Once upon a time, in a land across The Pond, an aging knight set forth on an intrepid crusade to conquer a new and savage world.
 
American cable television.
 
While Sir Ramsey Garland bore his noble title with full pedigree and bona fides – The Queen Mother had conferred him in 1982 following a particularly sumptuous banquet for the soon-to-be-deposed head of a former African colony – the only sword he ever wielded as a knight of the empire was on behalf of a new lowfat Devonshire cream eventually found to cause a rather unknightly bodily seepage. His on-camera image now inextricably bound to bodily seepage, the once-and-future gourmand moved hastily into the production end of the business.
 
After an early foray into reality television – a clinically scatological dissection of the West End bistro scene for the Beeb – our knight found his Camelot in the newly emerging urban gladiator trend. From the grand kitchens of London, Paris, Rome, and Madrid, Sir Ramsey recruited four renowned templars to battle the venerable dragons and New Wave barbarians of the culinary world. The field of battle was an underfinanced soccer arena refitted for championship sautéing, filleting, and souveeing  
 
With its somewhat campy pomposity and adrenalized celebration of all things yummy, The Knights of the Table became an overnight hit. A line of “sword-forged” cutlery and Knight’s Armour cookware was heartily pillaged by affluent shoppers across the developed world. After the show’s first series aired to bemused acclaim on the U.S. Life and Living Network, Sir Ramsey Garland knew his personal Grail was within reach.
 
Despite their Harleys and loud cinema and proudly professed populism, Ramsey knew the Yanks couldn’t quite sever the old umbilical cord with the Motherland. The regal trappings of “KofT” (accompanied by Dolbyesque whooshing and clattering blade FX) tapped into the feudal instincts of Yuppie americanus, while the pseudo-jock factor appealed to metro males discovering a gustatory universe beyond their Weber grill. And the new knights had been cherry-picked to whip the show’s chicken-fried, Tex-Mex, chowderized audience into a regionalistic frenzy.
 
Sir Derrick Hampton, the Southern Knight, was a Memphis pitmaster whose lusciously deadly arsenal included complex dry rubs, pork-braised greens, and rich roux. Dame Rita Johannsen, the Northern Knight, jousted with moose, pheasant, trout, and a smorgasbord of pungent cheeses in the service of Minneapolis yuppies. Wood-fired pizza, kalua pork tamales, and sashimi were the weapons of choice for Sir Gunter Li, a Maui-born disciple of Wolfgang Puck and the celebrated Western Knight of The Table.
 
All formidable warrior/restaurateurs, with enough Michelin stars between them to populate a small planetarium. But the Galahad of Ramsey’s table was Billy Shaughnessey, the pugnaciously brilliant, goateed Eastern Knight. The Newark-bred pharmacist’s kid had abandoned the family trade at age 23 to enroll in the Culinary Institute and, eventually, found Shamroche, the fashionably frenetic Manhattan bistro that introduced “Eurofusion” and schizophrenic dishes such as Shepherd’s Pie Lyonnaise and Bavarian Escargot Linguine to a hungry world. A Life and Living Network competition landed Billy in the pantheon of American cooking, and the Shaugnessy empire soon spread to Michigan Avenue, Wilshire Boulevard, and the Vegas Strip. Sir Billy’s sardonically grinning face surfaced across the Life and Living Network schedule, from his Saturday morning tutorials on weekend entertaining to his whirlwind guides to New York bar cuisine.
 
At the time Sir Ramsey was plotting his conquest of the New World, Billy was stalking capital for a new Franco-Cuban café in Key West. The prospect of donning an iridescent gold chef’s tunic and schlepping platters for a studio audience seemed a reasonable tradeoff for bringing $35-a-plate Ropa Vieja Bourguignon to a jaded Florida beach crowd. Billy was the prime pick of three of every five Knight’s Challengers and, to date, the victor in every battle he’d waged on behalf of Sir Ramsey. Sales of his coffee table cookbooks and bar guides rocketed, and Leno and Winfrey soon numbered among Chef Shaughnessy’s BFFs. Knights of the American Table proved the ganache atop the buttercream frosting on Billy’s multi-tiered gateau.
 
There was but one chink in Billy Shaugnessy’s armor, one ding in his Teflon.
 
“The SOB,” Billy growled, plunking his Czech Pilsner on the eco-friendly rubberwood bar with a glare across the dining room. He’d been working the front – a Tuesday night custom he maintained despite his supercelebrity – and his throng of admirers turned as one as Zach Fratelli and his entourage entered loudly.
 
“Chill, Boss,” Calvin cautioned from behind his stick. As usual, Sha-LaLa was booked solid through the first three seatings, and a reverent murmur traveled across the tables as the reigning prince of West Coast Italian brushed obliviously past Greta, the ice-blonde hostess of Billy’s L.A. bistro. The burly bartender didn’t want a repeat of last month’s episode in Times Square. “He’s just trying to psyche you out, Dude.”
 
Billy blinked, and his Irish temper gave way to a leprechaun’s grin. Ramsey had “blindsided” him, booking his arch-nemesis as a Knight’s Challenger. Fratelli and Shaughnessy had first crossed spatulae at the institute, an intense rivalry immediately brewing between the fiery Italian and the scrappy Irishman. When Meravigliosa hung its shingle three doors down from Shamroche three weeks after Billy served up his first Jagerschnitzel a la Bernaise, the rivalry escalated. It exploded with season two of Primo Chef, as Billy and Zach jostled for camera time and strong-armed their way through a baker’s dozen contestants to the final cookoff in New Orleans. Billy emerged victorious and their paths diverged – Shaughnessy’s toward prime time celebrity and knighthood, Fratelli’s toward a mere four cafes across three boroughs and in the Hamptons.
 
“Zachary, my man,” Billy called, beaming broadly for his patrons but holding his spot by the bar. Fratelli brined raffishly, shaking hands, high-fiving, and slapping backs as he moved between tables. Billy cursed silently – the grandstanding asshole. As Zach reached the bar, he extended both lanky arms; Billy nodded with a grin and retrieved his beer. Fratelli’s smile flickered, then returned.
 
“Jeez, Zach,” Billy murmured. “You called ahead, I coulda given you Phil Jackson’s table. You don’t mind waiting, I probably could get you a spot near the kitchen by 8.”
 
Fratelli laughed nastily. “Billy Boy, I’d wait all night standing on one leg for a plate of your Bratwurst Tetrazzini, but Puck’s getting his party on uptown. Just a round for my peeps on the night before battle.”
 
Billy waved Calvin over from the corner where he’d retreated. “Yeah, that’s right. Ramsey said your agent had gotten you on the show. Nice going, Zach.”
 
Zach’s grin wavered. The truth of the matter was, Sir Ramsey could smell a ratings coup a mile away, even if it was buried in gorgonzola and durian pulp. Though Fratelli theoretically could opt to bang swords with Hampton, Johannsen, or Li (despite media skepticism, both the Challenger’s choice of Knight and Sir Ramsey’s succulent Royal Ingredient were announced at the weekly taping) no one seriously entertained the notion he would be content to joust with anyone but The Eastern Knight. The trades already were anticipating a Shaughnessy/Fratelli deathmatch.  
 
“Hey, how about one of those famous Shaughleighleighs of yours?” Fratelli mused. “Mario Batali says they kick ass.”
 
Billy paused, then waved Calvin away. “Naw -- I got this one. One Shaughleighleigh coming up, my treat.’ He grabbed a bottle of Limoncello from the barback, and quickly located the amaretto and Bushmill’s. Billy maintained eye contact with his rival as his skilled fingers worked their sorcery. “Been up to my ass in alligators lately. How’re things going back in the neighborhood?”
 
Zach shrugged. “Well, you know we got that Wine Spectator’s award last week. Along with that spread in the Times, it’s been pretty hectic.”
 
“You’ll get used to it,” Billy offered with a sparkling smile. He plopped a signature caper-stuffed lychee into Zach’s drink and passed it over the buffed wood. He tipped his own Pilsner. “Break a leg.”
 
Fratelli toasted in kind, swallowing the slippery garnish whole with only a slight wince. “Luck of the Irish.”
 
“Oh, yeah,” Billy nodded. “Good luck, too.”
 
Ice formed in Fratelli’s eyes. He drained his Shaughleighleigh. “You oughtta bottle this shit, Billy Boy – the Target crowd would go crazy.”
 
“You say so, Zachary. Say hey to Wolf.”
 
“Will do. Onward and upward, gang. Manana, Billy.”
 
The Eastern Knight hoisted his glass in farewell. Fratelli glanced furtively back as his party reached the door. The ham, Billy mused, shooting him a warning squint.
 
“Manana, Paisan,” he whispered.
 
**
 
The blare of trumpets blasted Myron Hauffman from his sullen reverie. He’d hoped Shaughnessy would whip up at least one of his potently piquant cocktails for tonight’s production – his role as the show’s resident curmudgeon was growing old, even if sales of his restaurant guide had skyrocketed. After that episode with that smartass sushi chef a month ago, onstage tippling had been prohibited.
 
Oh, well, Myron thought grumpily, there was a pitcher of martinis awaiting Daddy after the circus was over. Despite the late-night slot KoAT occupied, it was only 4:32 p.m. Pacific outside the expansive LLN soundstage.
 
“Weapons down, warriors!” the bespectacled Aidan Grey ordered from his post above the Knight’s Galley. A sweaty Billy Shaughnessy high-fived his sous-chef Marla and his assistants. Zach Fratelli, his thick black hair disheveled, accepted a shot of grappa from his second and raised it to Sir Ramsey, perched royally on a purple throne above the audience risers.
 
Aidan pivoted toward Camera Four, away from Myron, the Tokyo food critic, and the West Coast rapper who constituted this week’s panel. “Crusade Almond has ended, with our battle-weary knights ready soon to repair to the Table of Judgment. I think this week’s Ingredient Royale took both Sir Billy and our challenger by surprise. Traditionally a garnish, a textural component, a flava finisher, the humble almond can be difficult to elevate to entrée status. But our contestants managed to crack this tough nut – Sir Billy with an innovative riced almond risotto and amaretto-infused suveed pork loin and Chef Fratelli with his almond-and-olive gazpacho and nut-and-apricot-crusted boar. Let’s see if our celebrity judges are as nutty about tonight’s offerings when Knights of the American Table returns.”
 
Aidan’s gleaming dentistry disappeared as the commercial outro faded and the floor director called time. Despite pre-show orders, the rapper started working his iPhone, and the Tokyo critic began to fidget. One of the crew -- a good kid, if a world-class ass-kisser – occasionally brought Myron a snack between segments, but he could see the damned producer was bending his ear. Myron yawned and watched Billy swab his face and change into a clean tunic for the judge’s table.
 
Fratelli must’ve had the Irishman psyched – Billy was more intense tonight, barking orders, sending his crew after ingredients he normally insisted on hand-picking himself, slamming lids and pots. Maybe tonight was the end of Billy Boy’s winning streak, Myron mused.
 
“Yo, Dog.”
 
Myron turned. West Coast’s gold-festooned fingers were wrapped around his iPhone. “When we eat, man? I got people.”
 
“We all got people,” Myron muttered. Chiefly, the bartender at the Derby, he thought. “Not long now -- the chefs have to clean up before Judge’s Court, and, ah, here we are -- they have to wheel in the dishes. Or the dishizzles, as you prefer.”
 
West Coast nodded under Myron’s reptilian stare. “Solid.” He put the phone to his face. “Yo, sorry. Big Willie here mean-muggin’ me. Get some burgers and shit. Pixx, bro.” The rapper turned back to Myron. “So, Chief, break it down for me.”
 
“Pace yourself,” Myron offered sagely. “We’ve got 10 dishes coming tonight, several spicy and at least one borderline inedible. Sampler plates, basically, but they can sneak up on you. This isn’t Red Lobster, and well, look at you. Billy and Fratelli may attempt to seduce you with Hungry Man helpings. You’re not their biatch -- they’re yours. You own their pampered asses.”
 
Somehow, it didn’t sound absurd coming from the sardonic chubby, middle-aged critic, and West Coast was rapt.
 
“Speak up. And don’t be afraid to diss me, if that’s the proper use of the term. Audience knows I’m a pompous old prick, and a little banter’s good for my next book and your next cameo on Entourage. Don’t pick on Yuki, though -- makes you look like a bully and it could hurt your Japanese sales. She’s like a rock star over there. Defend her honor, and they’ll eat out of your outsized palm.”
 
“Solid.”
 
“Word,” Myron returned, straightening his jacket as the floor manager sounded the two-minute warning.
 
**
 
“Chef Fratelli, you have wielded your culinary weapons with honor this day,” a tuxedoed Sir Ramsey announced as Zach stood at parade rest beside him. “Now, you must curry the favor of our esteemed court. Are you prepared to accept their judgment?”
 
“Bring it,” the chef grinned. He turned to the old queen, the spinster librarian, and Grandmaster Sir Snacksalot as the house servers slipped gilt-edged platters before them.  “My concept tonight was to elevate a venerable culinary trooper to a starring role, and my first dish is a sort of debut buddy feature.” He’d worked up the cinematic theme after leaving Billy’s hashhouse last night. “Here you have almond and New Zealand prawns starring in an amaretto-infused grapefruit ceviche garnished with fennel and cilantro. Enjoy.”
 
The trio spooned into their cold-cooked crustaceans -- the old guy scientifically, the Japanese chick tentatively, and the rapper first warily, then exuberantly.
 
“Think you got a hit on your hands, Cuz,” the hip-hop gourmand declared.
 
“Too bad the fennel’s chewing up the scenery,” the old guy murmured. “It’s more Turner and Hooch than Lethal Weapon.”
 
Fratelli nodded graciously, resisting the impulse to run Charles Nelson Reilly through a pasta mill as the dishes were swept away.
 
“My second offering is a sort of salute to the martial arts genre: I’ve deconstructed the traditional trout almondine into a minced almond/rainbow trout sushi, served with a bitter almond wasabi.”
 
The spinster downed her fish roll with delicate artistry. “You’ve accomplished something most Tokyo sushi masters would envy, and yet it is light, like a delicious tickle on the tongue.”
 
“Oh, so that’s a tickle I feel,” the old bastard chirped. “I was worried for a moment there.”
 
“Maybe it been so long since you been tickled, G,” the rapper snorted. It drew a raised brow from the old queen, a tightly impish smile from the spinster, and an approving titter from the audience risers. Still, the old dude was a big problem, Fratelli said, feeling an uncomfortable burble in his lower tract. Billy’s menu looked flawless, he reflected, wondering what the redheaded prick was up to.
 
“One of my favorite teen flicks was Porky’s,” Fratelli continued uncertainly, cursing the lame movie idea. “So my next dish is a nutty, half-baked boar, marinated in Braeburn apple cider and dressed with chopped toasted almonds and sage.”
 
“Dog, this is some proud pig right here!” the rapper raved, tearing into the porcine flesh.
 
“Not too mention a bit dehydrated,” Charles Nelson drawled.
 
“Take one nutty, half-baked bore to know one,” the rapper purred, to audience adoration. Fratelli almost cackled, but the laugh caught in his throat, and he felt Paul Prudhomme and Mario Batali simultaneously sitting on his chest. A notion occurred to him, and then a revelation.
 
Then he pitched headlong onto the judge’s table, catapulting a plate of pig toward Camera One.
 
“Sorry?” Chef Fratelli heard the old queen suggest as the lights went out.
 
**
 
Sgt. Kramer consulted his caseworn cop’s Timex for the third time, sighed, and located his cell phone. The department-issue Samsung had a large external-view clock display, but the sergeant steadfastly refused to let some piece of overpriced technology rule his life.
 
“Hey, I got a warm one in Brentwood,” the assistant M.E. complained from across Kitchen Castle. “He on his way?”
 
“He called 10 minutes ago, said he was on his way,” Kramer grunted with grudging patience. “Just hold your water -- lieutenant says nothing and nobody leaves until he gets here.”
 
“Columbo?” a voice piped up from the infamous Kitchen Castle ice cream machine, through which had passed a blasphemous array of ingredients from walleye to kohlrabi. A stocky tech emerged, swab in hand. “I just talked to the guy, jeez, a couple minutes ago. He oughtta be around here somewhere.”
 
“Lieutenant?” Kramer called automatically, scanning the vast culinary arena. “Yo, Lieutenant?” The sergeant, the assistant M.E., and the forensic crew waited silently, to no avail. Kramer waved a uniform over. “Hey, Reed -- find the lieutenant. That’s your only job until I tell you otherwise, hear?”
 
“Roger,” Off. Reed saluted.
 
Kramer consulted his Timex again, and waited.
 
**
 
“Wow, I don’t think I seen this much groceries since my Cousin Theo got me into the Sam’s Club.”
 
Sir Ramsey had been conferring with one of the network VPs, who’d come promptly and fresh from a cable affiliates banquet in Burbank, and a pair of LLN attorneys who were clinically dissecting the network’s exposure related to the on-camera death of one of New York’s great chefs. The king of the Knight’s Table turned to the source of the curious if spot-on observation.
 
As he inspected the little man in the rumpled raincoat, he feared one of LA’s storied homeless souls had breeched the castle’s defenses amid the chaos. While he had sponsored a number of Hollywood benefits in their honor (and absence), Sir Ramsey had only seen one, outside Wolfgang Puck’s – frightening encounter, that.
 
“Might I help you?” the network VP inquired. “This is a closed set, you know. Not to mention a crime scene.”
 
“Oh, I’m well aware of that, sir,” the homeless fellow responded. Sir Ramsey felt a brief pinprick of pity – the indigent’s suit and necktie were decades out of vogue, and the tie looked as though he’d been surviving on fast food leavings. The leonine producer reached into his jacket for his wallet to send the poor bloke packing with at least a quid or two. Or perhaps a Benjamin, as that rapper fellow on the judge’s panel might have called it.
 
“Dreadfully sorry, my friend,” Sir Ramsey murmured, moving forward. “But I’m afraid you’re going to have to take your leave.”
 
“Wait a minute,” the senior of the two network attorneys cautioned. “What if this guy was skulking around back here during the show? Where’s that cop, Sgt. Crawley, Kreiger…”
 
“Say, maybe I can help you,” the disheveled pauper piped up, reaching into his own jacket. Sir Ramsey and his colleagues backed off a step. “What’s the matter, fellas?” the stranger inquired, concerned, as he displayed a badge in a battered leather case. “I’m Lieutenant Columbo, Homicide. I was wondering if anybody could point me to a Mr. Garland? I understand he’s the head honcho here.”
 
Sir Ramsey released his wallet and offered an immaculately manicured hand. “I’m Sir Ramsey Garland…Lieutenant?”
 
The policeman’s eyes widened momentarily, and he smacked his forehead with alarming ferocity. “Ramsey Garland? Sir Ramsey Garland?”
 
“That would be correct. Gentlemen, a few moments, please? Help yourself to a cocktail in my office.” The matinee-handsome former chef turned back to the detective, who was grinning in a somewhat lunatic manner. “Lieutenant, was it? Are you quite alright?”
 
Columbo chuckled and, Sir Ramsey swore, blushed. “Sorry, sir. I just can’t believe I didn’t make the connection. You’re like one of the most famous cooks of all time. Me and Mrs. Columbo, we see you all the time on cable. Knights of the Table’s like one of my favorites, next to baseball and the WWF.”
 
“Quite kind of you,” Sir Ramsey rumbled.
 
“Can I ask you something, sir? If it’s not too personal?”
 
“If it’s not,” Ramsey sighed.
 
“Sir Ramsey. You’re a real knight? A real, honest-to-goodness knight?”
 
“Crowned by the Queen Mother herself.”
 
“Like they show in the movies? With the sword and all?”
 
“With the sword and all. Lieutenant, I don’t wish to seem brusque, but we are in the middle of a quite distressing affair here.”
 
The policeman nodded, suddenly somber. “Absolutely, sir – I got a little carried away. Wait’ll I tell Mrs. Columbo I met a real, honest-to-gosh knight. Anyway. I did wanna let you know we’re gonna need to interview everybody involved with the show tonight – the crew, the judges, Mr. Grey, the audience, and of course, all the cooks.”
 
“Chefs. Might I ask why? I had assumed Mr. Fratelli’s death was of natural origins, or possibly an accident. We have many extremely exotic ingredients on hand here. Perhaps some hitherto-unknown food allergy…”
 
“I wish that was the case, sir. But the medical examiner is pretty sure it’s poisoning, cyanide to be exact.”
 
“Dear God. The body—Mr. Fratelli hasn’t even been removed from the scene. How did he reach that conclusion.”
 
A small notebook materialized from Columbo’s raincoat. “The symptoms are pretty obvious. M.E. said Mr. Fratelli’s face was red – almost like a cherry. That’s cause cyanide makes oxygen stay in the blood. You said he seemed to be having trouble breathing at the judge’s table.”
 
“Well, I had assumed he was somewhat anxious. The pressure of competing on nationwide television can be quite daunting, you know.”
 
“And then there was the smell,” Columbo continued. “The assistant M.E. – that’s the medical examiner, sir – says he smelled a very strong smell on Mr. Fratelli’s breath. That’s why we’re thinking it’s definitely cyanide poisoning. The doc smelled bitter almonds, no doubt about it.”
 
Despite the gravity of the situation, Sir Ramsey smirked.
 
“What did I say, sir, I mean Sir?” Columbo inquired.
 
**
 
“Holy crap,” the lieutenant proclaimed.
 
“Yeah,” Sgt. Kramer affirmed eloquently as Columbo surveyed the bowls and bins and baskets and trays of shelled and unshelled sweet, bitter, and green almonds scattered throughout the culinary arena; the almond butters, almond syrups, almond oils, amarettos, almond crème liqueurs, and almond extracts that littered the champion’s and challenger’s prep tables.
 
“It’s not really a nut, y’know,” Kramer continued with uncharacteristic verbosity. Columbo turned, almonds still dancing before his eyes.
 
“What, Sergeant?”
 
“M.E. told me. It’s a seed. From a tree.”
 
“You don’t say. Y’do know what I’m gonna say next, though, don’t you, Sergeant?”
 
“I’m hoping I don’t,” Kramer mumbled, returning to character.
 
“Everything – I want everything in this studio secured and tested for cyanide. Every nut – er, seed, pot, pan, dish, and ladle. Oh, and every dish Mr. Fratelli and Mr. Shaughnessy served. And I don’t want anybody to leave ‘til we’re done, just in case somebody tries to sneak some leftover poison outta the joint.”
 
“You know, there’s a congressman and that singer took her top off at the Grammies in the audience. Congressman’s already threatening to call the mayor.”
 
“Everything and everybody,” Columbo repeated.
 
“Yeah,” Kramer sighed.
 
“Thanks. Excuse me, Sergeant – I wanna get a look at the body before they take it away.” Columbo scrambled around the perimeter of the twin galleys to the judge’s table, where a couple of techs were lifting a body bag onto a gurney. “Hold up a second, guys,” he panted as he fell against the long steel table. “Mind if I take a look-see for a second.”
 
“Whatever floats your boat, Lieutenant,” the assistant M.E. shrugged, unzipping the bag. As had been advertised, Zach Fratelli’s lean face was scarlet with a dab of cyanotic gray. Columbo leaned in toward the victim’s slightly parted lips.
 
“You sure it’s cyanide?” the cop asked.
 
“Gotta run a tox screen, but yeah.”
 
“Absolutely sure?”
 
“Yeah, I’d bet on it.”
 
“Positively, absolutely sure?”
 
“You done here?”
 
Columbo raised his hands in surrender. “Just one more thing, Doc. You bag the effects yet?”
 
“Plan to at the morgue. You want to frisk him now?”
 
“You don’t mind. But, ah, you are the professional and all,” Columbo swallowed, glancing over the cherry-faced corpse.
 
The assistant M.E. sighed. “Thought so.” He explored the decedent’s tunic and chinos. “Forty bucks, thirty-three cents…one wallet, contents including New York license, Chase Sapphire card, World Association of Cooks Society membership card…hotel key card, Beverly Hills Omni…Whoa, hold on…What’s this?”

Columbo peered over the pathologist’s shoulder as he tugged a long, laminated slip of cardboard from the late Chef Fratelli’s slacks. “Looks like a number or somethin’.”
 
“Seven digits. Phone number?”
 
“New York number?” Columbo suggested.
 
“How you get that?”
 
“Victim’s in from New York. He’s a big shot restaurant guy there. No area code, so it must be local. Can I see that, Doc?”
 
The assistant M.E. displayed the slip as the lieutenant jotted the number onto the back of what appeared to be a Safeway receipt.
 
“What’s that on the back? Some kinda lettering?”
 
“French, I think. Gat-toe…  All I know is Spanish and some conversational Latin. Wonder why he laminated it?”
 
Columbo frowned, tapping his chin.
 
“Lieutenant?”
 
“Yeah, sorry. You can have him, Doc. Thanks.”
 
“Let’s take him to go,” the assistant M.E. ordered, and the techs resealed the dead chef. Columbo scratched his temple as he watched Zach Fratelli roll away.
 
“Columbo!”
 
The detective looked up as the strange, yet somehow familiar, voice echoed through Kitchen Castle.
 
“Yo, Lt. Columbo!”
 
Columbo finally located the source of the summons, beyond the crime scene tape. The man was balding, redheaded, and athletic-looking in a pair of jeans and a New York Fire Department T-shirt. The cop ambled toward the grinning man, then stopped dead. He grinned back at the man beyond the tape, but before he could exclaim, the redhead beat him to it.
 
“I know you,” Billy Shaughnessy nodded. “The Lt. Columbo. This is awesome.”
 
“Me, sir?” Columbo rasped, thumping his chest in befuddlement as he reached the tape. “Now you, sir – I absolutely know who you are. I see you on TV almost every night – me and my wife. You’re like maybe the greatest chef alive, sir.”
 
“And you’re a legend on the L.A. restaurant scene, Columbo. You’re the guy put Paul Gerard away.”
 
“Well, sir,” Columbo ducked his head modestly, “Mr. Gerard kinda put himself away.”
 
“Whatever the case, he killed one of the all-time masters and, what’s worse, he was a critic. He deserves to eat prison chow for the rest of his existence. You eaten yet?”

The policeman blinked. “Wellll, nooo, sir. Matter of fact, I was gonna grab a burger when the call came in.”
 
“Well, how about you let me fix you the best bacon cheeseburger on the West Coast? It’d be my honor.”
 
“Geez, sir, I was just doin’ my job with Mr. Gerard…”
 
“Gerard still raves about your veal scallopini,” Billy interrupted. “It’d be my privilege to feed the man who managed to cork that pretentious gasbag.”
 
**
 
“Wow, sir,” Columbo murmured, awestruck as he surveyed the now-deserted test kitchen. “It looks a lot different than on TV.”
 
Billy shrugged as he strode toward the brushed-steel fridges on the far end of the expansive cucina. “Your guys sealed mine – they wanted to make sure there wasn’t any cyanide among the cardamom and the cumin.”
 
“Well, that’s routine, sir. Everybody in the studio is a suspect, and, well…”
 
“Go ahead, Columbo, say it,” the chef laughed. “I’m the prime suspect. Zach and I weren’t exactly on the greatest terms, and I do have one hell of a laboratory here.”
 
Columbo chuckled. “Well, you
 
“All right, one burger coming up.” Billy began to root through the cooler. “We got bison, elk, ostrich. Hey, Columbo, ever had a kangaroo burger?”
 
Columbo rubbed his hands together. “I don’t ‘spose you got cow in there?”
 
Billy grinned. “One hundred percent prime ground Angus beef. That OK?”
 
“Whatever you got, sir.”
 
“Terrific. What you want on that? We got Gouda, Havarti, English Sharp Cheddar, Jack, Provolone…”
 
“Cheese, sir -- just regular cheese.”
 
“Ah. I think, yeah -- two slices processed American.”
 
“Now we’re talkin’,” Columbo murmured happily.
 
“You ever had applewood boar baco-- ah, never mind.” Juggling meat, cheese, and buns, Billy led Columbo to a nearby cooktop into which a hibachi had been built. “Let’s fire up the grill, and we’ll get this puppy going.”
 
The hibachi flared as if by Hogwartian wizardry, and Columbo leapt back. “You know, Mr. Shaughnessy, I know you’re just kiddin’ about being a prime suspect, but when you think about it, a chef’s kinda like a chemist. You gotta use just the right amount of flour, baking soda, eggs--”
 
Billy looked up from the patty he was gently shaping. “Try crème de cassis and vermouth or cumin and saffron. I never was much of a pastry chef.”
 
Columbo looked surprised. “Now, I think you’re being modest, sir. My point is, I can use your help here.”
 
“Me?”
 
“Sure. I got a big problem here. I don’t think it was any coincidence the killer used cyanide in a kitchen full of almonds. Did you know, sir, that almonds actually contain cyanide? Not a whole lot. I mean, you’d have to shell a whole buncha nuts -- I mean seeds -- to kill anybody.”
 
Billy paused, then salted and peppered the loose patty. “Well, you got a whole buncha almonds downstairs, Columbo. Lot going on in that kitchen during the show -- you think maybe somebody extracted poison from a coupla pounds of almonds and slipped it into one of Zach’s dishes?”
 
It was Columbo’s turn to pause. “Why would you suggest that, sir? You think it was a crime of impulse? Just salt and pepper, sir? I’da thought you’d have some kinda special spices or something.”
 
“That’s how too many guys screw up a good burger. You get the flavor from the beef -- ideally an 80-20 lean-to-fat ratio. The salt and pepper helps with the sear -- puts a nice crust on the burger.” Billy slipped the patty onto the hibachi, where it sizzled with a satisfying hiss. “I’m no homicide expert -- that’s your job. But like you said, it’s a pretty hefty coincidence the killer would use a poison that smells and tastes like bitter almonds on a set chock full of almonds. Sir Ramsey doesn’t decide on the secret ingredient of the week until the morning of the show. It’s like a state secret -- an independent supplier brings in a sealed shipment, and the crew doesn’t know ‘til an hour before production. Hey. You think it was Sir Ramsey? He’s put up with temperamental chefs for years. Maybe he finally snapped. You’d think it woulda been me he’d have cacked, though.”
 
Columbo shook his head with a chuckle. “You’re having fun with me, sir. I did think about Mr. Garland, and I don’t think he coulda done it. He got in from London two hours before the show started, and he barely got to the set on time to introduce Mr. Fratelli. Then he went to that fancy throne of his to watch for the next hour. I don’t think there was any time he could’ve slipped the cyanide to your friend.”
 
Billy smirked at the lieutenant’s characterization of his relationship with Fratelli. “What if he came up with the secret ingredient and secreted the poison in the pantry before he left for England?”
 
“Don’t you need to turn that, sir?”
 
“Good eye, Columbo.” Billy edged a spatula blade under the patty and deftly flipped it. “You don’t want to bruise your burger -- need to keep those juices inside.”
 
“I’ll remember that next Columbo family reunion. I’m afraid that theory doesn’t work, either, sir. I’m sure you know all about the security in the studio. You gotta have one of those magnetized key cards to get in, and every card has its own coding. Anybody who goes in or out when there isn’t a show going on gets recorded. I already looked at the log -- Mr. Garland hasn’t been in Castle Kitchen for a week.”
 
“Mm,” Billy nodded. “What about the suppliers? The folks who delivered the almonds.”
 
“What would the motive be, sir? Unless somebody paid off one of the delivery guys to put cyanide in the shipment. But there’s another problem, sir, and it’s big one. Neither you or Mr. Fratelli knew the secret ingredient, and none of those dishes you guys fixed were planned ahead of time, right.”
 
“That’s the idea.”
 
“So how could the killer know Mr. Fratelli would eat or drink or taste the right thing? That he -- and only he -- would take the poison? It would seem impossible, sir. Don’t you agree?”
 
Billy considered, then reached for the cheese. “You’re right -- it’s a tough one.” The Eastern Knight placed the American slices, followed by crisply fried bacon. He selected a bun and sliced it open. “Lettuce, Columbo?”
 
“Oh, no, sir -- gets in the way of the meat. Little raw onion, maybe some ketchup and mustard?” Columbo paused. “The yellow kind, sir, if you don’t mind.”
 
“Absolutely. So Sir Ramsey’s out, and the suppliers, and the crew.”
 
“Well, it’s a little early, but I would say so.”
 
“Gee, I better shut up -- I’m making myself the prime suspect.”
 
“Oh, I don’t know, sir,” Columbo said. “I don’t wanna sound biased or nothing, but why would you want to kill Mr. Fratelli? I mean, he’s a great cook and all -- that’s obvious -- but look at you. You got, what, five or six restaurants? Every time I turn on the tube, it seems like you’re on there. Heck, sir, I took a cooking class last month down at the community college, and the teacher, he recommended one of your books -- he thinks you’re a genius. I gotta ask myself why you’d wanna kill Mr. Fratelli. It would make more sense if it’d been the other way around.”
 
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Billy pushed a plate toward the detective. “One bacon/cow cheeseburger, hold the garden.”
 
“Oh, my,” Columbo said, licking his lips. “That’s a thing of beauty, Mr. Shaughnessy.”
 
“Eat up, Columbo, please.” Billy watched intently as the cop delicately lifted the sandwich, gauged his point of attack, and buried his teeth. Columbo’s eyes widened as he chewed bun, cheese, and beef.
 
“Oh my,” he murmured through the ball of burger. He masticated slowly, then reluctantly swallowed. “Oh, my, sir. That is incredible. I don‘t think I’ve ever had a burger that sensational, and my nephew Randy has a $300 grill. Wow, that’s like a burger you’d make for Donald Trump.”
 
Billy beamed at the lieutenant’s hyperbolic pleasure. Columbo grinned sheepishly and shrugged.
 
“No, please, don’t be embarrassed,” the chef assured him. “I’m always surrounded by five-star Michelin chefs and critics like Myron Hauffman and upscale foodies too cool to smack their lips or roll their eyes over a perfectly crafted souffle. To see a hard-working guy like you attack something I’ve made with this kind of gusto, well, that’s like an Oscar, a Tony, and the Nobel Prize wrapped up with a bow. You just enjoy -- I won’t interrupt.”
 
Columbo continued masticating, cooing, and grunting with gustatory bliss for the next five minutes. When even the crumbs were gone, and all that remained of the detective’s meal were a few ketchup-stained napkins and a euphoric smile, he noisily applauded his host.
 
“Bravo, sir -- bravo,” Columbo slapped his belly. “I feel like I could take on a grizzly bear now. Wait’ll I tell Mrs. Columbo Billy Shaughnessy fixed me supper.”
 
“Bring her down to the restaurant some time -- you’ll be my guests. After you’ve wrapped the case, that is. Don’t want any conflict of interest.”
 
“I appreciate that, sir. Though I have a feeling I won’t be eating out until this case is solved. We got I don’t know how many tons of food to check out, and I’m gonna look at every second of video from tonight’s show. Whoever poisoned Mr. Fratelli probably did it in front of an audience, three studio cameras, and four floor cameras.”
 
“I didn’t see anything,” Billy confessed.
 
Columbo grinned impishly and waggled a finger. “Thanks much for the chow, sir.”
 
Billy was clearing the counter when the detective turned from the test kitchen doorway. “Oh, sir -- just one more thing, if I may.” The detective searched his pockets as he returned to the grilltop. “That burger was so terrific I almost forgot to ask you. It’s just routine.” He smoothed a crumpled piece of paper on the counter. “We found this -- well, not this, this is my notes -- in the pocket of Mr. Fratelli’s chef uniform.”
 
“Tunic.”
 
“Yeah, his tunic. Tunic. Anyways, the original note was written on a piece of cardboard, and had plastic on it, you know, like a driver’s license.”
 
“Laminated.” Billy watched the detective closely. “And this was in Zach’s tunic. That’s odd. Can I see it?”
 
Columbo slapped his forehead. “Geez, yeah, that’s the whole reason I came back. It’s a number, sir -- seven digits. The boys think it’s a phone number. See how the last four numbers are slightly separated from the first three. Ring any bells, sir?”
 
Billy stared at the number, then shook his head. “I dunno, Columbo. Without an area code, it’s kinda tough to put a context on it.”
 
“I’m guessin’ New York City, sir. If it’d been anywhere besides, he woulda included the area code. Now, I know 202, cause I still got family back there, but Mr. Fratelli, he’s like a real hometown boy -- all his people are back in the Apple. If this was an LA number or a Chicago number, he’da added the area code. You see what I’m saying?”
 
Billy nodded. “That’s some good detective work. Why don’t you try calling it?”
 
Columbo clapped his hands together. “Why don’t we call it together, sir? You’ve already been a big help in sorting through the possible suspects. I could really use another head on this one.”
 
Billy eyed the cop for a second, then broke into a smile. “Yeah, sure. It’s got me curious, too. We’ll use my office.”
 
“Tally ho, sir,” Columbo invited.
 
**
 
“1-2-1-2-4-3…Is that an 8 or a six, sir?”
 
“Eight,” Billy murmured, studying the disheveled policeman.
 
“I need some handwriting lessons or somethin’. 8-4-3-1.” After punching it the rest of the atonal electronic melody, Columbo leaned back in Billy’s cush guest chair. Billy remained perched on the edge of his own as the phone speaker filled the large, Scandinavian-appointed office.
 
“I’m sorry,” a disdainful, spinsterish voice informed the cop and the cook, “but the number you have called is no longer in service…” Columbo quickly disconnected.
 
“Can’t stand that voice,” the detective mumbled. “Sounds just like Mrs. Berelli, my sixth grade teacher. I still think she killed Mrs. Berelli, buried him out in Jersey somewhere.”
 
Billy laughed. “Well, strike New York. Only a few hundred area codes to go.”
 
Columbo sat back, scratching his scalp. “I dunno. That note looked pretty old -- the number was smudged, and the cardboard was creased after he wrote it. I think Mr. Fratelli laminated it a while after he wrote it, like it wasn’t important at the time, but it is now. And he kept it with him even when he was doing the show tonight. You know, they had to add some area codes in New York a few years back causa all the new people -- there was even an episode of Seinfeld about it. Let’s try those.”
 
A few moments and two scoldings by Mrs. Berelli’s doppelganger later, Columbo frowned.
 
“Sorry, Columbo,” Billy said. “Looks like you’re gonna have to start dialing the rest of the country.”
 
“Maybe…” Columbo murmured, reaching for a bowl of butter mints between himself and the chef. He popped a couple of the confections into his maw. “But I just got a feeling about this. I’m gonna see who USED to have this number. I’m guessin’ it’s gonna be important to solving this case.”
 
“I hope so -- Ramsey’s probably stroking out over his castle being locked down,” Billy suggested with a hint of delight.
 
**
 
“Sir?” Columbo called to the figure down the corridor. He’d left Billy Shaughnessy to the business of explaining the siege at Castle Kitchen to his agent and restaurant staff.
 
The stocky man glanced up guiltily, then turned and retreated briskly toward the fifth floor elevator bank.
 
“Sir,” Columbo called more insistently. The man stepped up his pace. The lieutenant sprinted for the elevators.
 
The doors were closing when Columbo extended his right foot. The sliding panels caught his utilitarian right shoe, and reopened.
 
“Sir,” the detective panted, flashing his shield. The white-thatched, jowly man sighed loudly with a put-upon expression, and Columbo blinked. “Hey, I know you.”
 
“Wonderful,” the fugitive grunted. “So who would I be?”
 
“You’re that guy, the judge, the funny one.”

Myron Hauffman shook his head. “Close enough, I suppose.”
 
“Could I ask what you were doing up here?” Columbo asked as the doors began to close. He reinserted his foot.
 
Hauffman shrugged. “It’s been a long and stressful day, and I needed a….break, so to speak.”
 
Columbo grinned knowledgeably. Hauffman coughed.
 
“You people have locked the studio down tighter than my agent’s liquor cabinet, and, well, I knew Ramsey’s office was a good place to, ah, relax.”
 
The policeman considered. “Well, I guess since you two know each other and everything, there isn’t any harm. Let’s go relax in Sir Ramsey’s office.”
 
As soon as Columbo opened Ramsey Garland’s escutcheoned teak door,  Hauffman beelined for a squat bottle on the producer’s credenza. “Hello, come to Myron,” the critic purred. “Gift from a loyal network exec. Amaretto, from the Italian for ‘a little bitter.’”
 
“That’s like almond liqueur, right?” Columbo asked.
 
“Almond-flavored, though much of time, it’s produced from apricot pits. You on duty. Officer….”
 
“Columbo. Lt. Columbo, sir. And, yes, I’ll pass, thank you.”
 
Hauffman’s hand poured even as his brow rose. “Columbo, Columbo… Say, you’re that fellow put Paul Gerard in prison.”
 
“That would be me, sir.”
 
“Paul and I were at the Culinary Institute together. He was a bottom-crawling cretin. You sure I can’t buy you a drink?”
 
“Positive, sir. You sure it’s OK with Mr. Garland?”
 
“He despises cordials -- a pure Bombay gin and Scots whiskey man, pip pip. Billy recommended the network suit give him this to yank Sir Ramsey’s gold-braided chain. Up the Commonwealth,” Hauffman toasted, downing a half-inch of amaretto.
 
“Easy, sir,” Columbo advised. “Don’t they get along? Mr. Garland and Mr. Shaughnessy? Cause I thought Mr. Shaughnessy was one of the network’s big stars.”
 
“Ah,” Hauffman dismissed. “Typical generational conflict. Ramsey was one of the last of the old guard -- the Childs, the Pepins, the Robuchons. Chefs were practically royalty back then -- auxiliary aristocrats. Today, they’re rock stars. Puck, Flay, Shaughnessy. Every Tom, Dick, and Columbo knows their names, their catchphrases, has nuked their frozen entrees or tried valiantly to prepare their recipes from last night’s show. Billy Boy’s Ramsey’s golden goose, but he’s also the international superstar Sir Ramsey never could be. At the same time, Billy knows he’s the golden goose, and he likes to push the envelope with the old fossil. It’s a real battle of wills.
 
“For example: A while back, Billy made a wager with his sous-chef Josef that Ramsey would pick lamb as the Royal Ingredient within the next three weeks. He then virtually bombarded the old boy. Ramsey was looking for a place to take a visiting actress from Merry Old England, and Billy convinced Ramsey’s assistant to recommend Sbirro’s -- a Greek place known for its roast lamb. He began talking doing a segment of his Planet Barhop show from New Zealand -- showed Ramsey hours of footage of drunk New Zealanders and sheep, whom I believe outnumber the New Zealanders. And, most importantly, Billy publicly reamed one of the assistant producers -- who, by the way, had a piece of Billy’s bet -- for scheduling a mutton recipe on his Christmas special. Said he wouldn’t feed it to Taliban prisoners, that he couldn’t make it taste good if the Holy Father himself blessed the flock before slaughter. That was the crowning stroke -- Sir Ramsey couldn’t resist the opportunity to throw Billy off his game. Lamb Crusade was waged the very next week/”
 
Columbo’s brow wrinkled. “But isn’t that kinda like Mr. Garland shooting himself in the foot? I’d think he’d want his, how’d you put it, golden goose, to win?”
 
Hauffman savored his amaretto. “Lieutenant, please. It really doesn’t matter to the ratings or the network whether Billy wins or loses. In fact, Billy’s straight win record has become monotonous -- where’s the tension when the Eastern Knight easily vanquishes every challenger who comes before Ramsey’s table? And, besides, the American couch potato loves to see the underdog kick Goliath in the nads every so often. I believe it’s partially why Ramsey finally booked Zach Fratelli on the show.
 
“You know, Billy produces this other show -- You Been Served, atrocious grammar -- where he goes on the road and challenges hometown chefs with their own dishes -- a Miami restaurateur who specializes in Cuban sandwiches, a Chicago pizza chef, a Louisiana gumbo expert. Well, Billy’s record there is considerably less impressive -- the hometown folk generally prefer their own guy’s version to Billy’s usually upscale variation and want to see one of their own topple Goliath. No harm to Billy’s rep -- everyone knows the fix is most likely in, and it’s great publicity for the guest restaurant and Billy, who always plays the admiring good sport. The host chef, in return, treats Billy like visiting royalty.
 
“Except this time. When Billy shows up to surprise Fratelli at his restaurant, Fratelli treats him like an unwelcome guest, ridiculing his prep technique, his assistants, his plating. He refuses to sample Billy’s scallopini, which is a definite diplomatic non-no. Billy tries to put on a good face, but you can see his fury is barely confined. After the local judges pick Fratelli’s dish over Billy’s -- big surprise -- Fratelli performs a truly mortifying Superbowl dance, high-fiving the staff and guests, most against their will.” As a coda, Hauffman silently sipped his liqueur.

“My,” Columbo gasped, rubbing his chin. “No wonder there’s bad blood between the two of ‘em.”
 
“Yes,” Hauffman smiled enigmatically and, Columbo thought, a bit fuzzily. “The Shaughnessy-Fratelli debate has become the stuff of culinary legend. I’m sure Ramsey was salivating to get young Zachary on the show, no doubt hoping to knock his errant knight down a peg or two. Exactly as Billy no doubt had planned.”
 
The lieutenant’s jaw dropped. “You think it was a put-up job? That Mr. Fratelli and Mr. Shaughnessy were in cahoots?”
 
“It’s as I’ve said, Inspector,” the critic murmured sloppily. “Defeat on You Been Served is no great loss of face for Billy Boy. Fratelli’s boorish behavior alienated viewers solely toward himself. And set the stage for a rematch on the grand prosceni-, procedi-, stage of Kitchen Castle. Just as MTV irreparably maimed modern music, television has turned the great chefs of America into chest-pummeling professional wrestlers. You watch wrestling, I presume, Captain?”
 
“Yes, sir,” Columbo replied uncertainly.
 
“Well, then. You recognize the formula. Billy’s Stone Cold Steve Austin, Fratelli’s, well, you know, that ogrish fellow, the bearded Colossus. Hmph, I really must brush up on my pop culture. At any rate, the whole episode merely served to simultaneously build audience sympathy for Billy and boost Fratelli’s stock as the bad boy of the New York restaurant scene. No doubt tonight’s pair-up was the result of some not-so-subtle manipulation of the not-so-intuitive Sir Ramsey.”
 
“But why, sir?” Columbo queried, frowning. “I mean, somebody’s gotta lose, right? Everybody I’ve talked to says Mr. Shaughnessy is far and away the better chef, and here, well, he’s got the home court advantage. Why would Mr. Fratelli risk that kind of humiliation, and why would Mr. Shaughnessy bother with some guy who, you’ll pardon me, doesn’t seem fit to hold his ladle?
 
“And let’s say that by some chance, Mr. Fratelli gets lucky and beats Mr. Shaughnessy. I would think that would be extremely embarrassing for him.” Columbo suddenly paused to ponder. “You got any idea? Who woulda won tonight?”
 
Myron Hauffman wriggled more comfortably into his throne, caressing his snifter and shifting into academic mode. “Well, I know Billy was under some considerable pressure -- he was perspiring even more profusely than usually during the first half-hour of the competition, and he was delegating more than was his practice.”
 
“Delegating, sir?”
 
“Yes, it was curious. Normally, Billy trusts his sous chef and assistants with every aspect of preparation, except for plating and ingredient selection. Just as he has an intuitive knack for reading his diners’ tastes and appetites, he also has a flawless eye for the best cut of beef, the perfect pear, the most impeccable asparagus. Asparagi? At any rate, Billy normally selects every piece of meat, produce, and garnish for the evening’s dishes. But tonight, he was the Napoleon of the kitchen, dispatching his foot-soldiers to the pantry and the freezer. Perhaps he wanted to focus on preparation, without the distraction of fondling figs.
 
“But as to your question, Colonel, there can be no question. Fratelli’s choices were ill-considered, haphazard, desperate. While I’m sure he can dish up a mean paste e fagiole, he has no aesthetic sense for plating, and creative assembly of elements sadly does not constitute culinary originality. Without tasting Billy’s oeuvre, I think I can safely say our intrepid knight.would have cleaned the galley with Fratelli.”
 
Columbo perched on the edge of Sir Ramsey’s ornately scrolled desk. “That makes this whole thing even more baffling, sir. I think I know who killed Mr. Fratelli, but I’ll be damned how he coulda done it. Lemme ask you -- was there any time at all--?”
 
The detective was interrupted by a low rasping sound. He looked down at Myron Hauffman, whose double chin now rested on his sunken chest. His mouth hung open, and the critic looked as though he was dreaming of white truffle clouds and rolling hills of pate de fois gras.
 
Columbo gently wrested the snifter from Hauffman’s chubby fingers, set it on the desk, and tiptoed silently away…
 
**
 
“It was not me,” Josef Gabril stated before Columbo could open his mouth.
 
“Relax, sir,” the detective told the burly Russian sous-chef, who was still wearing his unbuttoned tunic. The overhead spots gleamed off his shaven head.
 
“I have no reason to kill the maestro,” Josef insisted. “He give me opportunity here to be a great chef.”
 
“Mr. Gabril,” Columbo stated. “We’re talking to everybody who was here tonight -- I just wanna figure out who might’ve killed your boss. If it helps, I don’t think you did it.”
 
“I thought maybe the grappa... It is the only thing the maestro eat or drink.”
 
Columbo leaned on Aidan Grey’s console. “The grappa was one of the first things I had the lab check. It was clean.”
 
Josef’s shoulders dipped a half-inch as he “relaxed.”
 
“But, surely, sir, that wasn’t the only thing Mr. Fratelli put in his mouth. When you’re cooking, you taste, you sample, you pop a grape or lick the spoon.”
 
“This is true,” Josef drawled. “But tonight, it is like, what do you say, a crazy house? We run all over -- this kitchen, is not familiar. I am sure you are right, but I did not notice what the maestro might have sampled.”
 
Columbo sighed. “It’s OK -- maybe Mr. Fratelli’s stomach contents’ll tell us something. Meanwhile, what do you know about this feud between your boss and Mr. Shaughnessy? How’d he feel about coming on the show?”
 
“He feel good,” Josef shrugged. “To be honest, I do not feel as good. Shaughnessy, he is great artist, great chef. I am not so sure the maestro can beat him. But he feel good -- says contest is in the bag -- so I don’t want to bum him out, you know? He even go to Shaughnessy’s place to, how you call it, psyche him off. I say, you think that’s good idea? He say, don’t sweat it -- it’s all good.’
 
“It’s all good,’ Columbo repeated. “That’s what he said? Exactly?”
 
Josef considered. “That’s what he says. Exactly.”
 
Columbo nodded thoughtfully. “Thanks, sir. Das vedanya.”
 
The sous chef dipped his head, clicked his heels, and marched off as Sgt. Kramer approached.
 
“Bad news, Lieutenant,” the sergeant reported. “That senator guy called the mayor, who called the commissioner, who called the chief. We got two hours before we gotta cut everybody loose.”
 
“What?” Columbo yelped. “Two hours. That won’t work.”
 
“Tell the chief, and get him to tell the commissioner,” Kramer muttered. “Two hours is what we’ve got.”
 
Columbo ran both hands through his hair, then inhaled. “OK. Here’s what we’re gonna do. I don’t wanna tip our hand, so we gotta keep everybody on the premises. Then get all the guys together, and find every TV in the joint.”
 
“TV?”
 
“Yeah. We got I think seven cameras shooting tonight’s show. We gotta watch probably 10 hours of tape in two hours, so we gotta get watching right away.”
 
“Watching for what?”
 
Columbo stared disconsolately at the massive arena. “For Billy Shaughnessy slipping the victim a lethal dose of cyanide.”
 
**
 
“Ms. Dardelle? Lauren Dardelle?” Columbo inquired.
 
“Yeah, you got her.” The voice on the other end of the line, a few thousand miles to the east, was thick with Bronx flavor. Dardelle was one of the past owners of the number Zach Fratelli had so jealously protected.
 
“I’m Lt. Columbo with the LAPD. Are you familiar with a fella named Zach Fratelli?”
 
The line fell silent for a beat. “That prick?”
 
Columbo blinked. “Excuse me, ma’am?”
 
“Wha’d the bastard do now?”
 
“Uh, well, actually, ma’am, Mr. Fratelli’s dead.”
 
“Oh. Shit. Sorry, I guess.”
 
“I take it you know him, then?”
 
“Knew. Well, not real well. I mean, it’s been years. We were on Primo Chef. Well, I mean he was. I was makeup. Back when I was in showbiz. Now, I do corpses. I mean, I make ‘em look good. For a funeral home in Queens.”
 
“Primo Chef? The one where Billy Shaughnessy beat Mr. Fratelli?”
 
“Yeah. Well, I still think he woulda won if he hadn’t got in that fight with that crazy bitch in the last challenge.”
 
“Yeah, I saw that,” Columbo said, relishing the memory. “That was a real rumpus, wasn’t it?’
 
‘Well, he knocked that fancy wedding cake outta her hands and everything. I probably woulda kicked his ass, too. But I could tell the judges weren’t real thrilled. Up ‘til then, I think Fratelli had it in the bag -- the other guy, the famous one, he was a nervous wreck that last challenge. Fratelli’s like a big dumb kid, though. Always coming on to me during taping, then hitting me up for my number the last day, right before the judging. Then the jerk never even calls me. I mean, you seen him? I was really pumped. Then he kicks me to the curb. Prick, you should pardon my saying, no ill toward the dead.”
 
“I understand, ma’am. About Mr. Shaughnessy, though. You notice anything strange about him or the way he got along with Mr. Fratelli during the last challenge.”
 
Dardelle laughed harshly. “Lemme tell you somethin’. Fratelli was all I was lookin’ at that day. The prick.”
 
**
 
Columbo consulted his watch as he re-entered the studio. An hour, twenty-two minutes remaining on the clock.
 
“How we doin’?” he asked Kramer anxiously as the sergeant squinted at Aidan Grey’s monitor.
 
“Not so hot,” Kramer grunted. “Lab hasn’t found anything so far, and none of the guys has seen Shaughnessy stray one inch outta camera range. Unless he has that thing, you know, telekinesis -- you know, like he thought the poison into Fratelli’s wine. I’ll keep watching.”
 
Columbo stared pensively at the monitor as Billy Shaughnessy slid a tray of almonds under the salamander, sweat gleaming on his freckled brow.
 
**
 
Aidan Grey glanced up with only mild curiosity as the grungy detective he’d seen earlier sidled into the Knights green room. He pushed his famous wireless frames up his nose and closed the large red-checked volume on his lap.
 
“Betty Crocker, sir?” Columbo chuckled. “I wouldn’ta thought a fancy gourmet guy like you would be reading something like that?”
 
“Au contraire,” Grey murmured with the grin that had made LLN’s resident food scientist/jester a household presence. “Ms. Crocker -- AKA Marjorie Child Husted -- was a culinary fundamentalist who knew how to wring optimal flavor from minimal expenditure. Her white sauce alone is a classic building block of gourmet alchemy.”
 
“Wow,” Columbo breathed. “And I just keep it around for the tollhouse cookie recipe. But I did have a chemistry question for you.”
 
“Could Billy Shaughnessy have synthesized cyanide using the almonds and equipment available in Kitchen Castle?” Grey posed with a somber smile.
 
“Holy moly,” Columbo gasped. “That’s amazing, like a magic trick.”
 
Grey shrugged modestly. “Well, Billy’s the obvious suspect, right? And given that Kitchen Castle has the security of the late Michael Jackson’s ranch, there are only two real ways Billy could’ve poisoned Zach tonight. One, by using cyanide already present somewhere about the studio, or two, by manufacturing cyanide on the floor.”
 
“So? Could he? Make the poison during the show? I mean, you’re one of the few guys who sees everything going on down there.”
 
“And surfing background and poring through texts on every ingredient used during the competition, as well as interviewing judges and guest audience members. However, to make a long story short? No.”
 
“No.”
 
“The chemicals needed to catalyze the poison alone would be a giveaway -- you’d need an enzyme like beta-glucosidase to quickly release the cyanide from sweet almonds, peach pits, or apple pips. And Billy had to prepare five complex dishes with the help of only one sous chef and two assistants, in one hour. He’d have had no time to manufacture a large enough dose of cyanide to kill Zach, even if he’d had the means.”
 
“So we’re back to the poison already being in the kitchen.”
 
“Well, in that case, you might look for a pesticide like rat poison, maybe in a floor trap. It is a kitchen. Or check the medications of everyone here. Sodium nitroprusside, which contains cyanide, is used to decrease blood pressure in humans. Though that’s something of a rarity these days. And by the way, I have an airtight alibi for the entire show, and the only medication I’m currently abusing is an oral analgesic for a fractured molar I sustained from a piece of hard candy in Billy’s office. A Jordan almond, as a matter of fact. Interesting history there…”
 
**
 
“Lieutenant!” Kramer shouted as he chased the detective out onto the street outside LLN’s corporate headquarters. Columbo started. “Lieutenant, we only got about an hour left before everybody flies the coop. Where are you going?”
 
A bus belched past as Columbo yelled something and climbed into his battered Peugeot. The import backfired and left the curb with a lurch.
 
“Where’s he off to?” asked the uniform assigned to cover the front exit.
 
“I coulda sworn,” Kramer mumbled, “he said he was going for a drink.”
 
**
 
“One Shaughleighleigh, virgin,” Calvin Moore proclaimed, slipping a cocktail napkin under the emerald concoction. “And believe me, that wasn’t easy. Now, how can I help you, Lieutenant? You know its ridiculous Billy woulda killed that clown Fratelli.”
 
Columbo took a tentative sip of his Shaughleighleigh. His eyes popped open, and he grinned beatifically. “Wow, that is one terrific drink, Mr. Moore. I gotta get your recipe for the next poker night at the Columbo house. And that thingie in there -- that ain’t an olive, is it?”
 
“Lychee fruit, my man. Billy’s own touch. A lychee fruit stuffed with a caper. Sweet and salty.”
 
“Well, it certainly is tasty,” Columbo said with a smack of the lips.
 
Sha-La-La was crowded for a Wednesday night, and Calvin was managing as well as supervising the bar. But Billy kept his LA establishment operating like a smoothly lubricated perpetual motion machine, and the burly mixologist poured himself a ginger ale as the detective quaffed his virgin potion.
 
“Why’d he come in last night?” Columbo asked. “Fratelli, I mean. To razz Mr. Shaughnessy?”
 
“Yeah, and it was a pretty lame attempt. Guy like Fratelli gets under your skin mainly by being annoying, and Zach was the king of annoying. Like that B.S. on You Been Served. It’s all designed to get a reaction.”
 
“And did Mr. Shaughnessy react?”
 
“He kept his cool. Even offered to make him a--”
 
Columbo waved off Calvin’s sudden silence. “A drink. One a’these, I assume? Don’t worry, Mr. Moore. Cyanide’s pretty quick. Mr. Fratelli woulda had to have an iron constitution to carry that poison around for nearly 20 hours. Anything else, sir?”
 
The bartender sighed. “He drank his drink, made a few smartass remarks, and left with his entourage. Like I said, it was a lame attempt to psyche Billy out. I don’t why the boss didn’t just show him the street. He woulda kicked his sorry butt tonight. If anything, I’d think maybe Fratelli had a cyanide capsule ready for the blessed event. You need anything else tonight, Lieutenant? Fresh up that drink, on the house?”
 
“Nah. Thanks anyway. I gotta get back to the studio.”
 
Calvin nodded and moved down the bar. Columbo drained his Shaughleighleigh, dropped a five on the bar -- $2 shy of the drink’s actual price -- and slid off his stool. Then he froze, nearly causing a three-yuppie pile-up. The policeman grinned, frightening the outraged yuppies, and returned to his stool. A two-minute search yielded his cell phone, and another three minutes of technology reorientation later, Columbo was punching in a programmed number.
 
“Yeah, Sergeant? It’s me,” the lieutenant announced triumphantly. “What? Nah, I didn’t figure you would. Nah. Go ahead and send everybody home now. And you go on home, too. What? Noooo, it’s what they call a virgin drink -- no booze. Why you ask? Oh. OK. Just seal off the studio and send everybody home.”
 
After a moment of silence and a grunt from the other end of the line, Columbo waved for Calvin’s attention.
 
“Y’know,” the cop said as the bartender approached, “I think maybe I will have another one a’these…”
 
**
 
Billy parked a block from the restaurant -- he wanted the element of surprise on his side when he approached his quarry. He pulled the worn Dodgers cap over his forehead, shading his familiar countenance, and strolled quickly, looking down, toward the brightly painted storefront.
 
The joint was packed, SRO. Billy’s prey was having a party that afternoon, celebrating his 75th birthday with his loyal customers and lifelong friends. A table at the center of the room was laden with brisket and knishes and chopped liver. Billy’s quarry was behind the spread, laughing and slapping backs, oblivious to the events about to transpire.
 
Billy moved through the mob. A few celebrants recognized him, tittering and gasping. The old man didn’t see him until he was a few feet away.
 
“Irv,” Billy called somberly. Irv Goldglatz paled as he recognized the chef. A liver-spotted hand moved to the deli owner’s mustachioed lips.
 
“Irv,” Billy repeated as the cameramen fanned out, “You been served, my friend.”
 
“Oh, my God,” Goldglatz exclaimed, rushing forward to hug his prospective challenger. “This is incredible!”
 
“Irv,” Billy continued, throwing an arm around the proprietor’s narrow shoulder. “You’re perhaps LA’s number one purveyor of fine home-cured kosher meats and classic deli delights. I’m calling you out today. You ready to bring your best reuben?”
 
Irv paused as the crowd roared encouragement. Then he pumped a fist into the air. “Let’s do it!!!”
 
Billy high-fived the old man, then caught sight of a shabby, raincoated man standing beside the steam counter. Columbo waved cheerfully. Billy nodded once with a wary smile, and turned to the clamoring mob.
 
“And we’re clear,” the producer, a mock deli “customer,” called.
 
“Billy Shaughnessy, you gonstermacher!” a tearful Irv sang, hugging the chef. “This is such a great treat!”
 
“Treat’s all mine, my friend,” Billy grinned, squeezing the deli owner. “Pardon me for a second, will you, Irv. I see a buddy of mine. Hey, Rob, gimme ten, OK?”
 
“Sir, that was terrific,” Columbo enthused as Billy reached him. “You really made that gentleman’s day. You really took him by surprise.”
 
“He’s not the only one,” the chef mused. “What brings you here, Columbo? We’re kinda in the middle of a production here.”
 
“Oh, I know that, sir, and I am sorry,” the lieutenant said. “By the way, you want a piece of candy, sir? There’s a movie theater right up the street, and I took a chance they’d have these?”
 
“What?” Billy laughed as Columbo proferred a flat box. The cop shook loose a pastel pink, egg-shaped confection. “You recognize these, don’t you, sir? Jordan almonds. Aidan Grey told me you like ‘em.”
 
Billy stared at the object, then up at Columbo. “Not particularly, Columbo. Plus, I don’t do sweets before a show. Like to keep my palate clean, you know? Hey, I don’t want to be rude, but--”
 
“I know, sir,” Columbo nodded. “I’m gonna let you get back to your show now. But I did want to see if you could meet me back at the studio when you’re finished. I got something important to show you.”
 
“I don’t need this just right now, Colum--,” Billy struggled with a smile, and the smile finally won. “Sure, man, I’ll be there in, say, three hours?”


“That would be great, sir,” Columbo bowed. “Good luck, Mr. Shaughnessy -- bon appetite.”
 
“Merci, Columbo. Later.” Billy began to retreat. “OK, Rob, let’s do--”
 
“Oh, sir?”
 
Billy stopped dead, fingers curling into fists. He unflexed his digits and turned back to Columbo.
 
“Yeah.”
 
“I forgot to tell you, sir. We watched every single second of footage from last night’s taping, from beginning to end. And I wanna personally assure you that there is no way on Earth that you could’ve poisoned Mr. Fratelli last night.”
 
“What a relief.”
 
“Well, it’s a fact. You have perhaps the most perfect alibi I’ve ever seen in my career. Almost as if it was planned that way.”
 
Billy’s lips disappeared, and his jaw tightened. “Good luck getting your guy, Columbo,” he said finally. The restaurateur clapped loudly. “OK, let’s do this thing! Irv, it’s on, baby!”
 
Columbo smiled, then popped the candied almond into his mouth.
 
**
 
“How’d it go, sir?” Columbo asked four hours later, as Billy Shaughnessy entered a deserted Kitchen Castle.
 
“Not so hot -- I was a little off my game,” the chef said frostily.
 
“Jeez, I hope it wasn’t because of anything I said.”
 
Billy barked harshly. “Let’s cut to the quick. What did you want to show me, Columbo?”
 
“This way, sir,” Columbo said, starting toward Aidan Grey’s dais. “You know, detective work’s kinda like cooking, you know that.”
 
“You think so?” Billy said, disinterestedly.
 
“You got three basic ingredients in any homicide. Means, motive, and opportunity,” the lieutenant ticked off.
 
“That’s interesting,” the chef murmured with a tight smile. “I’ll give you motive up front, even if it is kind of lame as motives go. Zach was a dick -- that’s industry knowledge. But it looks like you’re short a couple of ingredients, Chief. Where was the opportunity, and what was the means – magic?”
 
Columbo grinned sheepishly. “I gotta admit, that’s a tough one. Even if we found the source of the cyanide, you haven’t been anywhere near this kitchen since last week – the security logs prove that for a fact. And even if you slipped the poison in tonight, I can’t put you anywhere near Mr. Fratelli or the food his guys were cooking. You were on camera the whole show – even during the commercial breaks. And that’s what I found strange, sir.”
 
“Strange? It gives me an airtight alibi.”
 
“Absolutely airtight, sir,” Columbo nodded. “Here you and Mr. Fratelli are, runnin’ around like maniacs, grabbin’ pans, choppin’ vegetables, running your legs off. But you managed to stay on camera the entire time, which believe you me, isn’t as easy as you might think. There’s a couple of blind spots where the cameras don’t go – I checked. The refrigerators and the pantry, I think you call it. But you never went out of camera range. That’s what’s strange. Mr. Hauffman says you always like to pick your own ingredients – the freshest, the best.”
 
“I’m surprised Myron notices anything after his breakfast cocktail.”
 
“He’s right, though – I seen you do it, every show, like clockwork. You’re a perfectionist, sir. Kinda like my wife. She won’t even let me pick out the veal shanks when she makes her osso bucco. She’s a perfectionist, like you.”
 
“My crew calls it something else, no offense to Mrs. Columbo.”
 
Columbo frowned. “But last night, you never left the floor. You sent your assistants to the pantry, to bring you your meat and vegetables. Here you are, goin’ up against your sworn rival, your nemesis, and you leave it up to your people to do pick out your ingredients. It makes me wonder, sir, when somebody suddenly changes their routine, their habits. You see my problem, don’t you?”
 
“Not at all, Columbo,” Billy stated, exasperation seeping across his features. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”
 
“Well, to me, it would seem like you wanted to make sure there was no doubt that you couldn’t have poisoned Mr. Fratelli. Not here, not during the show.”
 
“Yeah,” Billy spat. “Like I said, where was the opportunity? I ain’t tasting it.”
 
“That’s what was so brilliant about your plan. Chef Fratelli died on-camera, right here in this kitchen, from a poison that works almost instantly and that smells like bitter almonds. I bet you even got the cyanide from almonds. It was genius, sir – sheer genius. Like the thing about hiding a leaf in the forest. Except it was almonds – you buried us in almonds. It’s gonna take us days to analyze every nut, every bottle of amaretto, every dish you and Mr. Fratelli put together, and I’m gonna bet right this second we don’t find a trace of poison. And you know that.”
 
Billy stared incredulously at the policeman, then burst into laughter. “Wait a minute, Columbo. I buried you in almonds? Ramsey picked last night’s ingredient, just like every week. He treats it like a state secret, and everybody on the crew knows they’ll be out on the street if they even think about it before showtime. Sir Ramsey still gets razzed about bodily seepage – he wouldn’t risk the publicity of rigging the competition.”
 
“Sir Ramsey picked the almonds, all right. Just like you wanted him to. Just like the way you made him put Fratelli on the show, the way you made him think it was his idea. The way you’ve managed to rack up a perfect score on the show.”
 
“Wow, Columbo, I’m a bloody marvel, as Ramsey might say. And here I thought it was because of my culinary skill.”
 
“No offense, sir. I meant it as a compliment. You know how to whip up a person’s appetite, and I think that’s what you do with Sir Gordon. He’s what my Cousin Shel would call a guy with an appetite – good food, expensive booze, the ladies, if you know what I mean. You recommend a Greek restaurant specializes in lamb, suddenly he’s got an appetite for lamb and it winds up on the show. You send him a bottle of amaretto, set out a bowl of Jordan almonds – Mr. Grey told me about the broken tooth, even though now all you got on your desk is butter mints – and Sir Ramsey gives you a kitchenful of almonds to hide your leaf in.”
 
Billy shook his head. “Well, you call me when your M.E. finishes that report. It’s been real, Columbo.”
 
“You figure we’ll be scratching our heads for the next five years trying to figure out how Fratelli was killed. All we’d know is you couldn’t’ve done it. Like you said, you got an airtight alibi.”
 
“Bon appetite, Mon Lieutenant,” Billy saluted, breezing past the detective and moving toward the kitchen’s double doors.
 
“That’s why I got search warrants for your restaurant and apartment,” Columbo called.
 
The chef halted, then slowly turned. “What?”
 
“The guys oughtta be searching your kitchen just about now.”
 
Billy blinked. “You think I left a bottle of cyanide sitting around the walk-in?”
 
“Oh, that would be verrry dangerous. No, Mr. Shaughnessy – I know you’d’ve gotten rid of all traces of poison. What we’re looking for is enteric coating.”
 
“Enteric…..?”
 
Columbo grinned. “Oh, come on, sir. Your old man was a druggist – you almost went into the family business yourself. It was in that biography of you on Food Central--”
 
“Yeah, yeah, I know what an enteric coating is. Like on a cold capsule, right? The hell are you getting at, Columbo?”    
 
The lieutenant slapped his hands together. “If you didn’t poison Mr. Fratelli here, tonight, then where and when? The only possibility, the only time you coulda slipped him the cyanide was at your restaurant night before last, when Mr. Fratelli and his pals stopped by. But how’d you do it? How’d you manage to poison him so he wouldn’t die until tonight, during the show?
 
“My neighborhood druggist, he and I play poker every other Thursday. He’s a real whiz, been pushing pills for 25 years. Well, Joe – that’s his name, Joe the Druggist – he tells me a top-notch pharmacist would know just how thick to make the coating so it’ll dissolve at a certain rate. And you coulda made the ‘capsule’ you slipped Mr. Fratelli real thick, cause it wouldn’ta taken much cyanide to kill him once the coating dissolved. It was like in those old spy movies -- a cyanide capsule.”
 
“Wow, you got this all figured out, don’t you? Ok, I’ll bite – pardon the pun. Just when did I slip Zach this poisoned pill? He didn’t even stick around long enough for an appetizer.”
 
“I know, just a drink. A cocktail. You fixed it. Some kinda fancy Irish name.”
 
“A Shaughleighleigh. My own variation of the Shaleighleigh – I use limoncello instead of the lemon-lime soda, along with the usual amaretto and Bushmill’s. Dash of grenadine and some pineapple syrup – my touch.”
 
“And don’t forget the garnish, sir. It wouldn’t be a genuine Billy Shaughnessy Shaughleighleigh without the garnish. A lychee fruit. One of those slippery little things like at the Chinese buffet. And you stuff it with something, right? I know I got it written down somewhere.” Columbo began patting his pockets.
 
“Caperberry. I stuff the lychee with a pickled caperberry. It’s a pretty sweet drink – the caperberry adds a salty, tart note.”
 
“It’s a real popular drink. Your assistant says you drop into one of your places, you almost gotta have one. In fact, last night, you had quite a run on Shaleighleighs – your bartender, Calvin told me so. In fact, it was the first time he remembers running through a whole jar of those – whatayoucallems? – caperberries – in one night.”
 
A sudden chill shot through Billy’s gut. “Really?” he croaked.
 
“Yeah. He used up the last one about 10 minutes before Mr. Fratelli showed up. He opened a new one about 20 minutes after he left. We both thought that was real strange – where you got that caperberry for Mr. Fratelli’s drink when Calvin hadn’t even opened a new jar.”
 
The Eastern Knight opened his mouth, then clamped it.
 
“I figure you stuffed Mr. Fratelli’s garnish with a homemade cyanide capsule. Once again, it was a brilliant touch – that lychee fruit’s all slippy-slidey. Mr. Fratelli probably popped it in his mouth and swallowed it whole – with the capsule. Then, all you had to do was wait. There’s your means, sir – your second ingredient.”
 
Billy blinked again, then shook it off. “That’s a great story, Columbo – real CSI stuff. But I’d have to be some kind of psychic, wouldn’t I? How’d I know Zach was going to stop by the restaurant? What, I had a suicide capsule ready just in case somebody from the old neighborhood stopped by for a drink?”


“Oh, I don’t think Mr. Fratelli ‘just stopped by.’ That was all part of an act you two worked up. Have a little faceoff in public, get some publicity for the show. At least that’s what Mr. Fratelli thought. He’d come in, you’d make him a drink, the two of you’d trade a few insults, and there’d be an item in the paper or one of those celebrity gossip shows the next day. He had no idea you were setting him up.”
 
“C’mon, Columbo,” Billy chuckled. “Fratelli’s strictly the minor leagues compared with me. He’s got one fairly trendy joint in the Apple; my face is all over the tube, bookstores, cookware. There’s even talk of a mall kitchenware franchise with my ugly Irish face plastered on it. Why would I help publicize the guy, much less bother killing him?”
 
“That’s the million-dollar question, sir,” Columbo said. “And there’s your third ingredient. Motive. I asked myself why you’d go to the trouble of getting Zach Fratelli on the show, setting up that scene in your restaurant. And – and I hope I’m not laying it on too thick -- you’re the great Billy Shaughnessy. I gotta think Mr. Fratelli knew you’d beat the socks off him in the kitchen. Why embarrass himself a second time?”
 
“Thanks?”
 
“Unless he knew he was gonna win,” Columbo concluded gravely. “Or thought he was.”
 
“I fixed a game. So I’d lose.”
 
“Mind if I have a cigar, sir?” the detective asked, abruptly. “I like to have one after a burger. I know it ain’t exactly politically correct…”
 
“No, please, be my guest,” Billy chuckled, his tension momentarily by the absurdity.
 
“Thanks.” The chef waited patiently as Columbo located a cheap, black, pre-cut cylinder, ignited it, and stoked the fire. “Now, where were we?”
 
“The part where I have no earthly reason to murder Zach Fratelli.”
 
Columbo waggled a finger as his face broke into an elfish grin. “I figure he had something on you – something real big. Something you needed to keep quiet so bad you were willing to throw away your winning streak. That’s why you killed Mr. Fratelli. To get rid of a blackmailer without having to lose tonight’s contest.
 
“You had Mr. Fratelli right where you wanted him. You con him into coming into your place and staging that confrontation, to show folks there was still bad blood between the two of you. You have him order your special drink so you can slip him the cyanide, and he drinks it right down without a thought. You conned us all into thinking you killed him on the show, just so we could eliminate you right off the bat. Sheer genius, sir.”
 
“Yes, we’ve established my superhuman abilities. Motive.”
 
“Yessss,” Columbo nodded thoughtfully. “Could you come with me for just a moment, Mr. Shaughnessy? There’s something I think you’ll wanna see. Right this way.”
 
Billy complied mutely, following the swiftly moving lieutenant to Aidan Grey’s now-deserted dais. Static filled the screen of one of Grey’s three monitors, and Columbo began puzzling over the video console.
 
“I had the production guys set this up for me, but I forgot which button they said to start the darned thing. Lemme see, the red one. Nooo- I think they woulda told me…”
 
Billy sighed loudly and reached past the detective. A picture froze into view -- a large, brightly lit restaurant kitchen.
 
“What?” Billy mumbled. Then he recognized the image, and something cold and somehow final grabbed at his chest.
 
“I got this outta the network’s library -- I remembered seeing it on that biography of yours. You remember, don’t you, sir? I’m sure it was one of the biggest days of your life…”
 
“Just…Just show me what you want to show me, Columbo,” Billy snapped.
 
“Yes, sir. Well, you know this is the last episode of Primo Chef I -- the one where you beat Mr. Fratelli and that lady….”
 
“Suzie Padua.”
 
“Yeah, that’s the gal. Very pretty, wasn’t she? Anyway, you three were the finalists, and the challenge was to fix some kinda wedding supper…”
 
“A five-course wedding dinner with cake. In three hours.”
 
“Wow. I remember the last time Mrs. Columbo hadda fix a wedding spread -- big deal, this was, her cousin Rita was marryin’ this orthodontist from Bakersfield, and they had the thing at the Knights of Columbus hall…”
 
“Please, Columbo,” Billy said through his teeth. “Either punch ‘Play’ or get me a really sharp cleaver so I can end this torture.”
 
“Oh. Sorry. Guess I kinda got off track. So, this is about an hour in. Look at you guys go -- whew!”
 
Billy watched mutely as a younger, greener version of himself chopped and braised and blended, red hair matted to his forehead, sweat rings forming under his arms. He now felt a rivulet forming under his T-shirt.
 
“There’s those veal shanks you was gonna use for the main course. . .the duck for the, what do you call that?”


“Confit,” Billy whispered.
 
“There’s the soup on the stove…Some kinda Chinese meatball thing.”
 
“Thai-Sicilian wedding soup.”
 
“And here you are, cleaning the tuna for the fish course. Geez, they woulda packed that KofC hall with that kinda grub.”
 
“Columbo.”
 
“Yes, sir. So we got, what, the soup course, the duck appetizer, the fish, and the veal for the osso bucco.” Columbo tapped the pause button. “But something’s missing. Look at your prep table, sir. I don’t seek any eggs or milk or flour. No cake pan, no mixing bowl. We’re like already a couple of hours in, and I don’t see any sign of a cake.” The cop ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “I know you served one --  it was magnificent, looked like somethin’ out of a storybook. I remember, it’s what tipped the scales for you, wasn’t it?”
 
“That’s a matter of conjecture,” Billy said dispiritedly.
 
“Beautiful cake, though, sir.” Columbo restarted the video. “Boy, were you runnin’ -- Mr. Fratelli and Ms. Padua, you say? Well, they’re not even breakin’ a sweat. Wait. Okaay, here we go. You gotta remember this, right? It’s the part where Mr. Fratelli was running to get his quails in the oven. Ms. Padua’d just finished icing her cake, and she was turning around to move it to the center table….. And BOOM!!”


Billy’s body was rigid, but his heart jumped.
 
“Boy, looka that cake fly! Horrible thing, all that work the poor gal put into it.”
 
“Kitchen etiquette,” Billy said. “You announce yourself. Zach never had an ounce of consideration in the kitchen.”
 
“Well, looks like Ms. Padua agreed with you,” Columbo chuckled as the petite Filipina slid on the mauve buttercream frosting now splattered on the tile floor, grabbed the prep table, and used it as leverage to launch herself at Fratelli. Headless gamebirds flew across the kitchen as she caught her opponent around the waist. He spun, shielding his face with his forearms as she pummeled at him, spewing island curses and arrhythmic bleeps. One of the floor cameras caught two others moving in on the brawl. The pair were on the floor in a pool of sugar, butter, poultry stock, and stray giblets. Padua had straddled Fratelli’s stomach and was tenderizing his upper body.
 
“That’s better than Monday night wrestling,” Columbo marveling. He gazed at the screen, awestruck, until one of the cameras whipped around. He punched the pause button. “And there you are, sir, like nothing ever happened. A real pro. Here they are, trashing the joint, cussing up a storm, and you just went about your business. Very impressive. By the way, what is it you’re doing there?”


Billy didn’t have to look. “You know damned well what I’m doing.”
 
“You’re cracking an egg. And there’s some flour on your cheek. Looks like you got around to that cake while your friends were busy. And you’re smiling, sir. Like the weight of the world’s been lifted off your shoulders.”
 
“I knew they’d blown it,” Billy attempted weakly. “I knew Mickey and the other judges wouldn’t put up with that shit.”
 
“What I think you knew was that everybody’s attention was on Mr. Fratelli and Ms. Padua. I mean, a brawl like that means ratings, right? You’re very fast on your feet, sir -- I think you saw your opportunity to pull out a win.
 
“You told me yourself you weren’t a pastry chef. Fixing a sauce or a lasagna, that’s all about a touch here and a touch there, gut instinct, passion, if you don’t mind me saying. But baking, now, that’s about chemistry, about science. Everything has to be just right, or kablooey.”
 
“Kablooey,” Billy echoed.
 
“When those two started wrestling around on the floor and the cameras moved off you, you knew you had just one chance. That’s why you were sweating, why you were panicking -- your stomach musta done a double backflip when they announced your final assignment. It was a gamble -- if even one person saw you, you’d probably have lost points or even the contest. And if people knew now, it would mean your reputation. But your bet paid off, didn’t it? For those few moments, nobody was watching you -- they couldn’t care less what you were doing. And that’s when you ran back to the pantry.”
 
Columbo’s hand plunged into his right raincoat pocket, and with a flourish, he brandished the slip of thin pasteboard upon which Lauren Dardelle had inscribed her phone number. “This was what got me started thinking about you and Mr. Fratelli and what he might have on you. I couldn’t explain why he’d keep a number for a girl he never bothered to call all those years ago. I mean, he laminated it to protect it. Why? What was so important about this number? And then it hit me.”
 
Columbo pressed the fast-forward button, and soon, Billy was watching himself, Zach, and Padua standing before a severe judge’s table. The two kitchen combatants had cleaned their wounds and changed into frosting-free tunics. Billy was freshly groomed and dryly composed.
 
“It’s like last night, sir. All that runnin’ around, spilling stuff all over yourself, sweatin’ like a hog -- you wanna take a shower, clean up, before you present your dishes. Especially on nationwide TV. You and Mr. Fratelli went to the showers before you got called to the judge’s table. Mr. Fratelli musta got out first, then spotted Ms. Dardelle coming outta the locker room. That’s when he took his opportunity, if you know what I mean. It was the last episode of the show, and he wanted her number. But he didn’t have anything to write on, and I guess neither did she. So Mr. Fratelli went back to the lockers to look for something. Finally, he found it in the pocket of the tunic you were wearing during the show. This piece of cardboard.
 
“He probably didn’t even take a look at it for a few days. Then he lost all interest in Ms. Dardelle -- Mr. Fratelle realized what he had. It wasn’t the phone number he was trying to protect.” Columbo turned the laminated slip over. “My guess is we’ll find your fingerprints on this. You had to act fast when the cameras were on Mr. Fratelli and Ms. Padua. You probably stuffed the box in the studio trash, but you shoved this in your pocket -- thought you’d get rid of it later. You musta been scared silly when it didn’t turn up in your dirty tunic. Then Mr. Fratelli called. I wonder what we’d find if we looked into who helped him finance his restaurant. Probably been bleeding you for years.”
 
Billy closed his eyes. When he opened them, Columbo was still there. “Yeah. Not often, but whenever he needed something. He gave that thing to some tabloid -- hell, the network -- and I’d have been finished.”
 
“I wouldn’ta had any idea what it was, less I’d taken that cooking class I told you about. Mrs. Columbo was getting tired of spaghetti con vongole and veal Milanese, so I branched out into soufflés and chateaubriand.” He displayed the boxtop. “‘Gateau.’ That’s cake, sir. I guess if you’re gonna make an award-winning cake, you gotta use a high-class cake mix.”
 
Billy shrugged, staring silently at the policeman. At last, he wiped his face with a weary palm. “A confession. That would work for you, right? You wouldn’t need this if I gave you a full confession, would you?”
 
Columbo slipped the boxtop back into his coat. “I don’t think we’d have to put this into evidence. Probably just confuse a jury, anyway.”
 
“Thanks, really, I mean it.” Billy frowned. “By the way, that was bullshit, wasn’t it?”
 
“What do you mean, sir?”
 
“Calvin running out of caperberries right before Zach came in. That was a load, right?”
 
“Well, sir…” Columbo ducked his head with a sheepish grin.
 
“Never mind, Maestro,” Billy nodded once. He planted his palms on the console and pushed up. “Guess that’s it then, huh?” the Eastern Knight sighed.
 
“I guess it is, sir,” the lieutenant shrugged. “Why don’t we go out the back way? Less chance of running into the reporters.”
 
“Appreciate that,” Billy murmured. His lips twitched into a smile. “Hey, Columbo, what do you say to one more burger? For the road? I gotta say, you’ve earned it.”
 
Columbo’s brows rose, and Billy could swear he licked his lips. “Well, that was a hell of a burger, sir – maybe the best I ever had.”
 
“I’m guessing that’s a pretty high compliment indeed,” Billy said, wholly without irony.
 
“But I think maybe I better take a pass. You understand, don’t you, sir?”
 
Billy grinned apologetically. “Yeah. Yeah, I suppose I do.”




Chicken with Olives and Almonds

INGREDIENTS

However many chicken breast tenders are necessary to leave your crowd happy and semi-comatose.

Buttermilk

An egg or Egg Beaters wash

A flour/Italian bread crumb/salt/pepper/grated parmesan dredge

A couple packages of slivered almonds

Two mid-sized jars of sliced green olives (if pimentoes also are present, go ahead and invite them to the party)

Olive oil

Soak chicken pieces in buttermilk overnight in a refrigerated bowl or a large refrigerated ziplocked food storage bag. Dip tenders in the egg wash, pat them solidly with flour/crumb breading, and repeat if you like a crispier, crunchier crust. Place breaded breasts in a medium-preheated skillet coated with at least a canary's wading pool of hot olive oil. Cover for awhile, then flip when tenders are golden on bottom. Cover again; gobble a few olives or nuts. When breasts are lightly gold on both sides, blanket them all with olive and almond pieces and cover again, making sure to check in regularly. Slit into the thickest part of the thickest tender to ensure chicken's cooked through, then scoop each piece out carefully with a wide spatula, making sure to maintain a nice thick covering of olive/almond mix. Serve with some kind of pasta on the side, and hope the evening proceeds without homicide rearing it's ugly head (select family guests carefully).