. Wilson on your walkie-talkie when she got to the studio, or you knew what time she was expected to arrive.  Either way, you were waiting for her in that alcove where you park."
 
            Mazie lit a cigarette.  "I was in the dubbing room."
 
            "No, ma'am.  You stepped out, claiming you needed some air.  When Mrs. Wilson arrived, somehow you talked her into remaining in the car a moment, and you shot her through the passenger window.  And then you did something to make us believe it was a suicide.  You put the gun in your sister's hand, fired another shot into the ground, and dug that bullet out.  That's where," he rummaged in the sack Brinski held and snatched out a photograph, "we found disturbed soil, right outside the driver's door."  He showed her the picture, but she gave it only a cursory glimpse.  "And then, of course, you replaced the spent bullet.  But you knew we would be looking for gunpowder on her hand."
 
            Mazie said, "You seem to be forgetting, Sergeant, that I never heard of this gunpowder test until you told me about it the other day."
 
            "What was that?" Columbo said, cupping his ear. 
 
            Louder she said, "I never heard of your stupid paraffin test until you told me about it later!"
 
            "Believe me, I recall the conversation," he said, holding up his notepad.  "Immediately afterward, I wrote all of it down.  It should make interesting testimony.  But, getting back to the murder.  You had a contingency plan, just in case we weren't convinced it was a suicide.  You exchanged the battery in your sister's car for a dead one, then used jumper cables to give it some juice from your car.  Not much, about an hour's worth.  You rolled up the windows, turned on the radio, and--this was very important--you turned on the heat so the coroner would be thrown off by Mrs. Wilson's body temperature and conclude she died about an hour later.  This, of course, allowed you to get back to the dubbing studio and give yourself an alibi."
 
            "My, I am clever," Mazie said, blowing smoke.
 
            "Oh, yes.  And you did something even more clever.  You left your sister's walkie-talkie jammed next to the seat so the send button was pushed in.  That's so you could hear the car radio through yours, ma'am.  All you had to do was excuse yourself to the ladies' room every few minutes and check if the radio was still playing.  When it wasn't, you knew the battery had died and turned off the heat."
 
            "The battery in my walkie-talkie was dead that afternoon," Mazie said.  "Angel will testify to that."
 
            "Changing a dead battery for a good one in the restroom wasn't difficult.  You know, from the very start, I thought it was just too coincidental that your battery died the same afternoon your sister did."
 
            "Coincidences do happen."   
 
            Columbo stepped forward.  "But then you did something exceptionally cruel.  I have to tell you, Miss Marsden, this will not sit well with the jury.  You sent Angel to find her mother's dead body.  You could have sent anybody.  You could have sent Paddy.  Instead, you sent her.  And it took me some time to realize why."
 
            "I suppose you're going to tell me."
 
            "Because an emotionally distraught child is easier to control.  And that's what this is all about: who controls Angel, or rather the money she earns.  I got to hand it to you, Miss Marsden.  You managed to bypass all the laws, even the Thirteenth Amendment, and get yourself a slave, or at least 85% of one."
 
            "That's particularly slanderous, Columbo," she said.  "I hope everybody heard that."
 
            "Is it?  You never refer to Angel as a person.  You call her a property, say she belongs to you, that you own her."  He glanced around.  "Has anybody else heard her talk like that?"
 
            He saw a few nods, heard murmurs of agreement.
 
            For the first time her face clouded.  "This is an interesting story, Sergeant.  Maybe we'll make a movie out of it.  But you seem to be forgetting something, a little thing called proof."
 
            Everybody stared at him.  Except for some cawing seagulls and waves crashing on shore, it was dead quiet.
 
            Columbo said, "I finally figured out where I heard the name Mazie before."
 
            "Really?  You mean you can solve a mystery?"
 
            He nodded.  "A couple months ago, my brother and his wife had to go out of town for a week, so they left their daughter with my wife and me.  She's only three.  And she brought her teddy bear and her Betsy Wetsy--"                 
 
            "You know," Mazie interrupted, "your story was really good until you went off on this tangent."
 
            Columbo ignored her.  "And that night, she wanted a bedtime story.  But I didn't have one to read her.  My wife and I weren't set up for that sort of thing.  We don't have any kids, at least not quite yet.  So the next day I went to the library and checked out some books.  Including," he reached into the sack and withdrew a book with a picture of an elephant sitting on a tree branch, "this one.  Dr. Seuss.  Horton Hatches the Egg."  He thumbed the pages.  "All about a bird named Maysie.  It's spelled differently but pronounced the same.  The bird lays an egg but talks an elephant named Horton into doing the work of sitting on the nest--"
 
            "I don't need a beddy-bye story," Mazie said.
 
            "You find this boring?"  He closed the book, gazed at the cover.  "Sounds to me a lot like the story of your life, getting someone else to do the work for you."  Columbo re-opened the cover, slipped a 3x5 from a pocket inside.  "See?  There's my name on the signature card, with the due date.  April 12, 1967."
 
            Mazie peered at it.  "So you do have a first name.  I was beginning to wonder."
 
            Columbo slid the card back in.  "It gives me great pleasure to tell you, Miss Marsden, that this is what nailed you.  You were done in by Dr. Seuss."
 
            She frowned.  "That has nothing to do with Doris's death."
 
            "Oh, it does.  I was sitting at my desk when I remembered this book, and I actually thought, 'That's it!  Mazie is from the library!'  And whap!" he snapped his fingers, "that's when I made the other connection.  That's when I remembered . . . ."  He handed the Dr. Seuss to an onlooker, rummaged in the sack again, and drew out another book, a hardback with a light green cover. 
 
            Columbo glanced up to catch Mazie's reaction and was gratified to see a flicker of worry in her eyes.
 
            "That's when I remembered this book," he said.  "Confessions of a Chicago Cop: 20 Case Studies.  By Lieutenant Barry Reinhold of the Chicago Police Department.  You see, I knew, I just knew I'd heard about this case before, but I couldn't figure out where.  This is it.  Chapter 7.  'The Suicide That Wasn't.'"
 
            He flipped the cover.  "All about an ex-cop who shoots a business partner in his car, sets it up to look like suicide by placing the gun in his hand and firing a second shot so the paraffin test will be positive.  Replaces the spent bullet.  Turns on the heat in the car to throw off the time of death.  Of course, his mistake was draining the car battery by leaving the lights and radio on.  Unfortunately for him, somebody noticed the lights, saw the body, and called the police.  You corrected that mistake by using a battery that was almost dead.  And look--there's my name on the signature card.  Due October 18, 1962.  I read this book almost five years ago."
 
            "May I see?" Mazie said, holding out her hand.  She turned the card over.  "I don't see my name here."
 
            "But wouldn't you agree," Columbo said, "that this is where the murderer got his idea?  I mean, the similarities are just too great to be coincidental."  He glanced around.  "Wouldn't you all say that?"
 
            Heads nodded. 
 
            "Well, I agree with you too, Sergeant.  But I didn't read that book.  I've never even seen it before."
 
            "Are you sure?"
 
            "Yes, I'm sure.  I've never seen it."
 
            "Perhaps you read another copy, from a branch library?  The Hollywood Branch has a copy."
 
            "I didn't.  If you think I did, perhaps you should check for my signature there."
 
            Columbo smiled.  "Oh, we both know that would be a waste of time, Miss Marsden.  I won't find your name there.  That's because you don't have a library card.  I verified that at the circulation desk.  Of course, you don't need to check out a book to read it.  You can read it at the library."
 
            Mazie said, "I suppose you have a witness who claims I did?  The librarian, perhaps?"
 
            "No.  And believe me, it wasn't for lack of looking."
 
            She sighed with relief.  "Then I guess your story's finished."
 
            "Almost.  Just one more thing.  You remember that photograph of my wife's bowling team?"
 
            "What, another tangent?  Sergeant, really!"
 
            "I gave it to you?  You held the file folder?"
 
            "Yes, damn it.  So?"
 
            "You know," Columbo said, gazing into space, "part of me said it was a waste of time showing you that.  But the other part of me said, 'Well, you never know.  Maybe it wouldn't hurt to get them.'"
 
            "Get them?"  Mazie frowned.  "Get what?"
 
            "Your fingerprints, of course," Columbo said.  "And the prints you left on that folder, Miss Marsden, match the ones we found on this book.  Oh, not this copy, the one from the Hollywood Branch.  That's the one I checked into the evidence room."  He held up the book, opened it.  "Your prints are on the cover, the title page, the table of contents.  Then we find no more until," he skimmed through the book, "page 146.  Chapter 7.  'The Suicide That Wasn't.'  All of a sudden, we find numerous examples.  Pages 150 and 151: three full sets of left hand impressions, where you must have held the book down.  Multiple right thumb and index prints in the upper corners from turning the pages.  And then, from chapter 8 on, nothing until we come to the back cover."  He snapped the book shut.  "You must have read that chapter four or five times."
 
            Mazie blew cigarette smoke and shook her head.  "You have no idea what you've done.  I would have made her the biggest star in Hollywood."
 
            "Yes," he said.  "You would have, at least for the next six and a half years."
 
            Behind him a voice quivered, "Aunt Mazie?"
 
            He spun around.  Oh no.  Angel.
 
            Tears brimmed her lower lids.  "You can't," she told him.  "Not my Aunt Mazie."
 
            Brinski yanked cuffs from his belt, was about to slap them on Mazie when Columbo said, "Those won't be necessary."
 
            "Aunt Mazie?" she asked her.  "Tell him you didn't!"
 
            Mazie stared down at her.  "You're such a stupid little girl."
 
            The officers escorted her away, Angel watching them climb toward the parking lot. 
 
            "You can't," she cried, beating Columbo's chest.  "You can't arrest my aunt."
 
            He held her wrists back and said to the onlookers, "Could we have some privacy here?"
 
            "Angel," he added as the crowd dispersed, "I wanted to find a way to tell you more gently, but she's the one who did it."  He led her to a picnic table, sat her down.
 
            "She's all I've got," Angel whined.  "What's going to happen to me?"
 
            Columbo squatted before her.  "Listen.  I managed to find your father's cousin.  She's living in Idyllwild with her husband and kids, and she says you can stay with them until something more permanent can be arranged.  Hey," he added, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, "you're strong.  Anybody who can walk five miles in the heat just to talk to the police, well, that's one of the strongest people I've ever met."
 
            Her breathing steadied, shaking shoulders calmed.
 
            Brinski tapped him on the back.
 
            "Not now," Columbo said.
 
            "But Sergeant.  We just got a radio call.  Your wife says she's in labor."
 
            His eyes widened.  "Now?"
 
            Angel wiped tears with her palm.  "You should go."
 
            He put his hand on hers.  "You going to be okay?"
 
            She nodded.  "Go."
 
            "Brinski, will you take her to Maryann Brooks?  She's expecting her."
 
            Brinski nodded. 
 
            The director trotted over.  "Excuse me, but we still have a picture to make."
 
            Columbo pointed at Angel.  "Not with her."
 
            "Of course with her.  She's the lead."
 
            "I don't think so.  I can see the headlines: 'Aunt Murders Mother to Force Child to Star in Beach Pix.'  Not the kind of publicity your studio's going to want."
 
            Angel snorted and, even through her tears, grinned.
 
 **
 
            Two muscular surfers, their hair bleached by the sun, slid boards from a station wagon.  Hefting them under their arms, they strolled to the edge of the parking lot.
 
            A dark-haired man in his thirties, dressed in a raincoat over a suit and tie, dashed up to a cop standing by a patrol car.  "Hey, officer!  Get me to the hospital!  I'm having a baby!"
 
            They snickered.  "Dude don't look pregnant," one scoffed.
 
            The cop and the man in the raincoat slid inside the patrol car.  It zoomed out of the lot, siren wailing. 
 
            "Hope that cop's taking him to the mental ward," the other said.  "Can't believe how many weirdos are at the beach."
 
14
 
Wednesday, July 6
8:05 a.m.   
 
            "Hey, Columbo!" Miller said, putting out his hand.  "I hear congratulations are in order."
 
            "Yeah," Columbo said, shaking it, then raising the lid on a box of cigars.  "Have one.  Born just after midnight.  Eight pounds, two ounces.  And what a set of lungs!  I didn't know a baby could scream that loud."
 
            "May I?" Brinski asked, reaching for a cigar.
 
            "Of course.  Cigars for everyone."
 
            "Does this mean," Brinski asked, "that you two finally picked out a name?"
 
            "Well, no.  Not yet.  My wife suggested Chris, but I vetoed that idea.  Chris Columbo.  Kid'd get teased with a name like that."
 
            "Did you hear?" Brinski added.  "Sergeant Miller solved the Davis case."
 
            "You did?  That's terrific.  Brenner must've been thrilled."
 
            "Not really," Miller said.  "You know how your suicide turned out to be a murder?  Well, my murder turned out to be a suicide.  I found proof Davis got the cyanide himself.  Guy was having big financial problems, hoped his wife would get the life insurance.  After all the mayor's and police chief's speeches about what a maniac the killer was, it turns out to be a major embarrassment for the city."
 
            "Gee, too bad it turned out like--" he began when a harsh voice behind him interrupted.
 
            "Columbo!"
 
            They turned to see Captain Sommers fuming.
 
            "Cigar?" he asked, offering the box.
 
            "I don't want a damn cigar, Columbo.  What I want is your desk cleaned up."  He pointed at stacks of files, some covering the floor. 
 
            "Oh.  Certainly."  Columbo laid the cigar box down, picked up folders.
 
            Sommers piled more into his arms, so many they began spilling.  "Do you think you can manage to get these put back, and in the right order?"
 
            "Yes, sir."
 
            "Good.  I'd hate to think the LAPD has a lieutenant who doesn't know the alphabet."
 
            "No, sir.  No problem.  I'll take care of it right--"
 
            Shocked, he glanced at Sommers, saw his frown melt into a grin.
 
            "I got it?" he whispered. 
 
            Sommers held out his hand.  "It's not official yet, but let me be the first to congratulate you, Lieutenant Columbo."
 
            Folders in his arms, completely forgotten, slid to the floor, their contents spilling.  "You're kidding."
 
            Sommers shook his hand.  "The brass was pretty impressed that you solved a murder with a book you'd read five years ago.  Turns out none of them had read it, and none of us either.  You were the only homicide detective who could have solved the case.  It's that kind of gung-ho that they were looking for."
 
             Miller said, "Congratulations again."            
 
            "Boy," Columbo said, pumping Miller's hand.  "This is something.  A baby and a promotion, all on the same day.  Wait'll my wife hears!"
 
Thursday, August 18
10:45 a.m.
 
            Carrying a brown paper sack, Columbo bounded up porch steps and rang a doorbell.
 
            A middle-aged brunette with a Jackie Kennedy hairstyle opened the door.  "May I help you?"
 
            "I sure hope so, ma'am," he said.  "I'm kind of lost.  I'm looking for 4529 Sagebrush, but there's a Sagebrush Street, and a Sagebrush Court, and a Sagebrush Way, and a Sagebrush Terrace, and I'm not sure I've got the right place."
 
            "Who are you looking for?" she asked.
 
            "Uh, Angel Wilson."
 
            "And you are?"
 
            "Oh, sorry," he said, reaching in his back pants pocket for his ID.  "Lieutenant Columbo, LAPD."
 
            The woman smiled.  "You found the right house."  She opened the door wider, inviting him in.
 
            "Oh, thank goodness.  This is the third door I've knocked on."
 
            She nodded, shouted up a flight of stairs, "Angel!  There's a Lieutenant Columbo here to see you!"

            A voice yelled back, "Be right down!"
 
           Columbo said, "I hope this isn't an inconvenience.  I know I should have called first, but I was in San Jacinto, interviewing a witness, and Idyllwild's just a bit farther down Highway 74, so I figured as long as I was already out this far--"
 
            Footsteps pounded on the stairs and Angel came into view.
 
            Her eyes sparkled.  She'd gained weight, he noticed, and it looked healthy. 
 
            "Did I hear right?" she said.  "You're a lieutenant now?"
 
            He grinned.  "That's what you heard."
 
            From upstairs came thumpings followed by shouts of "Gimme that!  It's mine."  "No, it's not!"  "You broke it!  Mom!"
 
            "Excuse me," the brunette said and climbed the stairs.
 
            "Sounds like the house I grew up in," Columbo said.
 
            "You know," Angel said, squinting, "you look different somehow."
 
            "Oh.  Yeah.  I've had a haircut, and I bought a new suit and tie . . . what do you think?"
 
            "You kind of look like Joe Friday."
 
            "Do I?" he asked, unsure once again if she was giving him a compliment or an insult.  "No, it's just that, now that I'm a lieutenant, I thought it was best to at least try to look tidy.  Though, to tell you the truth," he said, taking her arm and lowering his voice, "I don't know how long I can keep it up."
 
            "Guess what?" Angel said as they strolled into the living room and sat down.  "They want to adopt me.  I'm going to have a mother and a father, two sisters, and a brother."
 
            "Angel, that's terrific."
 
            "And I start high school next month.  A real school with real kids."
 
            "What about your movie career?"
 
            "Don't need it.  Turns out Aunt Mazie was a really good negotiator.  My contract was pay or play."
 
            "I'm sorry.  What?"
 
            "Pay or play.  Even though the studio decided they don't want me anymore, they still have to pay me."
 
            "You mean you get the million dollars?"
 
            She smiled and nodded.  "My new Mom and Dad say I can keep all of it, minus what Uncle Sam takes.  But I figure it'll get me through college, and my new siblings too."
 
            "Oh!" Columbo said.  "I almost forgot.  I brought you something."  He slipped a large rectangular box from the sack.
 
            "Clue!"
 
            "As I recall, we have a deal.  I solve your mother's murder, and you tell me your secret."
 
            "Well, most of it you already found out that day you were snooping," she said as he shrugged the lid off.
 
            "But," he said, "you didn't explain how you knew I had the Rope card."
 
            "All right.  Well, you remember Paddy was in the Kitchen, and he suggested Colonel Mustard and the Rope?"
 
            "Yes?"
 
            "Well, if you look at the Detective Notepad Sheets, the suspects are listed at the top, the weapons in the middle, and the rooms at the bottom.  And, when you showed Paddy your card, he marked off a spot in the middle of his."
 
            "So you knew it had to be the weapon."  Columbo slapped his forehead.  "That's so simple, I'm embarrassed.  But wait.  That's cheating."
 
            "No, it isn't.  Show me in the rules where it says you can't do that."
 
            "Well, I don't think the rules say you can't mark the cards, but I think everyone would consider that cheating."
 
            Angel shook her head.  "That would be tampering with the evidence.  In this game, you're supposed to be a detective.  Shouldn't a good detective be observant?"
 
            Lieutenant Columbo spread his arms along the back of the sofa and grinned.
 
            "Absolutely." 




THE END