Dedicated to my friends at the Forum

          “Excuse me,” Columbo yelled to Sgt. Kerin, who had been consulting with the assistant M.E. Kerin sighed and shrugged and trudged across the sand.

          “Uh, huh?” the tall sergeant inquired with his usual animation.

          The lieutenant was kneeling by the body, gripping a nearby piece of driftwood for balance. “Sergeant, did they find Santa this way?”

          Kerin peered down at Santa Claus, AKA Donald Skaarsgard of the Unle Lars’ Pretzel Skaarsgards. The mall munchie millionaire (“Uncle Lars -- putting a new twist on flavor!”) was on his back, his beard askew, a scorched black bullethole in sharp contrast to his red velvet suit jacket and the white sand.

          “Yeah, I guess so,” Kerin grunted. “Odd, ain’t it?”

          “Yes, Sergeant, I would say so,” Columbo drawled. “The question is, why was, ah…?”

          “Little Santa taking some air?” Kerin offered. “Rudolph the One-Eyed Reindeer out of the corral? The retractable candy cane--”

          The lieutenant grinned sheepishly. “I think that’s probably enough, Sergeant. I didn’t even know these suits had a zipper.”

          “Had a brother-in-law did a part-time Santa gig at Bloomingdale’s last year,” Kerin supplied. “The breaks, they ain’t that long. Of course, you gotta have a zipper. Besides, guy this rich, he’s probably got a minibar and a stereo somewhere in this suit. Only reason I can think of why he mighta been ‘hanging out’ like this was cause he had a date, little sex on the beach. Obviously, a right kinky old elf. Maybe she liked it jolly.”

          “Nah,” Columbo dismissed, wobbling to his feet with a blush. “Mr. Skaarsgard here was dressed up as old St. Nick for a kid’s benefit in town. His personal assistant said he got a call right after he put on his Santa act for the tots. He musta come out here to meet whoever called him.”

          Kerin looked up at Skaarsgard’s sprawling beach house, all glass facing the Pacific. Through that glass, he could see nothing but bare walls, shining hardwood floors and a single empty bottle glinting in the sun. “Why’s the joint empty?”

          “He was sellin’ the place,” Columbo said. “I got hold of his real estate agent – she says he was ‘trading up.’ Geez, hate to see what he traded up to from this. Place has got three decks and four bathrooms.” The detective stared down the beach. “You notice the footprints?”

          “Sure, those bootprints of Skaarsgard’s stand out like a sore thumb in Southern California.”

          “Yeah, but where’s the other ones?”

          Kerin frowned. “Whaddya mean, the other ones?”

          “The other footprints, Sergeant. If Mr. Skaarsgard came out here to have a, well, a ‘date,’ then we oughtta see a second set of prints. The tide doesn’t come up this far, and you can see nobody’s tried to wipe out any other prints.” Columbo set off for the house, staring at the sand, the dirt, and finally the wood of the deck. “Ah, ha!”

          “You got something?” a baffled Kerin asked.

          “I believe I do,” Columbo said triumphantly, indicating a dark red spot on the deck. Kerin studied the wood planks, moving toward the patio door.

          “More bloodspots here, Lieutenant,” the big-boned sergeant informed his superior. “He musta been shot out here, or maybe inside. The Santa suit and the padded belly musta blotted up most of the blood,”

          Columbo leaned on the railing with a perplexed expression. “So why’d he come out here? To escape from the killer? But he didn’t run. Look at those prints on the beach, Sergeant. He walked down about 20 yards and came back to where we found him. And it looks like every few yards, he stopped, turned, and, what, looked out at the ocean? C’mon.”

          Kerin again pursued the homicide cop, this time down to the body. Columbo followed the heavy-treaded bootprints .

          “ Okaaayy,” Columbo murmured, on the move. “He comes down to the beach, turns and stops. Another few yards, stop and turn. Walk, stop and turn; walk, stop and turn; walk, stop, and turn; walk, stop, and turn; walk, stop, and turn; walk, stop, and turn; walk, stop, and turn.” Columbo backtracked. “Then he comes back here, stops, turns, and drops dead.” The detective peered out at the tranquil ocean. “What the heck was he lookin ’ for? Somethin ’ here on the beach? But his prints are in a straight line. He lost something, he’d probably’ve covered more territory.”

          “Maybe the killer came in on a boat, or escaped that way,” Kerin suggested. “Nah, that don’t work – he was shot at close range, and there’s no prints but Santa’s.”

          Columbo nodded, a contemplative finger to his lips. “Back up to the house, Sergeant.”

          Kerin sighed and complied. The whiskey bottle inside the beach house was a dead soldier, empty and alone on a battlefield of costly teak flooring. Columbo plucked a handkerchief of questionable virtue from his suit jacket and gingerly lifted in by the neck.

          He whistled. “Looka this, Sergeant. Johnny Walker Blue.”

          “I never even seen that color.”

          “This is prime, Grade A hooch, Sergeant,” Columbo informed him. “You got Black, you got Red, but Blue – well, that’s what a guy like Mr. Skaarsgard drinks. I saw somewhere where each bottle’s got its own serial number. ‘Cept I can’t see the victim drinking this stuff alone. He comes out here to look at his property, and what? Some kinda meeting? Or from the looks of the booze, maybe a celebration.”

          “Where is he?” a voice suddenly echoed through the empty house. “Hello?”

          Columbo carefully  set the bottle down, label facing the patio door, and turned toward the arched doorway. “In here, sir!”

          The tall young man was immaculately assembled in a costly black summer suit, his blonde hair perfectly sculpted to his reality TV face. He glanced around the room, at Columbo, at Kerin. The gleaming bottle caught the man’s attention, and he stepped forward. Columbo held up both arms.

          “Excuse me, sir,” the policeman advised. “But this is a crime scene.”

          “They told me Uncle Donald had been murdered,” the young man stated briskly. “William Skaarsgard. And you are…?”

          “Lieutenant Columbo, Homicide, sir.” The lieutenant crossed the room and pumped the nephew’s hand. “I’m very sorry, sir, about your uncle.”

          “Yes, well. Thanks. Have they taken him away? I need to call Aunt Carol, start making some arrangements.”

          “He’s outside, sir,” Columbo said. “You probably don’t want to see him.”

          “Probably not,” Skaarsgard agreed blandly. He peered over Columbo’s shoulder, out at the beach. “Good lord, is he still wearing that ridiculous costume? Was he drunk or something?”

          “We’ll have to wait for the M.E.’s report to know that, but it appears he had been drinking. Is that his normal whiskey, sir?”

          Skaarsgard’s right brow rose. “Oh, yes. Nothing but the premium blend for Uncle Donald. Never lost track of his Ivy League frat roots, my uncle. That’s how the company started – he and his fraternity brothers halted their drinking long enough to start selling stuffed pretzels as a fundraiser for homeless kids or orphaned homeless people or something. Most likely some kind of community service project. Some snack food company took notice, and he rooked his brothers and licensed the recipe. Eventually, he sued the company over some sloppily written clause in the license agreement, settled for Uncle Lars, and took it national.”

          Columbo slapped is forehead. “Uncle Lars. Of course. All those pretzel places in the mall. I gotta tell you, sir, I just love that alfredo pretzel you guys make. How do they get that sauce in the middle like that without it spilling out?”

          “Visit the website. What do you think? Drank himself to death? Uncle Donald was always all business in the boardroom, but a toga party waiting to happen. That’s why he was doing the Santa gig, you know – the UCLA chapter of his old frat needed some celebrity alumnus for a charity do. That was half the reason he came out here. He could never be bothered to come to L.A. for company business.”

          “You mean this was his first time in California ?” Columbo asked.

          Skaarsgard yawned genteelly. “Uncle Donald hated California , particularly at the holidays. He liked his Wisconsin winters – the bitterer the temps, the greater the potential for loss of toes and fingers, the better. He felt it was unnatural for women to be wearing halters and minis during the yuletide season.”

          “I seeee,” Columbo murmured. “Then why’d he come out here? Why’s he got this beautiful house here if he hates it so much?”

          “Actually, this is – was --  Uncle Donald’s first trip to L.A. The summer house is for Aunt Pammy. She likes to come out every Christmas for a few weeks to loot Rodeo Drive and dine among the celebrities. The curse of the nouveau riche. But this year, Uncle Donald announced he was coming out to visit the West Coast office on some special matter he’s been keeping close to his vest. My uncle was committed to the company and its day-to-day operations – when he was on the clock, he made sure every ‘T’ was crossed, every ‘I’ dotted. Plus, the UCLA chapter of his old frat was having a major holiday charity fete for which they needed a celebrity Santa, and Uncle Donald was the best alumni they could muster.”

          Columbo nodded slowly. “And he came straight from this fraternity party, Mr. Skaarsgard? Cause of the suit. I assume he brought the booze with him, if you’ll pardon my French, sir. I mean, the house is completely empty.”

          Skaarsgard sighed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he snagged a bottle at the party, although I can’t imagine an open bar at a children’s Christmas celebration. And Johnny Walker Blue’s a bit high-tone for a Greek soiree. But when he was off the clock, Uncle Donald never turned down a drink. I suspect that if Charles Manson offered him a swig of muscatel, he’d take it gladly. When I was young, he’d regale me with tales of his fraternity misdeeds – the de-pantying of fulsome young women, the theft of university statues and mascots, the tipping of cows, which I assume did not involve the distribution of bovine gratuities.”

          “Mr. Skaarsgard, I don’t wanna sound insensitive or anything, but it sounds like you didn’t care much for your uncle.”

          “I suppose I shouldn’t be speaking so ill of the dead, especially family, but sometimes it was difficult to tolerate the hypocrisy of his Midwest Lutheran severity with the employees and directors, when two hours later, he might be drinking and whoring himself silly.”

          The lieutenant perked. “You think your uncle mighta hired, you know, a working girl? A prostitute? And brought her and the Johnny Walker out to the house? ‘Cause there was something curious about the way we found the body.”

          “I would sincerely doubt it, Lieutenant. If that sort of behavior were to come out publicly, it would hurt Uncle Lars’s wholesome image. Aunt Pammy , that’s one thing, But Uncle Donald viewed his responsibility to the pretzel-consuming public as sacred.”

          Columbo sighed. “All right, sir. You think maybe you could hang around for awhile, Mr. Skaarsgard? The crime lab people haven’t gotten here yet, and they may have a few questions.” He turned toward the now-open patio door and bellowed. “Sergeant? Sergeant?”

          Kerin appeared in the doorway. “Yeah, Lieutenant?”

          “Call in and see if the CSI people are on their way, OK?”

          “Sure thing,” Kerin grunted. “Hope they shake a leg. I need them to clear the vic’s john for police use, you know what I mean?”

          “I understand, Sergeant.” Columbo leaned in toward Skaarsgard . “The sergeant drinks ‘way too much coffee, you know?”

          Skaarsgard smiled painfully, leaning away from the cop.

**

          The forensics crew materialized about 20 minutes later, and dispersed throughout the house and along the beach. Skaarsgard had wearied of Columbo’ssmalltalk and the homicide detective’s inordinate interest in the cost and availability of his Gucci loafers, and had retreated to a corner of the living room to cell-call pertinent relatives, board members, and stockholders.

          “Damian?” Columbo called to a stocky lab tech inventorying his fingerprinting paraphernalia. “Damian, I got a question for you.”

          “Shoot,” the tech replied. The lieutenant moved closer, and his voice dropped to a bad whisper. “I doubt it, Lieutenant. In fact, I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be possible. You really think that’s what he did?”

          “Best shot I got right now, Damian,” Columbo shrugged. Then he brightened. “But maybe there’s another way…”

**

          “Yes, yes, we need to get that release out to the Times, all the major business dailies, as soon as possible.” Skaarsgard looked up. Columbo was standing five feet away, hands clasped before him, a patient grin on his face. The lieutenant held up his hands to indicate he was in no hurry.

          “No hurry,” the cop whispered too loudly.

          “You know the drill, Rebecka,” Skaarsgard sighed, and ended the call. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

          “Sorry to bust in, Mr. Skaarsgard. I just wanted to let you know, the crime lab folks don’t need anything more. You got a card, sir, I can call you later if we have any questions.”

          A soft leather card case emerged from the pretzel executive’s jacket pocket and an expensively engraved card emerged from the case. “I’ll jot my home and cell phone numbers on the back here.”

“That would be nice, sir.” Columbo accepted the card. “Thanks for all the help, Mr. Skaarsgard.”

“My pleasure,” Skaarsgard mumbled, turning to leave. He was nearly to the front door when Columbo chimed in.

“Oh, sir? I forget – I had just one more question, if you don’t mind.”

Skaarsgard’s jaw tightened. “Certainly.”

Columbo stepped forward. “I’m just curious, Mr. Skaarsgard . When you came in, how did you know the bottle on the floor over there was Johnny Walker Blue?”

“What do you mea—“ William Skaarsgard fell silent, and he felt a jab in his chest as he caught sight of the empty bottle.

“See, that bottle is turned toward the patio window, sir. You couldn’t’ve seen the label from where you were. Now, maybe you recognized the Johnny Walker bottle – it’s a very distinctive shape. But how’d you know it was Blue, not Red or Black? You said it was ‘premium blend.’ How’d you know it was Johnny Walker Blue, Mr. Skaarsgard ?”

Skaarsgard fought for composure. “Well, I just assumed…I mean, Uncle Donald always drank Blue.”

“He’s in a strange city, in a Santa Claus suit which he doesn’t bother to change out of, and he goes to his beach house, which he never visits. Did he come out here just to take a tug on a bottle of expensive scotch? Of course, maybe he coulda brought a woman out here, but why waste the money on Blue for a fling?

          Columbo’s face grew serious.  “Hooch like that, that’s what you buy as a gift, maybe to make up for something, maybe even to try to loosen somebody up and rethink what they’re thinking? What do you think we’d find if we went into Uncle Lars’s books, sir?”

“That’s insulting and groundless, and probably actionable,” Skaarsgard growled, his voice just a half-octave too high. “You think I killed my own uncle?”

“Nah,” Columbo said. “I’m pretty sure you did. See, that bottle’s been wiped clean of prints, but I gotta wonder what the cap might tell us. It rolled over by wall over there, and Damian – he’s one of those CSI guys like on TV – is gonna see if he can’t get something off it.”

Skaarsgard closed his eyes.

“And even if that don’t come through, I got the guys working out on the beach there.”

“On the beach?” Skaarsgard squeaked.

“Where the body was found,” Columbo informed him. “I was wondering why, after he got shot, why your uncle would’ve went outside and wondered along the beach. In a straight line, no less, and with his, you should pardon, with his fly open.

“Then it hit me. This house is closed – there’s no phone.”

“No phone?” Skaarsgard was perplexed.

“You knew your uncle was gonna fire you, or ask you to quit, and you panicked. You got hold of him at that Christmas party and asked him to meet you someplace private, this house. You brought along a bottle of Blue, his favorite. Was that to soften him up so you could reason with him, or so he’d be weak enough you could kill him without a tussle?”

“It was—“ Skaarsgard’s mouth clamped shut. “I think I want a lawyer.”

“Of course, sir,” Columbo nodded graciously. “You go ahead and call one. Of course, that booze was your big mistake, Mr. Skaarsgard .”

Skaarsgard’s cell phone stopped halfway to his lips. “What?”

“You should never’ve fed your uncle that bottle of scotch, sir. See, when you shot him, you musta thought he was already dead. I’m bettin’ he’ll turn out to’ve died from blood loss, not the actual shot. That padded suit probably slowed the bullet down, and when a guy is blind drunk, well, I seen guys in DUIs, pinned to the wheel, who were to shnockered to feel any pain. But your uncle knew he was dyin’, and he wanted to let somebody know you’d killed him. But look around: No phone, no paper, no pens or pencils, nothing to leave a dying message with. What was he gonna do?

“Then he looked outside. You said he’d never been to California before, right? Never left -- where was it -- Wisconsin ?”

Skaarsgard nodded numbly.

“OK, so your uncle’s drunk,” Columbo continued, ticking his points off on his fingers. “He’s wearing a heavy coat and hat, and it’s the dead of winter. He looks out back and sees all this rolling white sand. Mr. Skaarsgard probably never saw a real beach before, and his head’s all fuzzy with the booze. He’s got no pens, no pencils, no phone, no fax, no computer to tell folks who shot him, and the next house is blocks away.”

The homicide cop then smiled, a twinkle settling in his eye. “You know, it took me a long time to get used to California Christmases. I came from New York , you know -- I was a beat cop there. Now, in Brooklyn, you really know it’s Christmas. There’s snow up to your knees, your breath comes out almost like ice cubes, and you gotta hug the buildings when you’re walking downtown, ‘cause otherwise, some cabbie’sgonna zip around the corner and you’re gonna be covered in slush.

“I remember one Christmas, we had this case -- a verrry unusual case. You might say the perp -- the perpetrator, sir -- was kind of graffiti artist, which was kinda unusual for the early 1950s.”

Skaarsgard looked up, curiously.

“Anyway, this guy’s MO -- the way he did things -- was to pick a shop owner, somebody who’d short-changed him or treated him bad or gave him a BLT instead of a hamburger and write, well, obscenities, on his sidewalk. Except he didn’t use chalk or paint or nothin ’.”

“Lieutenant!” Sgt. Kerin shouted from outside.

Columbo held up a finger and turned his head. “Yeah, whattaya got?”

“Come out and see!” Kerin grunted with a slightly peevish tone.

The lieutenant shrugged at William Skaarsgard . “Sir, you mind?” he scurried out the patio door, Skaarsgard in tow. “The funny thing, sir, is this guy was very educated. He used insults I never heard before, kinda high-brow, big wordy stuff. And the penmanship, if that’s what you wanna call it, well, it was beautiful -- like he was writing a letter to the president. Except what he was writing was pretty filthy.

“Turns out this guy was a frat boy -- belonged to this fraternity at NYU. Kinda like your uncle. When he got a good load on, he’d go around ‘writing’ all over the neighborhood. But only during the winter, sir.”

Skaarsgard stopped dead as it hit him. Damian looked up and headed over.

“Whattaya got, Damian?” Columbo called to the police tech. “Mr. Skaarsgard, this is Damian Enriquez, one of the guys with our Criminal Science Investigation lab. I asked him to do a little test on the beach here.

“See, what confused me when I looked over the scene was your uncle’s footprints. The way they’re laid out. He’d walk a couple steps, turn, walk a few more steps, turn, well, you get the idea. I asked myself, what was he lookin’ at, out on the ocean? Or was he lookin ’ for somethin’ on the beach? But your uncle was dyin’, with no way of tellin’ anybody. Then, I had a hunch -- a kind of weird hunch. Did the sodium chloride work, Damian?”

Damian looked quickly at Skaarsgard. “Better than I thought.” He waved Columbo and Skaarsgard down the beach, where Sgt. Kerin was surveying the sand with a bemused grin.

“Your uncle did this little walk-turn-walk routine seven times, Mr. Skaarsgard. I thought that might be significant, but I couldn’t think why at first. It was your uncle’s final act that gave it away. He walked down to the end of the beach, then came back to almost where he’d started, turned, and died before he could finish his work.”

“His work?” Skaarsgard finally stammered.

They’d reached their destination, and Columbo turned the executive gently toward the sand above the tide line.

“My God,” Skaarsgard breathed, sagging.

Scrawled across the sand, in a dark blue, was a single word. WILLIAM.

“That’s your name, isn’t it, sir?” Columbo received no reply. “Seven turns, seven letters. See, my perp in New York and your uncle learned a very special skill in college -- an old frat trick. All that expensive scotch in his system was already pressin’ on his bladder, and he realized that’s how he could tell us who’d killed him. By writing your name in what he drunkenly imagined was snow.

“I asked Damian here if he had something might react with urine, something that’d bring out his dying message like a candle brings out lemon juice when kids are playin’ spies.”

“I didn’t come out here to kill Uncle Donald,” Skaarsgard mumbled. “He’d found out I’d ‘borrowed’ some company funds -- just a few hundred thousand -- and he’d threatened to have me fired and turn me in. I found him at that ridiculous Christmas party and begged him to come out here. He was furious, but finally, he agreed. Uncle Donald was so angry that he didn’t even change out of his Santa suit.

“I found a liquor store in Belair that carried Johnny Walker Blue Label and bought him a bottle to, well, help break the ice. He drained half the bottle before he told me I was to resign or he’d have me arrested. I refused, and he pulled a gun out of his coat pocket. Those Midwest types, they seem to have a fascination with firearms, and I assume he shipped it out ahead of him to protect him from the California psychos and gangbangers.

“He told me I was a traitor to the family and, more importantly, to the business, and told me what they supposedly once did with family traitors. Uncle Donald was drunk, he was furious, and he was waving this gun around. I finally saw my chance, and tried to wrestle it away from him. But it went off, and I thought he was dead. I was in a panic, not thinking straight, and I took the gun but forgot the bottle.”

“He wasn’t quite dead, sir,” Columbo offered politely.

Skaarsgard glanced again at his name in the sand. “Amazing, but somehow very apropos for Uncle Donald. Strange, though. I thought sand was very porous. I wouldn’t think you could bring out traces of, ah, urine…”

“That’s what Damian tells me, sir,” Columbo confirmed. “Sodium chloride’s just salt, sir -- guy in the pretzel business oughtta know that. This is just blue food dye -- non-toxic, it'll wash out with the next high tide.”

Skaarsgard’s head jolted up in shock, and then he chuckled in resignation. “This was all a trick, wasn’t it? Uncle Donald never did what you said.”

“Oh, I think he did, sir,” Columbo countered, trudging back to the initial “I” in “WILLIAM.”  “Like I said, it was his last act tipped me off. When he came back here and turned around, right before he died.”

“I’m sorry…”

          “It’s like you said, Mr. Skaarsgard. Your uncle was a professional -- very careful, very meticulous.” The cop’s hand swept toward the letter before him. “He wasn’t finished yet, and that’s why he came back. Like you said -- every ‘I’ dotted.”