Columbo undertakes a high-stakes case against an unusual adversary-his very own wife.
Early 1970s.
"What's up?"
"They're for the bake sale." Rose replied pointedly, focus undiverted from her sink full of dishes.
Two big, shining brown eyes peeked curiously from behind the kitchen doorway, shrouded in a cloud of smoke. The owner of those eyes pressed his palms together and ambled slowly into the kitchen. It was beginning to look as though procuring tonight's bounty was going to be a challenge for the good lieutenant.
His wife, for an Italian woman especially, never quite hit her stride on the stove. Her seasonings were dissonant, her chicken dry, her pasta limp. She cooked only in a purely utilitarian bid to keep the stomachs closest to her full.
Yet her handle on baking was strong, surprisingly so. Her flavors were balanced and sophisticated, her cakes moist, her pies flaky. Such a stark dichotomy fascinated him on a continual basis; one who bakes well naturally ought to cook well. But perhaps the strictly chemical, scientific instructions of a cake recipe suited her academic nature better than the relative spontaneity and guesswork involved in cooking. After all, guesswork was his wheelhouse, and science hers.
At any rate, her homemade brownies, the intoxicating scent of which had pervaded the entire house, were to die for.
And tonight, on this blessed summer's eve, they simply had to be his.
"Church picnic's tomorrow already? Time flies, huh?" he said, crowning his statement with an innocent whistle. His wife tutted.
"Give it up, I know why you're skulkin' around in here. Don't even think about it," she warned. He looked at her, head tilted blithely.
"Think about what?"
"Please. Don't gimme that," she said, her clear amusement not betraying her firm intentions. "I know you. Once you get ahold of those brownies, you inhale half the tray before I can blink. And then Mrs. Battaglio-remember Easter?-she gives us the stink eye 'cause I'm only bringin' in like, five of them."
He caved; a big, guilty smile graced his face. The mere mention of Signora Battaglio always did him in. Though she stood at not a hair over five feet tall, their purse-lipped, pearl-clutching, old-world Italian church fundraising director was never short on her signature, omnipresent disapproval-palpable, and of which Columbo had been the subject. Upon hearing that Rose's paltry picnic offering was his doing…well, he'd gotten kinder treatments from serial killers in his custody.
"Okay, look. I am not proud of that," he said, failing to suppress his mirth. "I went a little crazy that time. I apologized and promised I wouldn't eat that much again, didn't I?" Smirking, Rose narrowed her eyes at her sugar-starved partner.
"Well, I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head. "But you just cannot be trusted. I can put a couple aside for you tomorrow. For after the picnic."
"Day old, bunch 'a kids sneezed on 'em?"
"Can always make you another batch."
"Oh, I don't wanna make you do all that work. And it would take so long."
"Don't be such a baby. Besides, I already baked 'em long before you got home. They're all cooled and packed away, so it'd be a lot of trouble to get 'em out now. Just wait 'til tomorrow."
Columbo put a hand to his cheek. To lie to his face like that, in the thick of such blatant and tauntingly chocolatey aroma? Utterly sickening.
Besides, there was simply no way she'd had time to bake them much earlier; she'd been at work most of the day, then dropped the kids off at their uncle's house. The way he figured, he arrived home about an hour after she did. Thus, judging by the intensity of the mesmerizing scent that hit him as he walked through the front door, those brownies were certainly still hot, as hot as that day had been-a scorcher even for the early Los Angeles summer.
Such a sweltering day and backbreaking caseload made getting his hands on those brownies ever the more imperative. Lieutenant Columbo was not about to let such a day end treatless. Part of him wanted, for once, to cut to the chase: call her out immediately, grill her mercilessly, anything to exact his pound of flesh. Or chocolate, as it were.
But, as always, the part of him that savored a good game more than even his just desserts simply had to have its way.
It was time to shift gears. Columbo sauntered around the kitchen again, hands clasped behind his back.
"Fine, alright," he said. He made his way over to the sink where his wife stood, her tanned, olive skin and black, frizzy hair bathed in the warm light of a single incandescent bulb. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter next to her, admiring her profile.
"I understand," he insisted, voice lower. Still occupied, she glanced at him.
"Uh-huh. Glad to hear it."
Columbo took a long, thoughtful drag of his cigar as the two stood together in a comfortable silence, punctuated by low crackles of Miles Davis on the transistor radio and the chorus of crickets.
Wait…crickets? Columbo's eyes darted to the windows, all of which were wide open. Interesting. He picked up a clean towel and wordlessly began to help his wife dry the dishes.
"Sure was hot today, wunn't it? They said it hit ninety-five, and with the humidity? Lord have mercy."
"You can say that again," Rose affirmed, wiping her brow with her bare arm at the very reminder of the heat, tight coils of dark hair sticking to her reddened face. "Hell, I was sweatin' in the shower."
"You wanna talk sweat, I soaked clean through my shirt. Again," he muttered. She snickered.
"And you put it straight in the laundry, right? Don't try to pull that 'it's still good' crap."
"Oh, soon as I walked in," he said, gesturing to his torso, damp with sweat and clad in naught but an undershirt. "Believe me, that one was done for."
"'Atta boy."
"D'ja turn on the A/C? Why'd we pay so much for it if we're not gonna use it?"
"Well, I didn't want to just yet. That thing is such an energy suck. You know our bill goes up by over 30% when it's on?"
"Mm, I hear ya. So you just got the door and windows open in here. You get a nice cross breeze goin'?"
"You know it."
Columbo noted well that despite this purported effort, the kitchen was still noticeably hotter than the rest of the house, most certainly from recent use of their oven.
"And, uh, what time were you gonna close 'em?" he asked. Rose paused and glanced at him again.
"Oh…I dunno. Around now, after I finish the dishes." He nodded as she spoke, his face contorted in thought. "Why do you ask?"
"Because it's still very warm in here. Much warmer than the living room, I'd say by…oh, I dunno, ten degrees or so. I just can't put my finger on why that is, what with all the fresh air that's been circulating around here. And surely, the smell of freshly-baked brownies should've dissipated by now."
"Maybe," she said, handing him another wet plate to dry. "But scents are stronger in the heat, you know. It could just be lingering."
"Of course. You're right, I shoulda thought of that myself. It's just that it's such a strong scent for such an old tray of brownies." A devilish grin grew on his face despite himself. He was deriving a special sort of satisfaction from seeing she of all people squirm under his magnifying glass. "In fact, it still smells as though they were just baked. Maybe even cooled right on that windowsill, maybe within the last half hour. Maybe right before I got home from work."
"Well, I…" Rose started. Indeed, her husband had a gift for reading both a literal and figurative room, but how could he possibly have figured that? Ridiculous. More ridiculous was that he was dead right. "I did make them with raspberry preserves. And I added real vanilla bean this time around instead of just extract, and a bit of espresso powder. Those things smell very strongly. So I'm sure they gave off a headier and longer-lasting aroma."
"That would make perfect sense. Except for that it doesn't really explain the open windows, you see," he said, lowering his voice and tucking his chin, leaning in very close to her. Her large, dark eyes danced, refusing to meet his. "I just can't figure out why it's still so hot in here even though you've had this breeze goin' for so long. And that really bothers me, honey, you know how I am. I mean, really, I'm gonna be thinkin' about it. It all bothers me very, very much."
"...I have no idea what you're on about," she said, shutting the tap. She bit her lip and stared at the wall, tapping her fingernails idly against the sink. Now she was in hot water, and she knew it. He moved behind her.
"Then I guess we'll just have to wait for…oh, I dunno, a coroner's report? What've they got for dessert, a baker's report?"
"A cornetto's report?" Rose said dryly, without missing a beat. He snorted.
"Hey, that's pretty good. I like that."
"Mhm. And why do we need one?" she said, turning around to face him.
"To determine the exact time of baking, of course. Because I know for a fact that there's no way you could've already packed them up, let alone cut 'em. There's no way they've cooled enough yet. So they've got to be warm, and fresh, and beggin' me to eat 'em somewhere in here. It would be remiss, even criminal, not to. Surely, you understand."
"No," she deadpanned. He sighed.
"Kindly, ma'am, if you could just cooperate in this investigation…I think we can all get through this very swiftly and without incident." Rose simpered.
"I don't negotiate with terrorists. This whole line of questioning is in bad faith and I won't be answering anything further without my lawyer." She dried her hands and flung the towel over her shoulder. He took a step closer, intensifying their saucy little staredown.
"And just who would that be?"
"Why, Mrs. Battaglio, if she's got anything to say about the integrity of her bake sale."
Columbo narrowed his eyes at her. A fair invocation, but he was getting warmer-even she couldn't stop him now.
"You know, this whole thing has done nothing but tempt me. 'Cause it really does smell heavenly in here. Tellin' me you added raspberries, I mean, you know how much I love raspberries. Who doesn't?"
"Uh-huh."
"But you see, we got this guy down at the station, Harris, he eats 'em straight out the container by the handful, just like that. He dunn't care 'bout the seeds in his teeth, the mess, nothin'. It's really somethin'. Isn't that somethin'?"
"Hmm," Rose breathed suddenly, snaking her arms around his neck. His eyes widened in surprise as his wife pressed her body against his, his hands finding their way to her waist by sheer rote. "I'll tell you what's something."
He grinned. "What's that?"
"I can't believe you're standing here lookin' like this with nobody kissin' the life outta you. That's the real crime, here."
"Well, if we're talkin' 'bout-ooh."
She remedied this supposed problem appropriately, promptly and assertively laying her lips upon his. Scraping her nails gently along the nape of his neck, she felt him shiver beneath her touch. This was a woman closely acquainted with the element of surprise; shock at such sudden and intense pleasure had wrung his mind clean, his train of thought derailed into blankness by his wife's insistent and passionate abandon. Such was the nature of battle against one so dangerous. He did have an important question for her mere seconds ago, didn't he? It seemed to have vaporized in this bizarrely sudden undertow of heat.
In fact, for a few moments her amorous assault had actually worked, for each time he grasped for his next thought, his wife tauntingly tugged it away, just out of his reach. Certainly if it was more important than this, he would've remembered it. But amid the throes of another, deeper kiss, he detected the slightest trace of chocolate. There it was.
His objective.
His brownies.
His victory.
Short of breath, Columbo gently separated from her, maintaining only a few inches of distance.
"Something wrong?" Rose whispered.
"You know, hon', I hate to interrupt such a lovely…interruption. But I'm still bothered by one little thing. Uh…"
"Yeah?" she said, continuing her barrage with a hand through his hair and another down his back. She ran more soft kisses down his neck onto his shoulder with all the tactical coordination of one fresh from the tutelage of Sun Tzu. He hesitated, doing his best to ignore the thousands of nerve endings on his body belting praises.
"I just, uh…Jesus, would'ja relax?" he said with a laugh.
"No," she said impishly.
"I-I'm just sayin', I hope those brownies…were completely cool before you put 'em away. Wherever it was you that put 'em away. In one of these cabinets, maybe. One of those cabinets we paid three hundred dollars to refinish last month."
Rose stopped and looked up at him, his hands now gripping her arms. He gazed straight into her eyes, locked onto their every move, and continued.
"You know how condensation works and all. How well moisture mixes with wood. But I'm sure you considered that."
Her gaze, having thus far remained surreptitious, finally betrayed her, unconsciously flicking over to the cabinet on her right for the briefest second. She indeed had not stopped to think about any potential condensation.
But it was too late, and it no longer mattered. Columbo clapped his hands together and beelined in that direction, grin triumphant, index finger stuck in the air. Rose pounded a fist on the countertop, teeth grit, further confirming his hunch.
Columbo searched fervently, finding in one of the cabinets a sizable tray of brownies atop a trivet, still indeed very warm. Chuckling sinisterly, he rubbed his hands together as Rose put her head in hers.
"Well, well, well, what have we here," he growled, placing the tray on the counter. He retrieved a knife and sliced a row with gusto, breaking the shiny crust and revealing a bed of gooey, fudgy cake. "Oh, I can't believe you thought you could hide this from me. Though I do really gotta hand it to you, that offensive of yours almost worked. I mean, you really had me goin'. We should do that again sometime."
Rose pouted, no longer in such a mood. "Those are ill-gotten gains, you know."
"Mmm," he mm'd, mouth stuffed to capacity with goodness, teeth blackened with chocolate. "Dun' matta'."
"You oughta lose your badge," she whined. "Procuring evidence like that, obtaining a confession under duress. Neither of which admissible in court!"
"And yet, still perfectly admissible right in here," he said, patting his contented stomach. Unable to hide the exasperated smile on her lips, Rose shook her head. Already nearly done with his first square, Columbo nodded his.
She was right, those bits of espresso and vanilla bean really elevated the flavor profile. And the sweet, yet tart bits of raspberry were marvelous; dare he say they were…perfect. Well worth the trouble. Truly a wonder to him how she could pull those off and manage to burn eggs. Though from her, there was no shortage of wonders.
"Well, y'know what, fine. If you're gonna seize and consume my contraband, Lieutenant, then I'm gonna have to ask for a verdict."
"Well, ma'am," he started, putting a finger up until he finished swallowing. "I'm not really in the habit of eating evidence. Usually, it isn't this tasty. But believe me, this was well worth my while. You know, you happen to be my favorite repeat offender."
Rose rolled her eyes.
"You're lucky you're mine, too."