The occasions when the good lieutenant has let down his hair and left the badge at home have been few and far between and marred by the shadow of death. Columbo's raffle-sponsored cruise with the enigmatic Mrs. Columbo ("Troubled Waters") was interrupted by shipboard shenanigans, while his sojourn into Mexico turned quickly into a busman's holiday ("Matter of Honor"). Columbo clearly suffers from Fletcheritis, the same syndrome that kept Angela Lansbury criminously busy no matter whether she was on a book tour, visiting those prolific relatives of hers, or merely lunching at the Cabot Cove Diner.

So it's only natural to assume that if the policeman and his bride were to embark on a long weekend at some quaint bed-and-breakfast, Death would check in next door. In this case, our guest murderer is one Kent Hawkins -- think of Tom Bodett, the folksy radio hotel spokesman, except this guy owns the hotels and has not a whit of folksiness. Picture William Hurt at his inscrutably cool, dry best.

Let's drop in at the inn, where our hotelier hopes to establish the perfect alibi and Columbo hopes to do a little of his favorite type of fishing...

Martin Ross is agricultural affairs editor with Illinois FarmWeek newspaper and a reporter for the past 20 years. He has published ten X-Files fanfics on various sites.

 The husband woke with a sputtering start as I pulled the comforter higher under their throats.

 “Hey, what’s the deal here?” the burly young man demanded, wiping sleep from his eye.

 “I’m really, really sorry, Rob,” I said, sincerely. “I’m Kent Hawkins, president and CEO of Hawk Inns, and I just wanted to see how you and Yvonne were enjoying the room. You looked a little chilly, so I thought I’d just kind of tuck you in…”

 The wife rustled, then sat bolt upright, pulling the covers to her chin. “Rob, who is this?”

 “Kent Hawkins, Yvonne,” I smiled. “Just checking in with you two. At Hawk Inns, we aren’t happy unless we know we’ve done everything we can to make your stay a memorable event. In-room coffeemakers, complete satellite TV – not that eight or nine cheesy cable channels you get at other economy inns. And a full, hot breakfast buffet waiting for you when you wake up on our contour comfort mattresses.”

 “Breakfast buffet,” Rob murmured, throwing off the comforter. Yvonne shoved him back with a stiff arm and beamed up at me. I turned away from them.

“I can’t make you stay,” I acknowledged, oozing regret. “But I can make you want to come back. At Hawk Inns, we’ll watch you like..”

The screen cut from me to our trademarked hawk, swooping down with a screech to land on the front desk in front of a grinning “clerk.” We’d settled $35,000 on the clerk’s predecessor, who’d nearly lost a finger during the first take.

“Cute,” I said, expressionlessly, making certain Dean Rascom knew it wasn’t a term of endearment for the commercial I’d just watched.

“C’mon, it’s funny, and it shows people you’re not some humorless corporate prick,” my marketing director protested.

“It shows people I’m some sort of skulking perv, sneaking into guests’ rooms and lurking about their beds,” I countered cheerfully, lifting my coffee to my lips as punctuation. “Jana?”

  My personal assistant winced. She didn’t like to mix it up, but she ultimately was reliable and straight-up. “It kinda gave me the creeps, Dean. Sorry, but it was like the beginning of some sleazy TV-movie – I didn’t know whether Kent was going to do the wife, the husband, or both.”

Dean leaned back in over-the-top indignation. “Jeez, you don’t get it, folks. It’s humanization. You know how many burgers big, fat, four-eyed Dave Thomas sells with his atrocious acting and cutesy shrugs? It’s reaching out and saying, ‘I’m one of you, guys.’”

“If ‘you guys’ are cat burglars or psychotic stalkers, then you succeeded admirably,” I said.  “And it’s ‘those eight or nine channels,’ not ‘that.’”

“Sounds stuffy,” Dean retorted, as if he’d practiced responses to each of my objections in front of the mirror. “People like the folksy approach.”

“They like to watch it, maybe,” I conceded, still smiling. “But I can’t believe it sells rooms. Quality of life, Dean – that’s what we want to pitch. We give the tired businessman a Jacuzzi in the john and the beleaguered parents a sound-proofed mini-suite to stow the rugrats in so they don’t go freakin’ nuts and punch a hole in a wall. Free snacks instead of $14 macadamia nuts and $5 Pepsis from the mini-bar. Bacon and eggs instead of those plastic cheese danishes. I tried it your way, Dean, at no small expense, I might add. Now, you do a rethink, and have something ready for me Tuesday a.m. You talked me into that placement on the Oscars; you better come up with something better than breaking-and-entering.”

Dean stared at me, looked to Jana for support. I kept smiling. Jana squirmed slightly, and Dean gathered his things and left the presidential conference room with outraged dignity.

“Maybe he ought to be on the Oscars,” I suggested. “Maybe he should receive an Oscar.” Tension broken, Jana leaned back.

“Maybe you were a little rough on him,” she chided. “It was kinda cute, in a way, if you can get over the image of you hovering over that half-naked housewife.”

I regarded my assistant; she was wearing one of those clingy jersey dresses that drove me nuts.

“Don’t say it or think it,” she scolded. “You’ve got to get up to Santa Mira if you want to do your scouting run. Even though I can’t see why you don’t just have one of the guys check it out.”

“The eye,” I interrupted. “I’ve got the eye. Our guys are great at shopping linens or setting up 800 customer lines, but these yuppies have no idea what I’m going for here.”

Jana rolled her eyes. She had many professional and non-professional assets that enabled me to overlook her frequent insubordination.

“The eye,” I repeated, tapping my brow.
**
 The drive to Santa Mira had given me time to clear my head of everything but The Plan and the opportunity to conserve my energy for its execution. As I pulled into the parking lot of the town Walmart, near the highway exit, I mentally reviewed the script I’d developed over the past week. A much better one than that cheesy little minidrama Rascom had scribbled out.

 The Walmartization of smalltown America had never bothered me like it did those dinosaurs who if they had their way would keep Main Street like it was in the ‘50s and continue to pay out the ass for a pair of overalls they could get for chump change here in this garishly lit warehouse. People wanted quality of life, but for a lot of folks, that meant having enough left in their pockets to buy the kids shoes or breakfast.

 Plus, the Walmart provided ideal cover for this afternoon’s activities. In the old days, I’d have had every nosy downtown merchant watching to see what brought the stranger into town. The megastore in front of me was probably inhabited by half the county at any given time, 24/7, and the mega-parking lot was reasonably packed.

I stowed the car and drifted amid the entering masses. The geezer in the blue vest tried to foist a cart off on me, but I politely declined and chatted about the phenomenal Southern California weather and the Chinese spy plane incident. A few minutes later, after pretending to peruse a binful of cantaloupes, a selection of golf shirts, and some undoubtedly non-explicit CDs, I located a relatively storeroom area. A few seconds later, I was strolling across the vacant lot behind the store and wandering into the town’s shamefully underdeveloped outlying district.

 The bed-and-breakfast was located about 15 minutes away, on an old pear orchard now converted for pastoral relaxation, fishing, nature hikes, and whatever else the Type A yupster needed once in a while to keep from blowing away their supervisor or customers. I had a genuine interest in the Coast Inn’s potential – properly exploited, of course -- but for the moment, it provided the ideal backdrop for my latest business move.

 I hid in a thicket near the front porch, watching for any sign of life. To my satisfaction, I could hear laughter well beyond the fancified farmhouse, and thick gouts of meat-flavored smoke blew over and past me. The brochure’s promised 5 o’clock barbecue was in progress, and with any luck, Brynn was alone in the house. If she wasn’t, then I simply changed my plans and did a little tall but harmless explaining.

 The front door, of course, was unlocked, and a few minutes in the foyer told me my plan was still intact. I looked at the fixtures: Nice job of carpentry, but the décor was a little too foofy for my liking. Warm enough to simulate home, I silently chided, but not smotheringly cloying enough to suffocate the guest.

 I moved quickly up the main stairs with as little creaking as I could manage. I don’t know why – Brynn knew I was coming. Her room was at the end of the upstairs hall. I rapped, twice.

 Brynn Cahill opened the door a crack. She was in a short blue silk robe. Woman had no clue about the folly of mixing business with personal misadventure. I pretended to leer at her, and she ushered me in.

 “Yeow,” I exclaimed, wincing. “Who did the decorating? Willie Wonka?’
 The whole place was a deep, bloody, eye-numbing red: Crimson bedspread, Red-rosed wallpaper, Type O-positive wing chair. Even the phone was accessorized – Martha Stewart meets Stephen King.

 “I kinda like it,” Brynn protested. “It gets me worked up.”

 “The Dallas Book Repository would get you worked up. Let’s get the business out of the way, and then we can discuss what gets you worked up.”

 She grinned; my gut turned. “I figure $50,000 a year oughtta take care of me just fine without breaking your bank account. One lump, or you can bust it up into monthly installments.” Brynn turned to the guest desk, where she had some manila envelopes and rubber-banded documentation.

 Ironic turn of phrase, I reflected, as I reached into my windbreaker. It was a special job I’d ordered from some ersatz Eddie Bauer outfit on the web, with deep pockets for hunting gear or Chablis or concealed weaponry, depending on what the game of the day was. I was carrying an item I’d purchased a month ago at the Sonoma cookware shop.

 It was a nearly perfect weapon for my purposes, but, unfortunately, she turned as I prepared to bring the marble rolling pin down on her frizzy-haired head. She screamed shortly and scrambled for her purse on the desk. Brynn’s arm flew up, and I turned my head just slowly enough to catch an eyeful and a taste of capsicum pepper. I grabbed the hand with the pepper spray canister, and yanked her arm until it dropped to the carpet. My eyes watering, I nonetheless shoved her to the floor and swung the rolling pin in a deadly arc.

 I heard a sickening crunch, and Brynn offered no more resistance. Bile rose quickly in my throat, and the pepper spray burned in my eye and on my tongue, and I fought an urge to throw up. I forced myself to shift into business mode, and got to work.

 The documents on the desk were rolled up around the rolling pin and stuffed into my jacket pocket. The pepper spray canister I wrapped in a triple layer of Kleenex and stowed in another pocket – just in case my ruse failed, I wanted to leave no easy trace evidence on my clothes.

 The eye felt like crap, and I eventually had to interrupt my operations to wash it out. As I irrigated, I realized the acrid smell of pepper on my breath might be apparent to others, so I unscrewed a complementary mini-bottle of mouthwash on the red sink basin and gargled myself to cinnamony freshness. I wiped everything in site, even the mouthwash bottle, and returned to the worst part of the job.

 The rolling pin was just the right shape to simulate the rim of the big, clawfooted tub in the bathroom, and the smooth marble would leave no traces of foul play. The robe, I thought, was no good: It was more Frederick’s of Hollywood than single gal at a B&B. That would have to go back in the suitcase. Sorry to ruin your plans, Brynn.
**
 The obese woman at the Walmart checkout belied both public stereotypes about the jovially overweight and the chain’s folksy TV campaign, frowning and sighing at each customer in turn as they fumbled for currency. She wouldn’t have made laundry duty at one of my hotels.

 She grimly wished a young mother a happy day, and we all edged forward. “Can I use traveler’s checks here?” a tall man with a Germanic accent asked the cashier, setting off a flurry of unspoken consternation. I settled in for the wait, examining the grainy celebrities on the tabloids framing the electronic retail scanner.

 I glanced a worried-looking middle-aged lady behind me, eyeing an alarming display of personal security gear. She pulled a can of pepper spray from the display, reading the hype on the back of its packaging.
 “I’ve heard that stuff doesn’t really work that well,” I informed her.
**
 A couple of sheriff’s cruisers were angled in front of the Coast Inn, light bars blazing, as I pulled into the gravel next to an ancient foreign car of indeterminate origin. It was near dusk, and I tugged my sunglasses momentarily down to survey the scene before I got out. 

 As I reached the porch, the two-story’s screen door burst open with a creaking protest as a couple of paramedics rammed through with a gurney. I had a momentary start, but Brynn’s head was covered with a morgue blanket.

 The sheriff, a large rednecky-looking guy, and his much younger deputy followed behind the corpse, and a few other, less official types, straggled onto the porch. I guessed the older, tidy pair with “legal liability” look etched onto their faces were the Grizzards, who owned the Coast Inn. A young couple, purebred AKC Yuppie, huddled by the wood porch swing, and a stubby, rough-looking old character leaned on the railing, running a hand through thick, disordered hair.

 On the first bump of the gurney down the stairs, an arm fell out of the blanket. The Yuppie grabbed his own wife’s arm, and she turned a sickly green apparent even in the California sunset. The shaggy old guy, wearing wrinkled tan suit pants and, I was guessing, a Vietnam Era tropical shirt, rushed over and started to tuck Brynn’s graying arm back undercover, then stopped and sniffed the air. He lifted the dead hand to his nose and sniffed like a terrier at her fingers. Mrs. Grizzard gasped in horror; I had to choke back a smile at the coot’s eccentric behavior.

 “Sheriff,” the little man called out. “Sheriff, could you please come over here for a second?”

 The sheriff, a perplexed look on his leathery face, trundled down the step.
 “Would you please smell the victim’s hand, sheriff?” the stranger requested, shoving Brynn’s fingers in his direction. The lawman, too surprised to question him, took the fingers delicately and sniffed.

 “Hmm, yeah, odd,” he concluded, nodding. “Nate? C’mere and smell this.”

 The deputy jumped to and obediently placed his nose to Brynn’s index finger. “Hot pepper,” he said. “Real strong, too.”

 I felt something leap momentarily in my chest. I hadn’t thought about washing Brynn’s hands after the pepper spray attack.

 “We had club sandwiches for lunch, with macaroni salad,” the straggly little guy said, as if that meant something. “Right, Mrs. Grizzard?”

 The innkeeper’s eyes bulged. “Umm, yes, that’s correct.”

 “No pepper in that macaroni salad, right, Mrs. Grizzard? I didn’t taste any.”

 The old lady blinked. “Not in the macaroni salad. I put a little in my potato salad…”

 “So’s my wife,” he responded, a grin on his face. “None of that paprika, though – can’t stand the stuff. Thank you, Mrs. Grizzard. Sheriff, this is certainly none of my business, and I wouldn’t presume to horn in your case…”

 “Horn away, Columbo,” the sheriff invited. “You’ve already been real helpful, and I’m not turning away any help this week.”

 “Thanks, sheriff. I was going to suggest that maybe you oughtta bag the young lady’s hand and have your coroner run some tests on it. I got a feeling she didn’t come by that pepper in the kitchen.”

 “Pepper spray?” the sheriff frowned. “Yeah, you mention it, that’s what it smells like. But I went through the purse, and there wasn’t any canister anywhere. She might’ve accidently set it off, but surely we’d have found a canister. Unless she…” He glanced at the Grizzards and the young yuppies and clamped his mouth shut. The little guy, Columbo, put a finger to his lip and nodded thoughtfully.

 I swallowed a lump of anxiety and stepped up. “Excuse me, but just what the hell happened here?”

 Columbo’s head turned as he considered me for the first time. “And who might you be, sir?”

 “Kent Hawkins, I’m a guest,” I said, shaking his gnarled paw. “Even though I’m beginning to reconsider that arrangement. What happened, if I may ask?”

 Columbo drew close to my ear, too close. “There appears to have been a terrible accident, sir. The young lady’s dead, I’m afraid.”

 “I guessed that much,” I murmured, willing myself not to recoil from the faint tobacco smell on his breath. “What happened?”

 “Well, it appeared the young lady, Miss Cahill, was starting to take a bath when she slipped on some soap and hit her head on the rim of the tub. At least, that’s how it appeared…”

“Columbo?” the sheriff inquired. “Anything else? I want to get Cahill to the morgue, and Nate and I ain’t ate yet tonight.”

Columbo waved a hand. “Sorry, sheriff. Nooo, I think I’ve seen all I need to tonight.”

“Take her away, guys,” the sheriff instructed the paramedics, who hauled Brynn down the cobblestone walk to a waiting ambulance. “Ribs, tonight, Nate? Suddenly, I got a real appetite for some ribs.”

The deputy followed him down the steps. “Yeah, I could go for some barbecue. What’d you guys mean about the pepper spray canister…”

“Know something?” Columbo piped up, turning to Mrs. Grizzard. “Suddenly, I’m hungry again, too. Any more barbequed chicken left? I’ll betcha Mr. Hawks here could use something to eat, just coming off the road.”

“Hawkins,” I amended quietly. “Thanks, no. I had some shrimp scampi at a place a few miles back. I knew I was running late. Besides…” I had to do it sooner or later, so I whipped off my sunglasses and vigorously rubbed my already sore eyes.

“Sir, you all right?” Columbo asked, concerned, squeezing my upper arm.

“Must be a horrible thing, coming up here to this beautiful place for a nice, relaxing weekend, and this tragic thing has happened.”

I shook my head. I’d managed to squeeze hard enough to draw tears.

“No, I’m sorry. I had an aunt die like that once, and it just brought it back to me. I must seem like an idiot.”

“Not at all, sir, not at all,” said the gnomelike man gently. “Why don’t you come in and have a cup of coffee, or maybe tea, while I grab a plate of chicken?”

Mr. and Mrs. Grizzard apologized profusely to me as we made our way to the kitchen, as if Brynn’s corpse were a sinkful of hair or an ashtray full of butts. They knew who I was – I’d made no attempt to conceal my identity – but they were too honored by one of the industry’s starting pitchers visiting a couple of rookies to figure out why I was there. At least, the reason I’d given Jana and Dean and the rest back at the office.

“So who are you precisely?” I asked Columbo once we were ensconced at the Grizzards’ old oak table and the innkeepers had fled to console the yuppie couple. “You’re obviously a cop, the way you handled that young woman’s corpse. But it’s clear you’re not local – you suggested to that sheriff he check with ‘his’ lab, and of course, unless it’s an anniversary, I doubt you and your wife would stay at a local bed-and-breakfast if you lived in the area.”

Columbo grinned and waggled a scorched drumstick at me, chewing vigorously so he might respond. “You oughtta be the detective, sir – those were very acute deductions. You’re right, I’m not local. My name is Lt. Columbo, I’m with LAPD Homicide.” He extended a sauce-speckled hand, then withdrew it quickly, mistaking my sudden expression of alarm for disgust at his sanitation. I took advantage of that, and smiled.

“Guess I just have the eye, Lieutenant,” I drawled, tapping my temple. Columbo frowned for a second, then slapped his forehead with a greasy paw.

“That’s it, sir!” he exclaimed. “I was trying to figure where I’d seen you before. It’s those commercials, right? ‘We’ll watch you like a hawk,’ with the bird swooping around and everything. Yeah, you’re the famous hotel guy. With the ‘eye,’ sir.”

“Famous is relative, Lieutenant, but yes, I’m president of Hawk Inns. You ever stay with us, Lieutenant?”

The cop blushed. Really. “Uh, well, sir, the wife and I usually stay at one of the more, um, modest, hotels, like an Econolodge or a Motel Six. I mean, your places are beautiful and everything, but…”

“I understand. So what brings you here? It’s not that, um, modest.”
Columbo wrenched a wing loose from a poultry carcass. “That’s quite a story, sir. See, my wife listens to a lot of those morning radio shows, you know, they talk a little, play some music, take a few calls. Well, every day, she calls in on one of those trivia things, you know what I mean, where they ask you Gilligan’s last name or the last time the Dodgers took the Series. She’s like a computer, my wife, the way she stores information.”

“Ah.”

“She’s just never been a speedy dialer, sir. But last week she finally got through and won the big prize. They asked her what kinda car O.J. Simpson was driving on the freeway. A cop’s wife, they ask that. Anyways, sir, the prize was a long weekend here, all expenses paid, and since I hadn’t put in for any vacation days since, let’s see, maybe ’82, I decided what the heck.”

“Fascinating. And where is your lovely bride, Lieutenant?”

The wing stopped halfway to his maw. 

“Well, unfortunately, Mrs. Columbo happens to be very allergic to dandelions, and she had to get to bed after the barbecue tonight.”

“Send her my regards,” I invited. Columbo nodded, his mouth full of poultry. “By the way, what was that about the pepper spray?”

The lieutenant stopped masticating his bird. “Mm pepher shpray?”
“Yeah, you were telling the sheriff something about the pepper spray, about the, uh, young lady. Something he obviously didn’t want us to know.”

Columbo swallowed. “Wellll, I guess it can’t hurt to tell you. You weren’t even here when it happened. My point was that if Ms. Cahill’s hand was stained with pepper spray, that likely means she was using it. And if she was using it, that means…”

“…She was trying to fight someone off, like her killer,” I finished. “But, Lieutenant, that means it was a murder.”

Columbo placed both elbows on the table and looked imploringly at me. “And that ain’t the worst of it, sir. If it was a murder, I got no idea who might’ve done it. See, both of the Grizzards and all of us guests were at the barbecue at the time it might’ve occurred. I know that because right before dinner, we asked Ms. Cahill if she was sure she didn’t want to join us. No, she said, she just wanted to finish the book she was reading. I know how she felt; I’m the same way when I’m in the middle of a good book. After the barbecue, Mrs. Grizzard went up to her room to take her an extra pillow and found her, well, in the tub, dead. It looked like she’d broken her neck on the rim of the tub, and we found a wet bar of soap on the floor a few feet away.”

“But, obviously, we know better now, huh? What do you think? Maybe an intruder?”

“Way out here, sir?” Columbo shook his head, vigorously. I was surprised not to hear a rattle. “I don’t think so. Besides, sir, Ms. Cahill’s purse was on the bed, nothing missing, and there was no sign of a struggle, like she’d been attacked. No scratches or bruises on her, no furniture overturned. Just the pepper spray. Somebody made a deliberate attempt to kill her, she tried to spray him – or her, we gotta be politically correct – and he got the better of her. Then he – or she – did a pretty good job of covering his – or her – tracks.”

“Uh, Columbo, I’m willing to stipulate to a gender-neutral ‘he.’”

“Sorry, sir. So we’ve got a murder here, but all the suspects were outside eating chicken and talking about the weather at the time.”

“Unless…” I frowned, and shook my head.

Columbo perked. “Yes, sir?”

 “Well, unless somebody she knew knew she was coming here for the weekend, and wanted to kill her away from their home turf.”

The policeman placed a finger to his lips and nodded slowly. “Yes, yes, sir. I believe that could be it. Very good, sir. Now I know you oughtta be the detective.”

I pushed my chair back with a squeak. “Please, Lieutenant, I’m just a man who deals with the worst side of human nature on a daily basis. Not unlike you, probably. People checking in with their ‘husbands’ or ‘wives,’ then coming in a week later with a different spouse. Drug deals and worse brokered in some of our rooms, without our knowledge, of course. And you don’t even want to know what our housekeepers turn in sometimes after the guests leave. It can be an ugly business, Columbo. I’m sure the Grizzards would back me up on that tonight. Happy dreams, Lieutenant.”
**
 “So, did you sleep well last night?” Mrs. Grizzard asked solicitously, sliding another slice of coffee cake on my plate, unbidden. Mr. Grizzard jumped for the coffeepot and warmed me up. The yuppies sat across from me like unwashed stepchildren as the innkeepers attended to my every need.

 “Delightful,” I pronounced, feeling instantly I’d overdone it. But Ma and Pa Kettle beamed. “Very nice lumbar pressure, and the pillow had just the right give.”

 I thought Mrs. Grizzard was going to have a sexual event right there. “So you like the room?”

 I nodded, sipping a passable institutional coffee. “Interesting, the monochromatic scheme.”

 Mrs. Grizzard frowned. Mr. Grizzard mouthed “monochromatic.”

 “The color scheme. Everything blue and everything. Even the soap, huh. Felt like I was nestled in the heart of Smurf Village.”

They actually thought it was a compliment. “That was Jake’s idea,” Mrs. Grizzard nodded at her husband. “That way, every room is special, and it’s easier to book them. ‘You’re in the Blue Room, Mr. Smith,’ or ‘You’re in the Red Room, Mrs. Green.’” She leaned over the table. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Hawkins, when you called, I set the Blue Room aside especially for you. It’s our VIP room, because of the bay window.”

I might have been touched, if not for the offended glare of the yuppies across from me. I smiled apologetically, and shrugged. Mrs. Grizzard looked up abruptly and somewhat disconcertedly. “Mr. Columbo, I was wondering where you were.”

I turned around. He was wearing the same dress pants, a white T, and an ancient raincoat for a robe. Columbo’s eyes were sunken into blue folds of flesh, and his hair, well, I’d seen honeymoon bedspreads the day after that looked less chaotic.

“Columbo,” I called cheerfully. “Just in time. There’s one piece of coffee cake left, and it has your name and badge number on it.”

The lieutenant held up a hand and yawned gapingly. The yuppies turned a nice shade of ecru, and made some comment about getting some early morning sun before fleeing. “You gotta pardon me, sir,” Columbo mumbled. “I’ve never been too much of a morning person.”

“I’ll get you some coffee,” Mr. Grizzard volunteered as Columbo flopped into the chair the male yuppie had left.

“And how is Mrs. Columbo this morning?” Mrs. Grizzard inquired.

Columbo blinked as he processed the question. “Oh, she’s a lot better, except her eyes are kinda swollen and one ear looks bigger than the other. She says she’ll be down in a while, but not to worry about breakfast or anything.”

“Good,” Mrs. Grizzard said, as if it were a question. “Um, if you two are taken care of, I think I’ll dust the foyer.”

Mr. Grizzard looked alarmed. “I’ll help, Sweetie.”

After the pair disappeared, I chuckled.

“What, sir?” Columbo asked, his nose in his coffee cup.

“Nothing, Lieutenant, nothing.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Kinda silly, you callin’ me Lieutenant when we’re both on vacation.”

“OK. Kent.”

“Good, sir, uh, Kent. Just call me Columbo.”

“Ah huh. OK, Columbo.”

Columbo nodded happily. “You sleep OK last night?”

I looked at him, for any trace of irony or nuance. He slurped at his beverage. “Pretty good, mattress was a little soft.”

“Funny,” Columbo chuckled. “I mean, you being here.”

“What do you mean, Lieu--, Columbo?”

 He shrugged and reached for my coffee cake. “Ooh, is that OK, sir? I mean, you offered when I came in. You did, didn’t you?”

I pushed the plate across the linen tablecloth. “Go to town, Columbo. And it’s Kent, remember?”

“Yes, sir. No, I just meant it was funny you staying here when you’re like one of the most famous, um, what’s the word?”

“Hotelier? Innkeeper?”

“Yeah, right. In the world, sir. Don’t get me wrong, now, this is a nice place, but…”

I leaned toward the cop. “Can you keep a secret, Columbo?”

He leaned as well. “I think so, sir.”

“I’m on a scouting mission,” I confessed. “I came up here to case the joint, to use your jargon.”

“That’s Robbery, sir. I’m Homicide. What are you casing, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“We’re looking at starting a new chain of mid-range business suites with a bed-and-breakfast theme,” I whispered. “Kind of place where you can forget you’ve got a big meeting in the morning and just roam around like it’s your own home.”

Columbo nodded. “And that’s what businesspeople want, sir?”

I tapped my temple. “Quality of life, Lieutenant. Or at least a good simulation of it. See, back in the ‘80s, it was OK to be a go-getter – power lunches, corporate takeovers, Michael Douglas in Wall Street. But now, if you’re not balanced, or don’t appear to be, there’s something wrong. It’s like you can’t walk and chew gum at the same time. You have to be a good dealmaker and a good golfer and a devoted husband and Little League dad. I want to tap into that, make all these cell phone/e-mail addicts feel like they’re living the life. Like they’re in balance, even if they don’t have a clue what that really means.”

“And this new place would make them feel that way?” he asked through a mouthful of coffee cake.

I smiled and shrugged. “How do you feel right now, Columbo?”

“Uh, pretty good, I guess. Relaxed. I get your point, sir.”

Before I could expand on my point, the lieutenant started beeping. He jumped, then yanked back his raincoat sleeve. Columbo displayed his wrist, or rather, the oversized piece of digital crap he’d bought for a watch.”

“This is one of those chronometers,” he informed me, beaming with pride. “At least, that’s what the clerk at the drugstore told me. And that beep tells me it’s pill time.” Columbo reached into his left coat pocket, then his right pocket, then into his pants pocket. Finally, he whumped his forehead. “Geez, musta left ‘em upstairs. See ya later, sir.”

“Columbo.” I lifted my coffee cup.

“Oh, sir?” I nearly spilled the Grizzards’ swill on my sports shirt as Columbo bobbed back into the doorway. “I just had a thought. Kinda a killing two birds with one stone thought. Of course, I don’t want to impose or anything…”

“Columbo,” I sighed. “Spit it out.”

The cop brightened. “Well, I’m thinking that if you want to look at the whole inn, sir, and I want to take a closer look at Ms. Cahill’s room, maybe we could look at it together. The sheriff gave me permission to poke around. Maybe you might notice something I’d miss.”

I set my cup down. “Two heads, huh? Sure, let’s go.”

“Great, great. Lemme just stop by my room for the pill.” Columbo again halted. “You sure this won’t be too upsetting for you, sir, after last night?”

“Nonsense. I just flashed back on a bad memory, was all. Lead on, McDuff.”

Columbo looked up, quizzically.

“Columbo,” I amended.
**
 “It looks even bloodier in the daylight,” I murmured as my Neanderthalic new friend and I entered Brynn’s final lodgings. I started to scan the room for any bit of evidence I might have overlooked, but I caught myself. Sheriff Taylor and Deputy Dawg here would’ve said something by now. “Monochromaticism gone mad.”

 “Mono-what, sir?” Columbo asked absently, grazing the contents of the guest desk.

 “Monochomatic, Lieutenant – of a single color. My room’s a study in blue, down to the touch-tone phone.”

Columbo waved a hand. “Mine’s all green, sir. Mrs. Columbo says she feels like she’s camping in the forest.”

  “How’s the little lady, anyway?” I inquired. “Any better?”

He was now absorbed in the carpet surrounding the king bed. “A little sir, except her eyes are all swelled up and kinda purple. But her throat is opening up some.” Columbo moved to the bedside table, picked up a thick paperback, apparently of the romance variety – Brynn, Brynn… His gnomish face grew a new set of wrinkles as he leafed through the novel.

“That’s strange,” he concluded.

“What?” I joined him by the bed.

Columbo scratched his forehead. “Well, it’s just this, sir.” He held up the book and a long slip of colorful paper. “Yesterday afternoon, I was sitting on the patio out back with Mrs. Columbo and Ms. Cahill, who was reading this book. I know it was this one because the woman on the front – the one kissing the guy – she’s a dead ringer for my Cousin Freda’s girl. Lovely girl, sir. Well, about the time we got up to get ready for the barbecue, Ms. Cahill said she was getting chilly. We had some clouds late in the afternoon, sir. Anyway, she wants to mark the place where she left off in her book, but she’d lost her bookmark. This bookmark, I assume,” he said, shoving the colorful slip in my face. It was printed with the name of  popular discount book chain.

“What she did, sir,” Columbo continued, “was reach down and pluck a dandelion out of the ground. This dandelion.” A flattened flower was shoved in my face. “This was still in her book, just like when she came upstairs.”

 I nodded thoughtfully, trying to plumb the meaning of Columbo’s observation and how it impacted me. “And how,” I asked, “do you know the dandelion’s at the same place she put it down on the patio? You said she was absorbed in her book. She probably started reading again the minute she came upstairs, and just forgot to change bookmarks.”

 “That would make perfect sense, sir,” Columbo nodded slowly. “But look at this. Excuse me, I’ll need you to step over here.”

 The detective held open the book. “This is the page the flower was in. Do you see anything unusual on this page, sir?”

 I peered at a green stain near the binding, about three-quarters of the way down the page. “What is it? Looks like a grass stain.”

“Almost, sir. You see, these dandelions have very deep roots – that’s why they’re such a pain to get rid of. When Ms. Cahill yanked the flower, it broke off at the stem, and where it broke, it was wet, sir, wet with flower sap.”

“Chlorophyll, Columbo.”

“Thank you, sir. Chlorophyll. That’s what this stain is, chlorophyll. But look.” He flipped carefully through the pages preceding the marked page. “None of the other pages before where I found this flower is stained. That means this is the first page, and, I believe, the only page where this dandelion was used as a bookmark. I don’t think Ms. Cahill, who was so eager to finish this book, read another page of it after she came back to her room. And further, sir, I don’t believe she even intended to read this book when she came upstairs.”

 “A terrible blow for adult literacy, Columbo,” I said somberly. “So she decided to take a nap or do her nails. Or, obviously, take a bath.”

 Columbo shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir. You see, when she came down to the patio yesterday afternoon, Ms. Cahill’s hair was slightly damp and she smelled, well, kinda peachy. She’d been jogging before lunch, and my guess is she took a bath before coming downstairs to read. Why would she take another bath so soon after the first? All she was doing was reading a book.”

 Though I suspected the lieutenant might well break into a sweat if forced to read Updike or Faulkner, I kept my musings to myself.

“Plus, there’s this,” Columbo added, stalking over to the red-lacquered guest desk. He picked up the red-dyed wicker wastebasket under the desk and rooted in it, bringing out a ripped cellophane bag. “This is a bag like new clothes come in, something cheap like you’d get at a big department store. The sticker says, ‘Bd. Robe.’ A bed robe’s my guess. ‘Periwinkle.’ I think that’s a color, sir.”

“Blue, Columbo,” I said, acid rising in my throat. “Periwinkle is a shade of blue.”

“That’s what I figured, sir. I’ve seen that robe. Last night, while the sheriff was looking through Ms. Cahill’s luggage. A new-looking blue robe, folded nicely and put away in her suitcase. It still had creases from being taken out of the package.

“The thing is, Mr. Hawkins, I mean, Kent, why would Ms. Cahill unwrap this brand new robe just to fold it up and put it in her bag? If she meant to wear it last night, wouldn’t she hang it up or lay it on the bed or a chair? Like she did her nightshirt?”

I turned sharply. A flowered cotton nightshirt lay across the arm of her scarlet armchair. I’d overlooked it the afternoon before.

“What’s your point, Columbo?” I asked as casually as I could manage. 
Columbo sat down on the bed. “Well, sir, if Ms. Cahill, who had taken a bath early in the afternoon, had pepper spray on her hand, and we can’t find any canister, then it makes sense she used it on the killer before he murdered her. The killer must’ve taken it with him. If that’s so, since it doesn’t make sense Ms. Cahill unwrapped her new robe and put it in her suitcase, then the killer must’ve done it. But why? Maybe, just maybe, to cover up the fact that she’d been wearing it.

“And why would the killer do that? Well, I want to be delicate here, sir, but the robe we found in Ms. Cahill’s suitcase was fairly small. Fairly short, sir. And although she wasn’t an amazon by any means, Ms. Cahill was reasonably tall. I think you get my drift, sir? I don’t think that robe was for staying warm on a cool California night, sir. I think it was for the opposite sex. Why bring a, well, a racy robe like that along when your fellow houseguests are three married couples?”

“Unless she thought I might be a hot prospect, and she wanted to be prepared?” I grinned.

The lieutenant looked up. “You, sir? Aww, now you’re just puttin’ me on, aren’t you? That’s a good one. The Grizzards hadn’t even told us another guest was coming. And even if they had, look at this picture, sir: Ms. Cahill tells me she’s going to come up here and read a book, but instead, she puts on a sexy robe and doesn’t touch her book. Looks to me like she planned to meet somebody here secretly, while the rest of us were out of the house. If she was planning, whattaya call it, a rendezvous? – then why not just tell the Grizzards her boyfriend was going to be here late, just book a room for two. This is the 21st Century, sir, and I’m sure in the hotel business, you know it wouldn’t be the first time a couple engaged in hanky-panky outside the state of wedlock.”

“Hanky-panky, Columbo? But yeah, I get your point. But even if this is the 21st Century, not everybody’s liberated about everything. What if it wasn’t a boyfriend?”

Columbo grinned and turned red. Real happening guy. “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, I gotta stop you right there. We found a package of, well, prophylactics in her purse, and if I understand the mechanics of human sexuality…”

“Right,” I interrupted. “OK, so her mysterious John Doe shows up at his appointed time, they get in a fight, she sprays him, he kills her—”

“And fakes an accident, sir?” Columbo said. “If he killed her in the heat of passion, sir, don’t you think he’d high-tail it outta here instead of risking somebody coming back to the house and catching him in the act of setting up this complicated masquerade? No, sir, it just doesn’t fit. This feels like cold-blooded, premeditated murder. Hey, but what am I talking about? I’m on vacation – if Mrs. Columbo thought I was investigating a murder on our vacation, well, sir, she’d kill me.”

“Wouldn’t want two,” I suggested weakly.

“No, sir,” Columbo said seriously, climbing off the bed. “See you at lunch, sir.”

“With bells on.”

“Uh, pardon me, but you probably oughtta get outta here, too. Crime scene, you know.”

 “Oh, sure.” We moved into the hallway, and Columbo pulled the Red Room’s door securely shut. The lieutenant nodded, smiled, and headed downstairs, whistling some inane kids’ song.

I went to my room to lay down and stop the buzzing in my head.
**
 I managed to miss Columbo at lunch – Mrs. Grizzard informed me he had headed into town to search for some medication to treat Mrs. Columbo’s newest symptoms. After downing a rock-heavy pot pie – Grizzard may accidentally have cooked the pot inside – I located the Grizzards’ “library” and settled into a leather wing chair to watch a little Business News Network.

 “…Yancy Petersen looks at the increasingly humanized face of the hospitality industry in today’s segment of ‘People, Promotion, and Placement,’” the silver-haired anchor intoned.  I leaned forward as I saw myself appear on the screen, hovering over a hotel bed.

 “Rascom, you shithead,” I murmured as my electronic image tucked the covers under the husband’s throat, waking him.

 “Kent Hawkins, the crown prince of the hotel industry, is the latest magnate to use good-humored populism as a magnet for the consumer dollar,” a polished female voice recited. “Whether they’re serving burgers, instigating Internet commerce, or hawking hotel rooms, corporate execs are leaving the boardroom for the studio in search of a kinder, gentler public image…”

 Rascom’s confident face flashed onscreen. “Kent’s always had this great natural presence, and we felt like we should put that to use. We want people to recognize the personal stake Kent has in his customers’ comfort and satisfaction.”

 No wonder the cocky son-of-a-bitch was so reluctant to back down off the campaign. So damned sure I’d love the idea he pitched a promo segment on BNN.

 The Nordic blonde who owned the earlier voiceover was standing in front of the Capitol Hawk Inn, in the shadow of the Washington Monument. “One media analyst who asked not to be identified questioned the consumer message conveyed by Hawk Inns’ famous tagline, ‘We’ll watch you like a hawk,’ suggesting it may do more to reduce towel theft than to inspire customer security.” That had been Dean’s idea, too. “Now, on Oscar night, we’ll find out if Americans want to be watched like a hawk in their pajamas. Larry?”

 I snapped off the TV and rummaged for my cell phone. Not there. I scrambled out of the library and up the stairs, nearly shoving the male yuppie over the railing. I combed the Blue Room, but the Nokia failed to materialize. Must’ve left it in the car amid all the chaos last night.

 “Mr. Hawkins, I mean, Kent,” a familiar voice called as I slammed out the screen door. I skidded to a stop and swiveled to see Columbo, in a Hawaiian print and, God help us, Bermuda shorts, sitting on the porch swing.

 “Columbo, hey,” I answered cheerfully through my teeth. “Catch up with you in a few minutes. I gotta get something.” I strode purposefully across the lawn and to my Lexus. The cell phone was propped in the drink tray.

 “Wow,” Columbo exhaled behind me. “That is certainly a beautiful piece of machinery, sir.”

 “Huh?” I fumbled my key into the lock. “Oh, thanks, Lieutenant, Columbo. Look, I have to make a business call here…”

 The little cop was inside before I could stop him, scanning the dashboard, flipping open compartments, and massaging the headrests. “That real leather?”

 “It better be. Can I have a moment here, Columbo?”

 He backpedaled. “Sorry, sir. I love fine automobiles, sir.” Columbo gestured to a pile of European metal that looked like it might give my LE a disease. “I’ll just see you back at the house, sir.”

 “Fine.” I slumped behind the wheel, waited until the lieutenant shambled back to his porch perch, and rapped out Rascom’s personal cell number.

 “Yeah, Dean.” I could hear a crowd in the background – one of his famous cookouts.

 “Hi, Dean,” I greeted. “Just saw myself on BNN, gotta say it was a surprise. I thought we were rethinking, Dean.”

 “Sorry, Kent, but I was so sure you’d love it, and BNN is great exposure for the business traveler demo. I can’t help it if that ice queen did a hatchet job--”

 “She did her job, Dean. Like I asked you to.”

 The line was silent. “I, um, I heard about the mishap up your way.”

 “What?”

 “That little accident at your B-and-B. The Cahill woman. Must have been a slow news night, but it made the 11 o’clock here in L.A. That was the same Brynn Cahill that was making all the noise about her old man a few months back, wasn’t it?”

 Dean’s personable voice hadn’t changed, but I could feel the implied threat in it.

 “Yeah, I guess it was. Small world.”

 “Yeah, small world. She come there to see you? Or maybe you went there to see her?”

 “Look, Dean. I just wish you’d consulted me before you went off on that campaign of yours. Damage is done, I suppose – just a commercial. Forget I called. Enjoy your weekend.”

 “Thanks, Kent,” Dean piped. “We can talk Tuesday. I’ve got some new ideas about restructuring Marketing and Promotion.”

 Uh huh. “Tuesday, Dean.” I punched “end,” hard, and slumped back against the seat for a few minutes.

 I hadn’t expected Dean to have remembered or registered Cahill’s calls and eventual “visits” at headquarters. She’d been largely inarticulate and vague, and it hadn’t been Dean’s department. But the bastard apparently had stored it away with anything else he thought he might be able to use on his way up the company ladder.

 I opened my eyes. Through the windshield, I could see Lt. Columbo sitting on the edge of the porch swing, craning in my direction. I took a deep breath, threw open the door, and pasted a smile on my face.

 “And how is the estimable Mrs. Columbo?”

 “Much better, sir; much better,” he shouted. “The tingling’s gone out of both feet now.”

 “Excellent,” I said, taking all three steps in a single bound. I nearly broke Mrs. Grizzard as I barreled into the house.

 “You like lasagna, Mr. Hawkins?”

 “Wonderful,” I called out as I ascended the stairs.

 The female yuppie was on the landing. “I hate to bother you, but I just e-mailed my sister. She’s going to Myrtle Beach next month, and I wondered if you had a hotel…”

 “www.hawkinns.com,” I supplied as I left her in the dust.

 “Sir, oh, sir!” Columbo was scrambling up the stairs. I decided against rushing for my room, and he caught up to me, puffing and red. I waited patiently, smiling, as he held up a hand and sucked in enough oxygen to continue. “Sorry…but…I…thought you’d wanna know this.”

 “Yes, Lieutenant?”

 He leaned against the newell post and mopped the sweat from his brow. “It’s the most incredible thing. I went down to the Walmart just a ways down the road , to get my wife some of that antihistramine…”

 “Antihistamine?”

 “Yes, sir, thanks. Anyway, I stopped by the courthouse, just to see if the sheriff had any breaks in the Cahill case, and you wouldn’t believe it.”

 “You are now the acknowledged master of suspense, Columbo. Spill it.”

 Columbo leaned in. “The sheriff had to call Ms. Cahill’s people, her family back east? She lived in Chicago, worked in a beauty parlor, they told me. But here’s the clincher. Ms. Cahill only has one living relative, her father. They never got along real well or anything, and they said he’s in a nursing home…”

 “Columbo.”

 “The clincher is, Ms. Cahill’s father, he used to work for you. Isn’t that incredible?”

 I kept my hands loosely at my side, though I doubted Columbo was a student of body language. “You shitting me?”

 The lieutenant lifted his hand in a Boy Scout’s pledge. “No, sir. The Radford Hotel, in downtown Chicago? That was your first one, right?”

 Careful, Hawkins… “Yeah, yeah. I got it in a federal tax sale. I’d just got my masters in hotel management and was managing a Best Western on the Loop, this must have been 15 years ago, and an uncle of mine at City Hall told me it was on the block. I got some financing from my family, and turned the thing around into a favorite spot for international visitors. It doesn’t just clean up or anything, but I keep it in the company for sentiment’s sake. You’re saying this Cahill guy worked there? Name doesn’t ring a bell.”

 “Oh, his name wasn’t Cahill. Ms. Cahill was divorced. Her father’s name was Byron Widmeier.”

 “Oh, yeah, Byron,” I smiled, at my masterful acting rather than the memory of the cheerful custodian I’d bought along with the Radford. “He was a good man, Byron – always there, very meticulous. We were sorry to see him go. Emphysema or something. Nursing home, huh? Jesus.”

 “It’s very sad,” Columbo agreed soberly. “But I just can’t get over the fact that the daughter of this man, who worked for you in Chicago, was staying at the very same bed-and-breakfast with her father’s old boss. Incredible, isn’t it? You just missed her.”

 “Rather permanently, I suppose. Well, stranger things have happened.”

 “Oh, absolutely. My wife’s nephew, he’s from Newark, he goes on one of those student hiking tours of Europe. You know, where they stay at those hospices--”

 “Um, hostels, Columbo.”

 “Yes, sir. Well, he twists his ankle, and they take him to this Swiss hospital, and you wouldn’t believe it, but the guy in the next exam room is from Newark, too. It’s a very small world, Mr. Hawkins. What’s strange, though…”

 “Is?”

 “Well, what’s strange is how Ms. Cahill came to be here. This woman does hair in Chicago, can’t be making much money, probably taking care of at least part of her father’s nursing home bill, and here she is staying at a small California bed-and-breakfast. And not some famous tourist spot, but some smalltown inn. How would you explain that?”

 I sighed. “Most likely a friend recommended the place, somebody who’d just happened to be here in the past. Word of mouth’s what keeps these mom-and-pops alive, Columbo.”

 Columbo nodded, pursing his lips. “Or what if she came here to see you?”

 I crossed my arms. Time for some indignant body language. “The hell you mean by that, Columbo? You saying I was meeting my old janitor’s daughter for some kind of tryst? A rendezvous a half a continent away?”

 “Sir, please,” he implored, backpedaling almost off the landing. “I certainly didn’t mean to imply anything seamy or anything. I was just thinking maybe she was coming out here on a little vacation, maybe her father remembered you and she knew you were based in L.A. Maybe she gives you a call at your office just to shoot the breeze, and your secretary mentions you’re going away for the weekend. Maybe Ms. Cahill thinks it would be nice to surprise you here—”

 “First of all,” I responded, calmly, “my administrative assistant, Jana, would never release personal details about my comings and goings to any stranger, even one who claimed to be an old Windy City buddy. Secondly, I never met Cahill. Her father mentioned he had a daughter, but as you said, they didn’t get along. Third, that sounds more to me like the behavior of a psychotic than a nice surprise. God. You don’t suppose she was stalking me? I’m not exactly a celebrity, but if she was a manicurist or whatever, her life couldn’t have been that thrilling, and I’m probably the most famous person anybody in her circle knows. And you said she was waiting in her room in a slinky robe for somebody.”

 “Wow, sir,” Columbo drawled. “You may have been more right than you knew when you were joking about her waiting for you to come here. There’s just two problems, though. See, I talked to Mrs. Grizzard when I got back from town, and she told me your secre--, your administrative assistant booked your room here the same day Ms. Cahill made a reservation.”

 I’d insisted we make separate reservations just to avoid any suspicion on the Grizzards’ part.

 “Problem is, sir, Ms. Cahill booked her room before your assistant called. An hour or two before.”

 Stupid cow, I thought furiously.

 Columbo leaned against the stair rail. “So that would seem to argue against it being you she was meeting here. Besides, sir, that would make you the killer, and we both know you got here long after she was killed.”
 My heart was again pounding. “Of course. I told you I had supper down the road. Then, I had to tank up at Royston about 20 miles south, and I stopped at Walmart for a few things I’d forgot to pack. Toothpaste and the like. Columbo, the sheriff doesn’t think I could’ve done this, does he?”
 The policeman frowned. “Boy, I didn’t get that impression, but he was curious about the coincidence of you knowing Ms. Cahill’s father.”

 I pretended to fret. I thought about my schedule for Tuesday and Wednesday, and that brought a worried frown to my face. Then I exhaled, not too dramatically. “Wait, Columbo. No need to worry. See, since I’m here on a business trip, just between you and I…”

 Columbo turned a key to lock his lips.

 “…I’ve kept all my expense receipts from L.A. north.” I dug out my wallet, and pulled a sheaf of receipts from a hidden compartment. “Zachary’s, where I had that shrimp scampi… Here’s the Shell station at Royston… And here, here’s my receipt from Walmart. Everything’s time-stamped and dated, see? If you can pin down when I got here, you’ll see it was about 10 minutes or so earlier I was checking out at the store. Hey, wait, the Grizzards had to call the sheriff to report finding Ms. Cahill’s body. Don’t you guys log all emergency calls?”

 Columbo grinned and slapped the newell post. “That’s right, sir. And your receipt should be stamped way after the call was logged.” His basset face fell. “Just one thing, though…”

 “What?” I played along.

 The lieutenant began to beep again. He jumped, then grinned sheepishly. Holding up a finger to put our conversation on pause, he yanked a wad of pocket contents free and liberated from them a small plastic pill case. Columbo popped a red pill in his mouth, then slapped his forehead.

 “Shir, ca’ I ge’ a drinka wadda?” he requested around the dry pill.

 “Oh, yeah, c’mon,” I invited, moving rapidly to my room. Columbo mumbled thanks and rushed into the bathroom. I heard water running, and a moment later, he emerged, smiling.

 “Those things taste awful, sir,” he informed me. “That beeper goes off, sometimes I forget to get something to wash it down with.”

 “Glad to help.” I settled into my cobalt guest chair. “Now, what’s ‘just one thing’?”

 Lt. Columbo scratched his jaw before his eyes widened in recollection. “Oh, yes, your whereabouts during the murder. Well, I doubt the sheriff would go this far, but theoretically, he could argue that you came into town, met and killed Ms. Cahill, and then went to Walmart’s just to establish an alibi. Do you remember talking to anybody at the store, sir? Did you need any help finding anything? Anything that could pinpoint how long you were at the Walmart?”

 I rubbed my nose in meditation, then looked up hopefully. “The cart guy.”

 “The cart guy, sir?”

 “You know, Columbo, those old guys they hire to stand at the front of the place and hand out carts. The greeters, that’s it. Well, my greeter was a chatty old guy, we must have talked for ten minutes. But, gee, I’ll bet the old duffer probably can’t remember if he had breakfast, much less when we talked yesterday.” I feigned anxiety again. “Ooh, yeah!”

 Columbo jumped. “What, sir?”

 I grinned. “The TV. There was a TV, a monitor above the cart area, shooting everybody that came in or went out. I saw a movie one time, Wesley Snipes thing, where he was looking at office videotapes to prove some witness didn’t have an alibi for a murder. Don’t those retail video cameras put a digital time stamp on the tape. Maybe the greeter and I were in camera range. And if we put that together with this receipt, then that should satisfy the sheriff, right?”

 The lieutenant nodded ecstatically. “That’s great, sir, just wonderful. I’ll betcha they still have yesterday’s store tapes. Like I said, not that the sheriff will probably even ask about it. You didn’t even know the lady. OK, then – think I’ll see how Mrs. Columbo’s doing. Don’t worry, sir – you just relax and enjoy the rest of your weekend, OK?”

 “Thanks, Columbo,” I said, “sincerely.”

 He grinned humbly, waved, and disappeared into the hall. Like a cheap violin, I mused.
**
 The lasagna was up to Mrs. Grizzard’s culinary standard, and I settled into a redwood lounger on the back lawn to let the acids and cheese fight it out. The acid was winning, thanks to my conjecture on Dean Rascom’s new five-year personal advancement plan. I could probably buy the little shit off with a hefty raise and a lofty title. Jana might actually be a bigger problem, if she recalled the right call or the flashy redneck woman who’d actually showed up at my office a few months back. Jana was cursed with a strong sense of ethics.

 I didn’t need to worry about old Byron. Last time I checked in with the nursing home, they were timing his remaining days with a stopwatch. A life of chainsmoking had literally sucked the oxygen from his desiccated lungs, with or without medical complications arising from his employment with me. Not that I didn’t feel bad for him – Byron had been loyal, had worked hard, and always had a good word for the staff and guests alike all the years I’d known him. Never had been too bright: He’d always assumed the smokes were what forced his early retirement.

 Brynn had just enough smarts – the kind of feral intelligence a badger needs to fight for its food – to work it all out and build just enough of a case. Not a legal case: Byron’s nicotine intake likely would’ve blown that out of the water. But tried in the media’s court – on Dateline, with Stone Phillips and a grim, heart-pulling soundtrack, perhaps – Brynn’s case could’ve brought Hawk Inns down. Now, all I needed to do was take care of the Radford into perpetuity…

 “Sir? Mr. Hawkins?”

 My eyes blinked open. Columbo hovered over me, raincoated for the cool evening.

 “Yeah?” I demanded brusquely.

 He beamed down at me. “I think I got just the cure for your stress, sir.” The lieutenant brought two grapefruit-sized, painted wooden balls from behind his back.

 “I hope you have a bucket of water for me to wash those down with,” I said.

 “Oh, no, sir. These are bocce balls, sir. You ever play bocce ball, Mr. Hawkins?”

 I sat up. “I’ve missed that little life experience, Columbo.”

The lieutenant sat at my feet, nearly destroying the lounger’s equilibrium.  “Well, sir, bocce was a very important part of my youth. You might say it greatly improved MY quality of life growing up. Back in Little Italy, in New York, we used to always play bocce ball when the family got together. Holidays, festivals, the Fourth of July. The old men would line up and play each other ‘til dusk. A lot of the time, they’d let me and the other kids join in. It was great fun, sir. So when I found out the Grizzards had a set of balls, I just had to give it a go. Brad and Kelly said they’d play, but we need a fourth, and I think it would help you unwind.”

“Nice of you to think of me, Columbo,” I said, laying back. “But shouldn’t you see if your better half might not like to play first?”

Columbo weighed the balls. “Mrs. Columbo never cared for the game, always afraid she’d catch a ball between the eyes. Besides, her fingers are swelled up like bratwursts right now.”

 I sighed and pushed myself up. “Then let’s play ball, by all means.”

Brad and Kelly were the yuppies, and they looked as if they had as eagerly embraced the competition as I had. Columbo commandeered Brad, and Kelly became my bocce-mate, or whatever they called it. Through an overly complicated and lengthy process, I was selected to throw a white ball at roughly mid-distance between Columbo and I and the yupsters. Columbo sighted down his red ball with the precision of a Marine sniper and snapped it underhanded. It thudded twice and rolled to a stop a foot from the white ball.

“Your turn, sir,” he encouraged. “Y’know, I talked to the sheriff again right after dinner, and he said he looked at those Walmart tapes. Looks like you’re in the clear, as far as the local police are concerned.”

I lowered the green ball from my face. “What?”

“Not too hard, sir. Just a nice arc, so it’ll kiss the target ball instead of knocking it into the next county. No, sir, I just meant that the sheriff is convinced you weren't anywhere near the inn yesterday afternoon. Ah, you probably better throw, sir -- Kelly looks kinda anxious."

I quickly took aim and hurled the ball. It nearly took out Brad's foot.

"Ooh, I think maybe you overshot yourself a little, sir," Columbo said, squinting at my distant ball.

"I've still got one shot, and that's all it takes, Columbo, right?" I replied smoothly. "You say the sheriff is 'convinced.' That sounds a little like you're not. Was I on the tape entering the store or not?"

 "Oh, definitely, sir. Nice shot, Brad!"

"And you saw the receipt, right?"

Columbo turned to me, and lowered his voice. "Yesss. I don't think anyone could argue you went into that Walmart late Friday afternoon and left after Ms. Cahill was murdered. But a person might wonder where you were between those two times. Wow, Kelly; that was absolutely wonderful! Just like my Uncle Carlo used to pitch!

"See, sir," he continued softly as he scoped out his spherical target, "that Walmart is a huge place, like a warehouse. A person could get lost in there for hours. Now, the sheriff looked at the parking lot camera tapes, too -- did you know they had cameras on most of the parking lot light posts? Well, your car was parked near one of those cameras for the entire period from when you entered the store to when you left. And here we GOOO!!"
Columbo's second ball lightly kissed the target ball, actually moving it closer to his first.

"So what are you saying, Lieutenant?" I snapped.

"Just that that store is gigantic, and there are all sorts of storerooms and loading docks and employee lounges. I checked, and the security cameras are placed mostly to catch shoplifters, prevent vandalism in the parking lot, that kinda thing. I doubt anybody could verify you being in that store for the entire time you claim. The sheriff could decide to look at all the store tapes, and I wonder if he'd find you wandering around the store or not. Except, of course, right before you checked out."

 I squeezed my remaining bocce ball. "All that would seem to prove is that I may not have been within camera range. Which I'm sure I was, anyway."

"Hey, c'mon," Brad called.

"A minute, please," I said flatly, in a way that shut the yuppie up.

"You're right, sir," Columbo said. "The in-store cameras wouldn't prove much. But the loading dock camera, that's another story."

The ball dropped from my fingers with a heavy thud. "Loading dock camera?"

"At the rear of the store, sir. It's to make sure nobody tries to break in or steal incoming merchandise off the trucks. The camera has one of those fish-eye lenses, I think they're called, and it takes in a pretty good area behind the store. Including the empty lot behind it."

 "Are you going to play today?" Kelly whined.

I turned with a smile, nodded, lined up the ball, and hurled it shot-put style. Brad and Kelly dived to the grass, and the ball vanished into some thick brush adjoining the lawn.

"Oops,” I said. “You’re up, Brad. What’s your game, Columbo? I thought you were on vacation. I suppose you’ve got the sheriff running around on some wild goose chase.”

“Real close there, Brad,” Columbo hollered, giving the OK sign. “No, sir. I told the sheriff I thought probably an intruder killed Ms. Cahill. Nice and easy, Kelly!”

I looked at the rumpled little man. He turned toward me, smiling, and I saw something new in his eyes. It startled me, and I didn’t care for it. Kelly’s ball rolled easily to within an inch of the target ball, and Columbo began applauding.

“That’s real pro form, Miss,” the policeman commended, moving to retrieve the balls. “I’m gonna have to tune up my game next round, I guess.”

Brad glanced fleetingly at me. “Uh, Columbo, thanks, but I forgot we were supposed to call home and see about the kids. Think we’ll call it an evening.”

Columbo’s face fell. “Aw, gee, that’s too bad. Well, see you at breakfast, then.”

The couple moved rapidly back to the inn, and the lieutenant turned to me. “Gee, sir, we better find that ball before it gets dark.”

I followed him silently into the thicket. “Why didn’t you tell the sheriff? What you thought, I mean?”

Columbo kicked around in the leaves. “Like you said, sir, I’m on vacation. In fact, Mrs. Columbo and I will probably be coming to a lot of places like this real soon.”

“Huh?”

 Columbo shoved a hand into his pants pocket and came out with a prescription pill bottle. “See this? Two months ago, I start getting a little outta breath, a little tired when I gotta climb steps. I go see the department doc – that was my first mistake – and he puts me on this stuff. I got a heart murmur, sir.”

 “I’m, uh, I’m sorry, Columbo.” I actually was.

“Not your problem, sir. The upshot is, the department doctor shoots off his mouth upstairs, and now I’ve got another month before I gotta take early retirement. I’ve been with the department for about 35 years, with the New York force before that.” His eyes now had a wild look to them. “I like my work, sir, a lot, but I’m gonna have to hang up my badge in another month. That’s OK, I understand that. That’s the hand fate’s dealt me.

“But a cop’s pension ain’t exactly a royal fortune, sir, and I always wanted to show Mrs. Columbo things when we retired. Take her on one of those Alaskan cruises, maybe visit Sicilia, I don’t know. Quality of life, sir – that’s what I want for me and my wife. That’s all I want. And I wonder if maybe you couldn’t help me get it. You know, like you did for Mr. Waslewski.”

 Pete Waslewski was the manager of the Radford, in Chicago. Before that, he’d been a building inspector with the City of Chicago. It began to dawn on me.

Columbo watched the dawn, and grinned broadly. “I wonder how soon after Mr. Waslewski inspected the Radford for renovations you put him on the payroll. What’d he find, sir? Asbestos? Enough so maybe it didn’t pay to get it out of the walls. You were new in the business, had limited cash. And as long as it’s covered, the asbestos wouldn’t have been a real threat to the customers. But you had Byron Widmeier get some out of the higher-risk areas of the hotel, and when he started having breathing problems, it didn’t take you long to realize what had happened. Asbestosis, sir. They can’t get that stuff out of your lungs – it sticks there, and you’re never the same again.

“Lucky for you, sir, he musta figured his smoking had caught up to him. I figure you musta paid off Waslewski with a job to keep the asbestos secret. Mr. Widmeier, my guess is you had your own doc look at him and diagnose emphysema. You’ve probably paid more in bribes and cover-ups than it woulda cost to take that asbestos out with a trained crew. Mr. Widmeier isn’t a wealthy man, sir – I’ll bet maybe if I check with the nursing home, his room’s being paid for out of some Hawk Inn holding company. Was that guilt or fear, sir?”

He had it nailed, every piece. “I think you’re having unexpected side effects from your little red pills. That is truly a fantasy of grand proportions, Columbo.”

 “Maybe, sir, maybe,” Columbo conceded. “But there’s a long enough trail of paper and witnesses, from building commissioner records to any permits the old Radford owners took to put that asbestos in in the first place. I suspect your Chicago doctor wouldn’t last too long in interrogation, and when Mr. Widmeier dies, which is probably pretty soon, whattaya think an autopsy would turn up. I may be on my way out, but I still got connections. You could keep this thing under wraps, maybe forever. But one pull, and I could unravel it all. I wouldn't think showing up on 60 Minutes or Dateline would be real great for your company's public image, sick old man and everything.”

I stared at this new Columbo for a long minute, then burst out laughing. “You are a marvel, Lieutenant. Here I thought you were a lightweight, and you’re just one more power player.”

“No, sir. I’ve never done anything like this in my life, and I don’t feel too great about having to do it. But Mrs. Columbo is the most important thing to me in the world, and in another month, she’ll be the only thing worth living for. So I guess I’m asking you to help me make our final years worthwhile.”

“Theoretically, Columbo,” I asked, “how much would you hope to extort out of me?”

Columbo’s jaw tightened. “I’m not asking for blackmail, sir. I’m proposing you put my experience to work. I’ve been a cop for decades, and a company like yours could use a man with my knowledge.”

“You want a JOB?” I bit down on a chortle. This wasn’t easy for the man, and in an odd way, I felt for him. However… “Thing is, Columbo, even if there was a reason for me to consider it, this is a young man’s game. I don't know how I'd work you into our structure."

 Columbo nodded glumly. "Well, why don't you think about it overnight, sir. In fact, I was thinking about going fishing first thing tomorrow morning -- Mr. Grizzard said the lake has been freshly stocked. Why don't you come along, and we can talk about things."

"Fishing," I repeated. "Like getting up at dawn and putting worms on hooks and gutting dead fish fishing?"

"You'll love it, sir. I promise. I'll bring a big thermos of coffee. Of course, the sheriff mentioned he likes to fish, so I could give him a call…"

"Fishing, how delightful," I said, drily.
**
 I awoke with a jolt. The murder of Brynn Cahill had been playing in my subconscious, over and over, punctuated by odd images of my being pelted with bocce balls and hauled out of my bed with a rod and reel by a monstrous, raincoated fisherman.
**
 "The key to fishing, sir, is to catch 'em early, while they're still groggy and not adjusted to the surface light," Columbo informed me jovially as the huge discount brand thermos bounced on his leg. I trudged along the path behind him, uncertain about whether I was equipped at that hour to outwit a fish. The little troll was ready to blackmail me for a job, break every rule he'd ever set for himself, and he was living his own episode of Bassmasters.

 He picked a spot where a huge log had lain probably for years, using it as a bench. Columbo set a plastic fishing "box," whatever, carefully at its base. The sun was over the horizon, but the lake was misty and the grass under my shoes was damp. Nature, I hated it.

 "Ooh, boy," Columbo suddenly exclaimed. He rooted frantically through his all-purpose raincoat, and looked relieved as he pulled his heart pills from his coat pocket. "Don't wanna forget those, do I, sir? Might be out here for hours."

 "Hours,” I murmured. “I, uh, where’s your wrist pill-timer chrono-thing? Thought you had to take those at a special time or something.”

 Columbo peered at his bare wrist for a moment, then propped his pill bottle in a crook of the log. “Musta left it back at the inn. You help yourself to some coffee, Kent. See, I got it right – figure if we’re gonna be working together, we oughtta get to be pals. Back in a minute, sir.”

 The lieutenant started back toward the house, whistling what sounded like some kind of opera. I leaned back against the log, grateful for a few peaceful minutes away from the demented little troglodyte. I’d brought a cup from the Grizzard kitchen, and I unscrewed the thermos for a hot wake-up. I set the thermos back on the log, and Columbo’s pills dropped to the grass.

 Columbo’s pills.

 He was back in about 10 minutes. I was sipping my coffee and rooting through some gaudily painted fishing thingies. 

 “How’s that coffee, sir?” he asked, lowering himself to the ground with a grunt. “I’ll tell you a little secret, sir. My wife taught me to put a little cinnamon in the filter when I make coffee. Got a little zing, huh.”

 “Zesty,” I agreed. “Lemme pour you one, Columbo.”

 "Why, thank you, sir," the lieutenant replied with mock formality. I filled the thermos cup with the brown mixture and watched not too carefully as he gulped the hot liquid. "Now, that's the stuff."

 "Why I buy Grade A Columbian for my guests, Columbo. You know, you actually do have a knack for hospitality. The way you were concerned about the Grizzards and the guests when that girl's hand fell out of the blanket. The way you cheered Brad and Kelly on during our game last night. Even the way you've tried to shmear me with your little aw, shucks routine. Maybe I could find a place for you in the company."

 Columbo brightened. "Gee, sir, that's all I'm askin'. I'm a worker, you ask anybody. You'll get your salary's worth, I promise."

 I leaned back against the probably maggot-ridden log. "I'm just curious about how you got this goofy idea that I killed what's-her-name, Calhoun?"

 "Actually, sir, it was one of the first things that came out of your mouth," Columbo answered casually as he rooted through his bait box or whatever they called the damned thing. I searched my memory for any verbal miscue the night of the murder. Impossible; I'd measured every word I'd spoken to this Cro Magnon leftover and the local Deputy Fifes.

 Columbo looked up with a glint in his heavily lined but now tightly focused eyes. "Oh, it wasn't anything you said, Mr. Hawkins. It was your breath, sir."

 I did a double-take, then burst into laughter that echoed off the lake. I couldn't help it: It was like some hoary old toothpaste commercial.

 "My breath," I repeated.

 "Your breath," the lieutenant said, busily affixing a purple rubber pseudo-worm to his line. "When we met out front of the inn, as we were talking, I couldn't help but notice the very strong smell of cinnamon on your breath. I didn't think too much of that at the time -- you can understand, I was occupied with other things. But then, when I asked Mrs. Grizzard if she had anything for you to eat, you said, 'No, I had some shrimp scampi up the road aways.' 'Aways' -- very folksy, sir."

 "Glad you like my turn of phrase, Lieutenant."

 Columbo nodded appreciatively. "Thing is, sir, it didn't square. Scampi's one of my wife's favorite dishes -- she makes a mean one, sir. And let me tell you, the key to good scampi is garlic. Lotsa garlic. When Mrs. Columbo serves scampi, I can't talk to anybody for hours. The garlic on my breath knocks 'em over.

 "But you, sir, your breath, that first time I met you, was fresh and cinnamony, very pleasant, if I may say so. You'd just come off a two-hour drive, after eating garlic-laden shrimp scampi, and your breath smelled like one of those breakfast roll places in the mall."

 I willed away the fluttering in my gut. "Gum, Columbo. Great invention -- you pop it in your mouth, work your jaws, and halitosis is but a memory. You might buy yourself a stick, if I may say so."

 Columbo wasn't ruffled. "No, sir, I don't think gum woulda done the trick. Garlic is one of the strongest odors on your breath, and you pretty much have to use a strong mouthwash to get rid of it. Besides, when I was checking out your car earlier today, I was looking for a discarded gum wrapper. I found one in the ashtray, sir, but it was peppermint. Not cinnamon."

 I pushed off the riverbank. "I wonder if you can imagine how ludicrous this conversation is. ‘Your Honor, Exhibit A is Mr. Hawkins’ sparkling breath…’"

 "We're just fishing, Mr. Hawkins. You want me to bait your line?"

 "I will bait my own line, thanks."

 Columbo returned to his own fishing rod, taking a heavy breath of rural area and frowning. "OK, so it appeared you'd gargled somewhere on the road or at the Walmart. But that makes no sense. And the only other place you could have gargled was here at the inn. And there was an open bottle of mouthwash in Ms. Cahill's bathroom."

 "Were there any fingerprints on that bottle, Lieutenant?"

 "Nooo, sir. I doubt you'd have been that careless."

 I smiled this time. "So you don't know that I couldn't have gargled somewhere else. Or at least you can't prove it. Every room in this inn has a bottle of mouthwash, Columbo. It's not exactly a smoking gun, now, is it?"

 "Actually, sir, it is." Columbo's face was serious, now. "Whew, getting' hot out here. You see, the Grizzards are a lot like you. Attention to detail, coordination. You noticed each room is a different color? You even took note of the monochromatic room scheme."

 "Gee, Columbo, have I improved your word power?"

 "Indubitably, sir. Your room is blue -- blue carpet, blue bedspread, blue curtains on the windows. My room is green, from the pillowcases to the bathroom tiles. And Ms. Cahill's room, well, it's red, sir. Red comforter, red roses on the wallpaper, even a nice red candle next to the tub. Mrs. Grizzard tells me she goes to a lotta trouble to make sure everything in each room matches, even down to the toiletries. You hooked yet, sir?"

 I said nothing.

 "See, the mouthwash in my room is green, has a nice minty green flavor. If you didn't notice this morning, your mouthwash is blue -- spearmint, I believe. It's Madison Avenue, sir: Green is mint, clear soda is lemon-lime, brown is Cola. You remember a few years ago, they tried to market that clear Pepsi, but folks weren't going for it, no sir. Everything's color-coded, and sir, red mouthwash tastes -- and smells -- like cinnamon. You used that mouthwash, I suspect to get the taste of pepper spray out of your mouth."

 My head whipped up. "Huh?"

 "You cleaned up good after the murder, sir, but you forgot about Ms. Cahill. You say you've got the eye, sir. Well, I guess I got a nose for clues. And that, along with the Walmart loading dock security tape and your attempt on my life, is what's going to put you behind bars, Mr. Hawkins."
 I played it casual, laying back on the grass. "Ridiculous. Mouthwash, pepper -- not much of a case."

 "I, ah…" Columbo worked his jaw, suddenly laying back against the log. "I don't…Oh, geez, what's goin' on here? Sir? You wanna hand me my pills? I think something's happening. Ooh."

 I smiled and displayed the now-empty pill bottle. "I think you've already had enough of a dose to take you into eternity, Lieutenant."

 Columbo's reddening face collapsed in shock. "Geez, sir, what'd you do? For god's sake, what'd you do?"

 "Just fixed up your coffee. A little heart-healthy picker-upper, you might say."

 "I…just…wanted…a…job," he protested weakly, massaging his left arm. "Just some…some quality of…life…"

 "You know what people want more than quality of life, Columbo?" I growled. "Everything else. Everything in the world else. My employees want a seat behind my desk. Cahill didn't care about her father gasping for every breath. I've paid every cent of his hospital and nursing home bills, even though the asbestosis was only a complication of the lung disease. His scheming little girl wanted hush money, just like you, except you can't come out and call blackmail blackmail. You can compare notes with the greedy little bitch."

 Columbo's face was purple now, and beaded in sweat. He slumped over, and grabbed my sleeve. "Please, sir. Call…somebody. I won't…tell…anyb--"

 "Shame you came out here all alone before anybody got up, with your condition and everything. They'll find you here with your jaw hanging open like a beached carp, and they'll just say, 'Gee, nice old guy. Too bad about the bum ticker.' Grizzard tells me this lake is like 30 feet deep -- they'll never even think to look for this thermos."

 "I wouldn't do that if I were you, sir," Columbo said, concerned, suddenly sitting up and placing the thermos safely out of my reach. "See, that's material evidence in an attempted murder case and corroborating evidence in Ms. Cahill's murder."

 My throat was sand-dry, my heart threatening to break a rib or two. I opened my mouth, but couldn't utter a word.

 "See, sir, the sheriff is a very methodical, very precise man," the policeman continued, his face fading back to wrinkled beige.

 "But I put enough pills in that coffee--"

 "Placebos, sir, sugar pills," Columbo reported. "At breakfast yesterday, my timer went off to remind me to give Mrs. Columbo some allergy pills. But once the sheriff and I realized that all we had on you was a chain of unconnected circumstantial evidence -- there was no video camera on that loading dock, sir -- I decided to cook up a little, oh, contingency plan. I think that's what they call it, Mr. Hawkins. The sheriff got the local pharmacist to make up these little sugar pills. Friendly little town.

 "See, you trying to kill me just now should make a strong impression on any jury. That plus the hole in your alibi and the mouthwash and the fact that you were wearing sunglasses at night Friday. I didn't think an emotionally-controlled man like yourself would get teary-eyed over a complete stranger. It was the pepper spray, right, sir?"

 "I probably better call a lawyer," I mumbled, dazed.

 "Plus, I think I can put you at the inn at the time of the murder," Columbo added cheerfully.

 I peered at him. "Nobody saw me. I'm sure of that."

 "Nonetheless, sir. It didn't hit me at the time, sir; it didn't occur to any of us. But I realize now what my first instinct was at the time I met you. I called the sheriff and his deputy, and they agree. We were hungry. And hungry for barbecue, sir."

 I gaped at the cop.

 "See, Ms. Cahill was killed during the Grizzards' cookout out back of the inn. There was a ton of smoke coming off the grilling barrels, and all of it was blowing toward the inn. And when I met you, hours after the cookout was over, I felt very hungry. I'd just eaten a half-chicken, and I was salivating, sir. Then the deputy asked the sheriff if they could stop at the rib place down the road after they left.

"I think that was your doing, sir. When you came here to kill Ms. Cahill, you walked right into a thick cloud of smoke from the grill. That stuff gets right into your clothes, sir, particularly natural fibers like in your tweed jacket. We were all sitting upwind of the grill. You know what smoke actually is, sir?"

"Great. A physics lesson."

"Smoke is made up of little tiny particles you can't see with the naked eye. And I'll betcha we'd find some of those particles if we took your tweed jacket to the police lab."

I glanced back at the inn. "Where my jacket no doubt is, right now. Nice distraction, Columbo. If you weren't accusing me of murder, I'd offer you a job with my company. You're the one with the eye and the nose. Of course, you realize you're out of your jurisdiction, Lieutenant. You plan on hauling me back to L.A. yourself?"

Columbo's eyes widened. "Oh, heavens no, sir. I'm on vacation. I’ll leave that to the sheriff. Geez, the wife would kill me. No, sir, how 'bout we just fish for awhile?"

I sighed. I had no idea why I felt suddenly better. Had to remember to can Dean before they read me my rights.

The lieutenant reached into his fishing box and pulled out a jar of muddish goo. "You want some cheese bait, sir?"

"Not hungry, thanks."

Columbo laughed heartily. "That's a good one. Tennessee cop turned me onto this stuff. The fish, well, they just love it. Don't know why they call it cheese bait, though. I tried a dab of the stuff once, and believe you me, this don't taste like any cheese I've ever had."

I smiled despite myself, weaving my hands behind my head and nestling into the grass. "Can't go by the packaging, Columbo. If this weekend has taught me anything, I guess that's it."

"Amen," he said, casting his line gracefully.