20 Years Ago:

           

The car skidded on the dirt road. Brakes screeched, let go, and then screeched again. Then the car jolted into a ditch and came to a bone-rattling halt with one fender crumpled against a tree.

            Responding to Celeste Angelle’s desperate pounding, the boot of the old vehicle yielded with a reluctant outcry from the rusty hinges. Pain jabbed her in the side as protest to the exertion. The seven year old girl slowly climbed out, one hand pressed over her side to try and keep the pain at bay.

            Celeste cautiously inspected the scene. The driver was slumped over the steering wheel. Then Celeste noticed the front tyre that had blown out, sending the vehicle careening off the winding mountain road.

            The day’s sequence of events came crashing back, cold and heavy as an avalanche. She had slipped away from her foster home to visit the churchyard where her parents were buried, as it had always seemed to receive her into an atmosphere of benign peace. She negotiated the commemorated mounds as she had done so many times before, and stopped in front of a grave merged with the green quiet of the long grass, directly beneath a shady presiding tree. Even though two years had passed since her parents were killed, she still felt a stab at the sight. Her lips parted, dry. The moisture they needed was in her eyes.

            Inexplicably, a profound uneasiness stole over her, and she became detachedly aware that the atmosphere of the churchyard had somehow changed. The peace of buried years seemed disturbed, the consecrated ground to quiver with insubmission. Suddenly, she had the sense of being impelled to turn around.

            A burly, leather-clad young man was studying her intently. The impact of his eyes was, to her, a physical thing, akin to insects crawling over her flesh. The young man suddenly whipped out a long, sharp knife.

            An icy finger seemed to trace the length of Celeste’s spine. The young man's leer reminded her of a shark about to snap its jaws shut on its prey. “You’re coming with me, sweetheart!”

            Celeste screamed, but her cries went unheard. The last thing she remembered was powerful hands locking her in a vice-like grip, and then being unceremoniously crammed into the boot of a car and driven away.

Celeste’s thoughts snapped back to the present, and reality's irreducible weight sat again on her. There was a moon overhead, a full moon shining behind a cloud-veiled sky. The moon slipped free from a fleece of charcoal clouds, and Celeste stared glumly at the scrub brush that covered the slopes around her. Where was she? Then she saw a farmhouse perched on the hillside above the road. She should be able to get help there, and expressed a note of gratitude.

            Armed with that reassurance, Celeste began to walk towards the house. The vibration of each step sent a jagged spear up into her side. She saw an old letterbox on a long stand protruding from a clump of weeds. The name Meadowlark was inscribed on the rusty, metal surface, no doubt the name of the property. Her breath grew uneven. A terrible weariness came over her, and she couldn’t seem to think clearly. Celeste saw her surroundings grow blurred, and begin to fade. Almost in slow motion, she crumpled forward onto the ground.

            Something lapped at her mind, like waves along the seashore, gently tugging her towards another place, a place with a real, audible, tangible heartbeat; a living, breathing place. What it was supposed to be, exactly, she could not make out, and felt the discomfort of a person who can't quite hear a whisper addressed to them. Then something registered in the wordless depths of instinct, and her eyelids fluttered open.

            A man was leaning over her. Celeste looked up to see a strong-boned face, seamed and friendly, and bronzed by sun and wind. His shoulder-length white hair and dignified-looking goatee seemed to shine like silver. He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. His hand was big and square and gave her a sense of protection. He looked at her with calm blue eyes that diffused her tension. “You’re safe now,” he said reassuringly. “Everything will be all right.” The old farmer felt Celeste relax under his gaze and finally let loose a tortured sigh of relief.

 

Today:

           

            Celeste Angelle finished writing her last Christmas card and finally put down her pen. She had taken the time to write a personal message of praise and encouragement for each individual orphan, and a warm glow passed through her as she checked her handiwork. 

            She gazed wistfully at the picture on her desk of the kind farmer who had helped her on that fateful day. Twenty years had now passed, and so much had happened in that time to enrich her life. She had been blessed with a magnificent soprano voice and was now a world famous operatic and concert singer. She kept herself in top physical shape and was also a superb athlete. Ten months ago she founded the Meadowlark Orphanage, named after the property of her benevolent farmer, and took pride in continuing to be its patron. Christmas was only weeks away, and a grin tugged at her cheeks as she thought of all the preparations she had made to surprise the little orphans.

            Celeste glanced at her watch and noted that it was time to start Amy’s singing lesson. She had given the six year old orphan ten minutes alone to look through a gaily-bound song book, the same one she had explored with relish as a child. Amy reminded her of herself at that age, and she showed a lot of promise.

            Celeste left her office and proceeded through an arched doorway into the main hall, a large room decorated with antique furniture, ornate tapestries, and with a curved ceiling that supported a sparkling crystal chandelier.

            A shock wave hit her like the hammer of Thor. Then a chill coalesced around her heart like a sheen of ice as she shook her head in the face of the unacceptable reality confronting her. A man was holding Amy in his arms; a short, beefy man with a low brow half overgrown with a mop of thick, black hair, like a clearing on which vegetation had once more begun to encroach.  It was a man she could never forget; the man who had abducted her twenty years ago – Sam Devlin!

            The little girl was clutching her doll, as if grasping a lifeline with desperate hope. Celeste strode briskly towards them.

            “How about a little kiss for your Uncle Sam?” Devlin’s eyes were wide, the pupils immense.

            “Put me down!” pleaded Amy.

            “Leave her alone!” ordered Celeste. Her eyes bore through him with a look of rancorous intensity. Devlin put the girl down and turned toward her.

            “Amy, go outside and wait for me,” said Celeste. The relieved little girl raced outside as fast as her wiry legs could carry her.

             The man before her looked much older, his face creviced with harsh lines, but he still possessed the same hard, cold self-assurance of a man who knows the full extent of his own power. He had escaped being convicted for his crimes twenty years ago thanks to his family’s money and influence, which continued to protect him to this day like an unbreakable Faustian pact. There wasn’t a single child offence not touched by his shadow, a shadow without the substance to stand up in court.

            “What are you doing here?” Celeste demanded.

            “That’s no way to talk to the newest patron of the Meadowlark Orphanage,” he replied with deliberate slowness.

            “No way!” retorted Celeste.

            Devlin looked at her with the unconscious authority of a man who does not have to ask for anything, but merely demands or takes it. “There’s no law against making donations to charity; in fact, it’s encouraged!” He patted his top pocket. “I have here a sizable cheque made out to the Orphanage. Your grateful Administrator, Margaret O’Shea, is going to meet me here in half an hour to accept it. It’s only the first of many. I can’t wait to start the smorgasbord …” A faint smile touched his features as he allowed his voice to trail off meaningfully. 

            Celeste stared back at him, momentarily silenced by the appalling clarity of his threat. He was clearly still obsessed with children, as fiercely as Captain Ahab was obsessed with Moby Dick.

            “I won’t let you, you sick bastard!”

            Devlin threw a wild punch. Celeste ducked under the blow, feeling the rush of air. Anger flashed through her like a bolt of electricity. If looks could burn the miscreant would have been a cinder. She leaped forward, one leg snapping out in a flying kick. Her foot drove into Devlin's stomach with all the power of her loathing. All the air whooshed out of him in one foul-smelling gust as he doubled over.

            Celeste catapulted into action. She threw herself at Devlin in a flying tackle, and they fell to the floor, struggling. Celeste’s eyes burned with acrimony, shining as if lit by the fires of hell. Her fists made a most satisfying contact with Devlin’s face. Celeste hit hard. Again. And again. As Devlin went limp, Celeste fought down the commanding tempest of anger, letting her hands uncurl from fists as she stood up.

            She knew she had to stop this monster once and for all, and experience had taught her that legal channels were futile. She firmly gripped his lapels and dragged him across the floor, stopping in the centre of the hall. She looked up. Overhead, the large crystal chandelier sparkled as if sequins were dropping through it. Celeste stepped back and took several deep breaths. She opened her mouth wide and unleashed her awesome larynx. Her voice rang out, becoming louder, and stronger. The chandelier began to vibrate like tinkling applause. Celeste’s voice climbed, octave by octave, soaring like an ear piercing siren, building to a crescendo. The chandelier shook violently. Celeste hit a High C … sustained it … and surpassed it!

            The chandelier shattered! Shards of glass rained down on Devlin like a thousand tiny knives.

For a moment thought was blown from Celeste’s mind. Her cheeks were ruby with heat and her hair clawed her forehead in damp, amber thorns. Then, as her heightened emotions drained away, she stepped forward and looked down with satisfaction at Devlin, who appeared to be covered by jewel-encrusted ice.

Celeste walked over to a mahogany cabinet, covered her hands with her scarf, and removed a compact disc of operatic arias by the famous Italian tenor, Enrico Caruso. She returned to Devlin’s body and pressed his fingers firmly around the CD case. She then gingerly opened the case, carefully removed the CD, and loaded it into the stereo unit. Caruso’s rich voice began to ring out through the state of the art speakers. Celeste gradually turned up the volume control, all the way to maximum. The sound was deafening, compelling her to place her hands over her ears.

            Celeste quickly went outside and found Amy. The little girl was still visibly shaken and Celeste wrapped her in a hug. “You’re safe now,” she said reassuringly. “Everything will be all right. That bad man will never bother you, or anyone else, ever again. But you have to promise not to say anything about what happened today.” The little girl nodded. Despite the fatigue that showed on her face, Celeste’s eyes now had their familiar glitter, bright as sunlight laughing through leaves. “Let’s go and get some ice cream!”

Lieutenant Columbo stepped into a room full of motion and tried to wrap his mind around what was happening. “What have we got?”

Sergeant Kramer came up to meet him. “Hello Lieutenant. A man was killed by glass from a chandelier; a CD of Caruso was playing, full blast, when the body was found, so the sound must have shattered the glass. It’s almost like a scene from The Phantom of the Opera; talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happened some time in the last hour. We all know the victim; it’s Sam Devlin."

Columbo hiked an eyebrow. “You don’t say!” Devlin, and all his nefarious activities, was well known to the Police. “Devlin doesn’t strike me as a man who would be interested in Opera.”

“The kinds of establishments that Devlin frequented were definitely not high class,” Kramer concurred. “This is an orphanage, so it’s pretty obvious why he was interested in this place.”

“Yep, like letting a fox loose in a henhouse,” Columbo agreed. He walked over to inspect the scene more closely, circling the body and looking up, down, and all around. “The stem of the chandelier, which looks like brass, is still firmly attached to the ceiling, so only the crystal shattered. Devlin must have been directly under it at the time. Who found the body?”

 “The Administrator of the orphanage, Margaret O’Shea,” Kramer replied. “She was going to meet with him. She’s just over there if you want to speak with her.”

Columbo introduced himself to a patrician looking woman with white hair so well managed that he wondered if it might be a wig and then decided that it wasn’t.

“Miss O’Shea, can you tell me what happened?”

“Mr Devlin phoned me this morning and told me that he wanted to make a $5000 donation to the orphanage; he seemed such a nice man and naturally, I was very pleased. He said he would be here with the cheque at 3:00 pm. This is our main hall, which is connected to our main entrance and administration block. Mr Devlin obviously arrived early and must have decided to look around while he was waiting. He must have come in here and put on some music. I had just finished a meeting in another wing and came to the main entrance right on 3. I could here Caruso singing Pagliacci, Vesti la giubba, which was strange, so I traced the sound. When I came in here the volume was ear-splitting; I saw what had happened to Mr Devlin and called the police.”

“It certainly appears that way,” Columbo responded noncommittally. “Did you touch anything?”

“No. I was going to turn off the stereo because it was so loud, but the music stopped. The CD must have finished playing.”

“Excuse me,” a silvery voice interrupted. Columbo turned and stared at the fresh, clean beauty of the woman’s face, framed by hair that perfect blend of blond and light brown, at the expressive, emerald-green eyes, and at the slim but rounded figure. She extended her hand. “I’m Celeste Angelle, founder and patron of the Meadowlark Orphanage. I just heard what Margaret told you.”

“It’s a real pleasure to meet you ma’am,” said Columbo as he shook her hand. “I’m Lieutenant Columbo.You certainly need no introduction, my wife and I listen to your glorious voice all the time.”

“Thank you Lieutenant. My voice is a divine gift, which I’m pleased to share with the world. In the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson, the greatest gift is a portion of thyself.  Forgive my digression, Lieutenant, can I help you with anything?”

“No problem ma’am. So, you just arrived a few moments ago?” Columbo pulled a notebook out of his top pocket and fumbled around his other pockets in search of a pencil.

“Well, I came in this afternoon to do some work in my office. I had arranged to give a singing lesson to one of our little people, a girl named Amy, at 2:30 pm. Amy was a bit nervous, so I took her to the ice cream parlour down the road to try to relax her. We were gone for about half an hour. When we returned I saw all this commotion so I took her back to the recreation wing. This isn’t something a little girl should see.”

“No ma’am. Did you see Mr Devlin at any time?”

“No, not until now. He must have come in while we were away.”

Columbo had been busily scrawling in his notebook and he now looked up. “I’m intrigued with the chandelier. It looks like it was very expensive.”

“It was imported from Europe, I’m not sure exactly where, and was made from fine crystal,” Celeste imparted. “That’s all I can really tell you about it.”

“The crystal must have been very delicate to shatter like that,” remarked Columbo. “Tell me, can an opera singer’s voice really shatter glass?” A gleam, like a distant sun, crept into his eye. “For instance, could your voice do it?”

“I don’t know Lieutenant; I’ve never tried anything like that. I wouldn’t want to either; it would be an unnecessary strain.”

“Well ma’am, I think I’ll look in to it a bit more. These details are necessary for my report.”

“Of course, Lieutenant. I’ll be here every day this week, so please let me know what you find out.”

“You can count on that, ma’am.”

 

The Next Morning:

 

The soft morning light pervaded the Meadowlark Orphanage like streaks from a master painter’s brush, accentuating the fanciful picture of a princely castle wrested from its storybook setting and transplanted to modern times. Columbo was greeted by Margaret O’Shea, who ushered him through tall French doors and down a corridor to Celeste’s office.

Celeste heard his approach and opened the door for him. “Good morning Lieutenant, please take a seat.” Her eyes were asking why he had come. “You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?”

“Morning ma’am. Well, after our discussion yesterday I seemed to recall that there was a connection between you and Devlin so I checked Devlin’s file back at headquarters. Apparently you were abducted by Devlin twenty years ago when you were just a little girl, but the matter never made it to court.” He seemed to be regarding her with bland suspicion. “You never mentioned that yesterday, ma’am.”

Celeste kept her features composed. “Yes, I was seven years old. I didn’t want to say anything in front of Margaret. She didn’t know Devlin, and she would have been devastated to find out that she allowed a predator like him to come to the orphanage. Margaret didn’t tell me about it because she wanted to surprise me with the cheque for our Christmas celebrations.”

“I can understand that, ma’am. I’m sure that you still must have had a lot of animosity towards him.”

“Definitely, it’s something you never forget. I can’t understand how any human being can commit such vile acts.” For an instant a wistfulness stole into her expression. “We should all follow the sentiments expressed by Robert Kennedy in the speech that he gave after the assassination of Martin Luther King: Let us dedicate ourselves to what the Greeks wrote so many years ago: to tame the savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world.” Her expression reverted to her schooled stillness. “Anyhow, I’m sure your file is full of similar incidents.”

“It sure is, ma’am. The staff at the ice cream parlour confirmed that you and Amy were there yesterday, just as you said, and there’s a window of one hour for Devlin’s time of death.” He pursed his lips ruminatively. “There are a few more things that bother me. Why would a man like Devlin put on a CD of opera, and then turn up the volume full blast?”

“Well, knowing Devlin’s reputation, he probably wanted the sound to cover up … other activity.”

“That’s possible, but he was supposed to be alone at the time.” Columbo leaned forward, and there was an extra lilt in his voice as he asked, “Could there have been children around at the time?”

The line of Celeste’s mouth tightened a fraction more. “Not to my knowledge, but Devlin wouldn’t have known that.”

“That sounds plausible. Nevertheless, Devlin’s fingerprints were found on the CD case, but not on the stereo unit. In fact, there were no prints at all on the stereo unit. So, if Devlin took the CD out of the case and put it in the stereo to play it, why weren’t his prints on the stereo?”

 “I can’t explain that Lieutenant. Whatever the reason, it’s clear that Caruso’s voice shattered the chandelier, and Devlin happened to be under it at the time. It’s poetic justice.”

“Well ma’am, I did some research on Caruso, and found out some interesting facts. Caruso died before the commercial introduction of higher fidelity, electrical recording technology. His recordings were all on 78rpm discs or earlier formats, lasting only between three and four minutes. These were made by the more primitive acoustic process which required the recording artist to sing into a metal horn rather than a microphone. This process was incapable of capturing the full range of overtones and nuances present in Caruso’s voice, so much of the vocal music recorded by Caruso had to be trimmed or sung at a quicker than normal tempo. That made me wonder if the standard of the recordings on the CD were capable of shattering the chandelier.”

“Lieutenant, these days many older recordings are remastered, and the speakers on our stereo are state of the art.”

“I didn’t think of that. Isn’t it amazing that Caruso died so long ago, yet we can still hear his voice. The recordings of your voice will also make you immortal.”

“That’s very flattering, Lieutenant, but immortality lies not in the things we leave behind, but in the people our life has touched. We should learn in life to love people and use things instead of using people and loving things.”

“Well said, ma’am. Still, these little details bother me, so I’m going to get some expert advice.”

“You do whatever you need to, Lieutenant. Right now, I need to give my final approval for some clothing I ordered for the children for Christmas. The couturier is just around the block, if you want to walk with me.”

“Thanks, a bit of fresh air will help clear the mind.”

 The pebbled roadway that Celeste and Columbo walked upon was lined with vividly coloured flowers, trimmed hedges and marble benches. Heady fragrances throbbed from the garden as they walked out the front gate and along the main street.

“You certainly did a great job with this orphanage,” remarked Columbo as he stopped to light a cigar. “You’re well known as a singer, but you also do so much for charity, and are quite the philanthropist.”

“Thanks Lieutenant. My mother was an orphan, and I became one myself. My parents were killed in an accident when I was five.”

“That’s a very young age to lose your folks.”

“Yes. My father was Italian, and my other relatives in Italy couldn’t be located at that time. In spite of that, most of the things we need to know I learned at the age of five when I was in kindergarten: Share everything; play fair; don’t hurt people; put things back where you found them; don’t take things that aren’t yours; and when you go out into the world watch out for traffic, hold hands and stick together. These keys to life apply to business, politics, even international relations.”

Columbo broke into a leisurely smile. “You certainly focus on the positive side of things, ma’am,” he observed, genuinely impressed.

There was a gentle softness in Celeste’s voice when she spoke again. “When I was abducted by Devlin I was helped by an old farmer, and I never forgot his kindness. When one begins to purposefully perform acts of kindness, doing good begins to be the same as feeling good. Too often we underestimate the power of a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around. Every act, kind or otherwise, comes back to you manyfold. The kinder you are to others, the more love and kindness will return to you. Conversely, unkind words and actions will return to you with a magnified vengeance.” A momentary look of discomfort crossed her face as she uttered the last sentence. “Whatever we do, whatever action we take, whatever energy we express to one another in the world, eventually we’ll experience the same energy returning to us from those around us.”

“You’re a very interesting lady,” declared Columbo, his estimation of her rising another notch.

“I try,” Celeste replied with equanimity. “The Canadian poet, Henry Drummond, said: You will find as you look back upon your life that the moments that stand out, the moments when you have really lived, are the moments when you have done things in the spirit of love. The love in our hearts wasn’t put there to stay, for love isn’t love until you give it away. The more you love, the more you grow the soul. Tell me Lieutenant, how do you think life should be lived?”

Columbo drew his lips in thoughtfully. “That’s a very deep question, ma’am …”     

Dark clouds had congealed above them while they had been talking, filtering the sun’s light into a flat and surrealistic grey. Thunder clapped suddenly with a mighty roar, and a fork of lightning cut the sky in two. The rain started slowly, then the drops became lances of water, assaulting them in blowing, savage gusts. Columbo pulled his raincoat up over both their heads as they dashed up the steps of the nearest building to the shelter of a tiny portico.

A homeless man was huddled in the corner, shivering, his torn, ragged clothing offering scant protection against the elements. He craned desperate eyes up at them, then quickly smoothed his face into a neutral expression.

The overpowering need that Celeste had glimpsed in the man’s eyes made her yield to its necessity. “Lieutenant, please give me your coat.”

Columbo looked quizzical. “My coat, ma’am?”

“Yes, Lieutenant. I promise I’ll buy you a new one, but this poor man needs it more, right now. I’m sure you’re familiar with these words: I was hungry and you gave me food; I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink; I was naked and you gave me your coat; whatever you do for the least of my brethren you do for me.”

Columbo handed her his coat and she draped it over the homeless man’s shoulders. “This is a gift,” she said with tenderness. “Merry Christmas!” The man’s mouth moved for a moment, but made no sound. Finally, he choked out, “Thank you.”

            Columbo noticed that a wonderful light now shone in Celeste’s eyes; a light of gratification which touched his heart. He looked steadily into her shining eyes and a smile of admiration illuminated his own.

 

Christmas Eve:

 

“The children are ready for you now,” announced Margaret O’Shea.

The doors at the end of the hall flew open and in marched twenty-four little orphans. Each girl had a pretty plaid dress of a different colour, and each boy a new shirt in matching colours. Celeste was very pleased with the clothing she had selected for the children.

The group of children stopped and stared with wide eyes of wonder as a shining spectacle appeared. There, in the corner, rising almost to the roof, stood a brilliantly lighted Christmas tree, glittering with gilded horns of sweets of all sorts, and wreathed with snowy chains of popcorn.

The row of smiling faces turned toward Celeste as the children came up one by one to greet their benefactor. Celeste kissed each one, and the children then filed back to their places in the orderly way they had been taught.

“We have one more visitor,” announced Margaret O’Shea, “someone very special!”

The doors opened again and a familiar figure, dressed in red and carrying a bulging sack, sauntered in. “Santa!” shouted the children. Santa responded with a jovial, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” All the children’s hands clapped heartily.

Santa put down his sack and turned to his excited audience. “Since you have all been such good boys and girls I have something for you.” Shrieks of joy filled the air. Santa began to methodically call out each child’s name and hand them a present. The floor was soon littered with wrapping paper, and the children ran to show one another their new treasures.

“Is that a real angel up there?” asked a lame boy named Ben, fascinated by the little white figure on the Christmas tree with unfurled wings and a gilded tiara. He leaned on his crutch and pointed at the figure with one hand, while he luxuriously carried a sweet to his mouth with the other. The boy resembled Tiny Tim from Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.

“Here is the angel,” said Amy, and pointed at Celeste. She turned towards Santa. “Santa, you must give her a present. She’s very good; she saved me from a really bad man.”

“Is that so,” responded Santa. “Can you tell me about it?”

Celeste placed her arms around Amy and sweetly kissed the wistful face. “Hush dear,” she whispered.

Amy’s hungry childish heart felt as if a real angel was embracing her. “Oh Santa, you already know who’s naughty and nice!” The little girl then ran off to join the other children who were actively engaged in playing games.

Santa slung his empty sack over his shoulder. “I have many more presents to deliver so I must be off now. Merry Christmas!” All the children waved back and cheered as Santa departed.

Ten minutes later Margaret O’Shea came up onto the stage, accompanied by Celeste, and addressed the audience: “With the genius of his understanding of the Common Man, Shakespeare said:

 

The man that hath no music in himself

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds

Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;

The motions of his spirit are dull as night,

And his affections dark as Erebus.

Let no such man be trusted.

 

 So, in keeping with that sentiment, our golden girl with the golden voice, Celeste, will now sing for you.”

At that moment the doors at the end of the hall opened once more and Columbo strolled into the room, attired in an uncustomary dark suit. He waved his hand and took a seat at the back. Celeste smiled down at the audience good-naturedly and sat down at the grand piano. Then, without further preliminaries, she struck the opening chord and commenced to sing Ave Maria.

            Softly, thoughtfully, tenderly, the opening lines of the song were breathed into the room. A sudden hush fell upon the audience. Each syllable penetrated the silence, borne on a tone so tender and so amazingly sweet that hearts stood still and marvelled at their own emotion. This was not just a song. This was the throbbing of a heart; and it throbbed in tones of such sweetness that the tension of feeling produced was palpable.

            Celeste’s voice then rose in a rapid crescendo, with a sudden power and passion that electrified the assembly. Celeste struck the final note softly, lingeringly, holding aloft a world of glory.

            Celeste then rose, turned from the piano, and a sudden burst of wild applause broke from the audience. People were still applauding and redoubled their demonstrations of delight as she reappeared. As Celeste left the stage to the enthusiastic tumult of her audience she knew that she had left behind something tangible and abiding.

            Columbo walked over and greeted her. “That was just beautiful.”

“Thank you Lieutenant; you’re looking very dapper tonight.” Her eyes suddenly widened in disbelief. “Why Lieutenant, do I detect a tear?”

Columbo grinned sheepishly. “I just have something in my eye.”

“I understand; music touches places beyond our touching.” She stepped closer and removed several long strands of white Santa hair from Columbo’s neck. “And thank you for filling it at such short notice.”

“It was my pleasure ma’am. There’s nothing more gratifying at Christmas than the sound of children’s laughter.”

“Absolutely,” Celeste concurred. “Just a moment, Lieutenant, I have something for you.” She walked over to the Christmas tree and soon returned, carrying a present.

“Merry Christmas Lieutenant!”

“For me? Thank you very much.” Columbo unwrapped the parcel just as eagerly as the children had, and lifted up a long brown coat.

“That’s a genuine Driza-Bone, from Australia,” Celeste informed him. “It’s a full-length waterproof riding coat originally worn by Australian stockmen. I promised you a new coat, and I’m sure it will keep you dry as a bone!”

“That’s very kind of you ma’am, but it wasn’t necessary. I can’t wait to show it to my wife.” His expression abruptly darkened, like a vagrant cloud transiting the sun. “Ma’am, is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

“Sure, we can use my office.”

Columbo followed Celeste to her office and she closed the door behind them. “Go on, Lieutenant.”

Columbo’s shoulders slumped, and his frame bore a resemblance to Atlas, bowed beneath the weight of the world. Celeste had the feeling that her day of reckoning had come, and that she was about to listen to the music she had helped compose but never wanted to hear.

Columbo squared his posture, as though to build himself into a castle before her eyes. “I gave some of the crystals from the chandelier, and the Caruso CD, to Dr Reinhold Schunzel, a structural expert with degrees in mechanical engineering, sound engineering and crystallography. He studied them in depth and the report that he gave me was very interesting.”

Columbo raised his hands, palms outward, in a questioning gesture. “Can an opera singer really shatter glass? Well, every piece of glass has a resonant frequency, the frequency at which it naturally vibrates. A wine glass is especially resonant because it’s tubular and hollow. The chandelier was made from the finest leaded crystal and is very similar to a quality wine glass. To shatter the glass, a stimulus such as a sound wave, like that produced by a singer’s voice, has to be able to match that resonant frequency. Singing that tone will get the air around the glass, and then the glass itself, vibrating. The volume of a sound is related to the amplitude of the sound wave and the extent that it displaces air. The louder the tone, the harder you’re pushing air at the glass. Sustaining the note allows the vibrations to build up enough to cause the glass to fracture. So, to put it simply, the singer needs to sing loud enough, and long enough, to cause enough vibrations for the glass to shatter.”

“Well, the great Caruso is certainly capable of doing that,” responded Celeste.

“Not quite ma’am, there’s more. As you know, the note, High C, is the C two octaves above middle C …”

“Caruso often hit a High C,” Celeste interjected.

“That’s true,” continued Columbo, “and Dr Shunzel confirmed that the highest note reached by Caruso in all the operatic recordings that were playing at the time was, in fact, a High C. However, in the case of the chandelier, Dr Shunzel also determined that the resonant frequency of the crystal was a note above High C; a High D. There was only one person in the vicinity, in fact, in the entire city, with a voice powerful enough to reach a High D and shatter the chandelier …” He looked straight into her eyes. “You ma’am.”

Celeste experienced a sinking sensation, her heart being sucked toward the centre of the earth. “All right Lieutenant, you got me. I knew that karma would catch up with me sooner or later. It’s ironic that my great gift, my voice, was the instrument that brought me down; perhaps because of the way I used it.” She locked eyes with him. “But Devlin was a monster, above the law, and I’d do it again to save the children from him.”

The admission was heavy in the air between them, and Columbo’s mouth formed a straight, grim line. “Yes, Devlin was the lowest of the low, and the children have been saved. In my job I’ve met countless people who have taken a human life; many of them were highly intelligent, but cold and calculating. It’s not often that I come across a person like you, who took such drastic action for purely altruistic reasons. You’re kind and caring, you help people, you move them, and I respect and admire you. You’re an angel, but also an avenging angel.”

Celeste nodded almost imperceptibly. “The heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touched by the thorns.”

Columbo reached over, grasped her hand reassuringly, and held it. “I’m sorry I had to put you through that, but I needed to hear it. I didn’t want to lean on little Amy. The loss of Devlin isn’t tragic, but to lose you would be devastating for everyone. I have more information that hasn’t been made public yet. Devlin suffered a heart attack and was already dead when the glass fell on him. So, you can’t be charged with murder, and you’re off the hook! As you said before, what goes around comes around, so you can continue to make gentle the life of this world. Merry Christmas!”

            Celeste laid her other hand on top of his and her eyes grew dim with tears. “Thank you Lieutenant.”

Columbo observed that the scattered light from the window behind her made a halo of her hair, as if in deference to her redeemed state. “You asked me before what I think life is all about. I’m not the type to use flowery words, so I found a card that says it all.” He handed her a card and Celeste’s eyes fastened on the inscription:

 
            If I can throw a single ray of light across the darkened pathway of another, if I can wipe from any person’s cheek a tear, I shall not have lived my life in vain while here. If I can bring more joy, more hope, less pain, I shall not have lived my life in vain.

“That’s truly profound, Lieutenant. Tell me, do you have a favourite song? A particular aria, or an Italian folk song, perhaps?

Columbo whispered his reply and his mouth curved into an irresistibly devastating grin. Celeste couldn’t help returning his disarming smile.

Moments later Celeste returned to the stage, accompanied by Columbo. “Ladies and gentlemen, and children, may I have your attention. Before we start the Christmas carols, I’d like everyone to join in singing a special song for our good friend, Lieutenant Columbo!”  She raised both her index fingers and counted down, “One, two, three …”

 

This old man, he played one;

He played knick-knack on my thumb.

With a knick-knack, paddy whack,

Give a dog a bone;

This old man came rolling home …

 

 

Police Headquarters, Three Days Later:

 

A chipper-looking Sergeant Kramer walked into the office. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

Columbo lowered the cup of coffee that had been on its way to his lips and spun around in his swivel chair. “Morning Sergeant.”

Kramer’s features puckered into a frown. “Lieutenant, I’ve read your report on the Devlin case and something puzzles me. I thought that the medical examination indicated that the time of Devlin’s heart attack was inconclusive; it’s uncertain whether it happened before the glass hit him, or afterwards?”

Columbo looked at him unwaveringly. “What does it say in my report?”

“It says it happened before.” Kramer’s eyes suddenly widened and for an instant he looked as if he’d been illuminated from within. “I get it now! We don’t want opera lovers to think that Caruso’s voice killed a man, even scum like Devlin. We’d never hear the end of it.”

Columbo beamed. “Well done Sergeant!”

“Thanks Lieutenant, I’ll catch you later.” He nodded perfunctorily, and walked away feeling very pleased with himself.

Columbo let out a deep breath, a cross between a rising and falling wind, and leaned back in his chair. He saw his reflection in the glass panel in front of him, and gazed at it. Strange, he thought, how much time you can spend studying your own face, and then scarcely know it. He looked down at his desk and picked up a paperweight, a small statue of the blindfolded Lady Justice. Blind Justice? He recalled the words of the Roman philosopher, Cicero: Justice shines by its own light. In this case, an evil shadow was definitely vanquished by a shining light.