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Carsini watched his 1938 Nebbiolo sail through the air before disappearing beneath the precipice of the cliff. He didn’t even hear it shatter, not with the crashing waves. Not even that as a recompense. He looked at the basket sitting by his feet- empty.
He found Columbo among the other baskets on the trunk of his car. The lieutenant had been sitting under the sun studying a bottle of wine on his lap. He painted a pretty picture– the detective on a picnic, a beige sun-kissed man enveloped in the greens of the cliffs. He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding– was that fear? It would have been easier to admire the sight had he not known that he was utterly, absolutely fucked. When their eyes met, he simply smiled in greeting.
“They were all ruined, weren’t they?”
Or rather, Columbo had found him.
“These are just some inferior wines that I,” Carsini huffed, clambering up the hill, “I was trying to…”
“Château d'Issan 1938- inferior?”
“Well… A great label doesn’t always denote a great wine.” His face had been red from exertion, from crossing the incline, and from being hopelessly cornered.
“Thursday the 20th.” Columbo looked at him with a tilt in his neck, all conclusions and glittering eye, and it was as if he had relieved the heat in his face with a chilled pinot grigio. “That’s what did it, sir.”
He elaborated. On that fateful Thursday, the temperature had been 109 degrees. It had crept into the building at a 150 and boiled his most precious possessions- and Ric- to death. All of it gone because of something so fickle as the Californian sun. Despite the nebulous nature of Carsini’s ruin, he couldn’t bring himself to shake his fist at the heavens. He chanced a glance at the sky as Columbo went on. Perhaps it was the heat, too– he was more exhausted than anything else.
“I figured you’d have to get around disposing of the wine sooner or later,” he finished.
There was something too methodical about Columbo’s phrasing. He was right, of course: here was Carsini, taking shots at the sea with some unimaginably expensive vintages. But to be but a point in his explanation, the last threaded thumbtack in a sequence of events…
Something must have shown on his face, because the lieutenant shook his head sympathetically. He had been squinting at him pointedly, but now there was a tenderness to the crease beneath his eyes. “It must be killing you to throw all this stuff away.”
Carsini blinked. It was pointless now, but the sentiment made him feel a bit better. “Yeah, you have no idea what it’s like.”
A pause. He examined the lapel of his suit, and looked back at Columbo, his crumpled coat, his billowing head of hair. He had grown fond of this man, against his best interests- but he had underestimated him too, and it cost him everything. Ric was never shy about letting him know that he was full of himself, and to some degree he knew he was right. In his mind, he was the smartest man in the room. He operated a great winery, he travelled a great deal to speak about wine, he entertained fellow socialites with his discerning palate. He knew he was smart. But this man, with all his artless simplicities and poorer sensibilities, had outwitted him, and it felt… peculiar.
“How did you know?”
“How did I know? Well, sir… Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Well, now...” But he had taken out a cigar and lit it before he had finished mumbling an answer. Nasty thing, but it looked fitting between his lips.
“I did a terrible thing, sir,” prefaced Columbo.
And then he himself confessed. That on the day he visited his vault, he had cleverly insisted that nobody could escape if one had locked themselves in. That when Carsini proved his point by closing him in, he committed a crime of his own and stole a bottle of port.
“Ferrier vintage port. 1945,” he said, a bit of a proud smile on his face. It was charming.
So the wine that he had derided so publicly as liquid filth was his own. The wine steward knew this from the get-go. Carsini had simply been the one to put the final nail in his coffin. He stared in disbelief– and at last, against his better judgement, laughed.
He was the wine guy, of course. So to witness the lieutenant turn it around on him, lay his misdeeds all bare on the table so neatly… Columbo was smart. It didn’t even hurt to admit– it was thrilling to watch him work. And beyond work, it was pleasant to spend time with him. Downright foolish to keep the lieutenant in his office, speak to him about wine, desire to know his thoughts about his claret, but he had done it anyways and enjoyed every second of it. He could only hope that Columbo felt the same way. Carsini wondered if he looked and sounded like the lieutenant whenever he would go on another of his spiels about wine. He hoped so. He could have fallen in love with that brain and passion of his.
“That’s ironic,” Carsini observed.
“Sir?”
“I’m probably one of the few men in the world who could have told you that that wine was spoiled and– and told you it was because it was overheated.”
“Yes.” Columbo fiddled, seemingly almost apologetic, with his matchbox. “It required a very delicate palate.”
He stooped down to pick up the empty basket that Carsini carried with him, and put it back in the car. The nonchalance of it struck him as odd.
“A hundred and… nine degrees? Is that some kind of a record for that day in the year?”
“No, sir,” he replied, and produced a notebook from his coat pocket.
He couldn’t help but chuckle. Of course the detective kept a record of the weather in his little notebook. Couldn’t let him have this little win either. Bumbling and scruffy, but meticulous. Charming.
“It hit 111 in 1938 and 111 in 1870. The weather bureau doesn’t keep records before then.”
“That’s a pity. I would have liked it to be a record. Shall we go?”
He began rounding his car, but Columbo stopped him. “Uh, we’ll take my car, sir, it’s parked right around the corner. I’ll send somebody to pick up yours.”
The walk wasn’t long. Carsini wasn’t sure if he preferred it that way– he was going to prison, after all. As they walked the grassy knoll, Columbo asked, “Do I get a confession, sir?”
“Oh, yes, I’ll confess,” he replied simply, “there’s no remorse attached to it. It’s a great weight off my mind, as a matter of fact.”
“Why is that?”
They arrived at the detective’s dinky grey car. Carsini had seen it when he sent his off to a valet. It reminded him of the detective– small, worn down, reeked of tobacco, and miraculously able. He’d raised a brow at the sight of it. Columbo reached over and opened the door for him.
“Well, you see,” Carsini started, brows creasing at the memory, “Karen had guessed the truth. She was turning with thumbscrews on me– she’s, uh, quite a little iron maiden, that lady.”
He stood in front of the passenger seat, hand on the roof, and looked out towards the sea. It was a beautiful, cloudless day. If there were any bottles that didn’t shatter, perhaps they had floated further off. That didn’t sound so bad a fate.
He thought about Karen and her ultimatum. Maybe he was a fool not to accept. There was nothing wrong with Karen. Quite the opposite, in fact: she fit the criteria for everything a woman that a man would want should be. She had a bit of an edge to her, but she was dutiful and efficient. She was willing to stick her neck out for a man who had killed his brother in a fit of rage, and she was proactive in her actions. He conjured an image of Karen in the mind’s eye: a slender, austere woman with a tight auburn hair and an angularity about her, wrapped up in smart cardigans. She seemed rather beautiful. An attraction would have been the logical conclusion after the better part of twelve years, but the thought of it frightened him instead.
Maybe the proposition could have saved him. But seeing Columbo sat on the trunk of his car, he realized that it wasn’t fear that he had felt earlier. It was relief. He caught him. Oh, thank God, he caught him.
Maybe there was something wrong with Carsini. The beginning of a laugh escaped his lips.
“I guess freedom is purely relative.”
Finally, he entered the passenger seat of Columbo’s car and shut the door.
________
The sun had disappeared from the dim blue sky when they arrived at his winery. Carsini should have been in prison, getting processed. But he had asked Columbo to drive him to his winery one last time, and the detective obliged.
The winery wasn’t his anymore, but it didn’t feel that way. This was, perhaps, denial– and wasn’t that a part of grief? Funny, he hadn’t felt any sort of regret or sadness towards his brother’s death. But looking at the front of the building, its red brick painted grey by dusk, grapes drooping low from its dew-burdened branches… it may be the last time he would ever see his winery. The love of his life, his passion project.
It was grief, he realized.
“Who’s going to look after this, the… the grapes, and the plant?”
Columbo’s answer was frank, but gentle. “It’ll go on, sir.”
“It’s the only place in my entire life where I was ever really happy.”
Carsini sat stiffly in his stuffy chair and gave nothing in particular a thousand yard stare. He would be in prison for ten, twenty years. It didn’t carry the permanence of death, but it was long enough. And when he would return, it wouldn’t be the same. Perhaps the Marino brothers would snatch up the place and use his stills to create cheap carbonated garbage. His stomach roiled in disgust. A self-fulfilling prophecy…
“I took the liberty of bringing along a surprise,” came Columbo’s voice next to him.
The rumpled detective was reaching for something in the backseat, and he looked quite satisfied with himself. Then he fished out a round, slender-necked bottle stoppered with cork– a chianti bottle. Carsini’s eyes lit up as he read the label.
“Montefiascone.” The old eagerness rushed back to him, and he was back in New York, impressing– educating a crowd of socialites. He removed the cork and brought it to his nose. Tart green apple and citrus– with a note of white flower. “That’s an excellent dessert wine.”
“I was hoping you’d like it.” But here, it was just Lieutenant Columbo.
He found that he liked him just as well.
“It’s very suitable for the final course.”
Columbo poured them both a glass, and as he took his, he peered into it. Montefiascone was a sublime choice, and it swelled his heart to think that the beer-swilling detective could genuinely guess this. Nicking an old bottle from his cellar was one thing, but this was something else.
“You’ve learned very well, lieutenant,” Carsini said with a hint of pride.
He found that Columbo had been leaning close with one arm propped on the headrest when he turned to look. “Thank you, sir. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
They raised their glasses together. Carsini decided that that was not the worst toast he’s ever had to make. And the wine was just fine– the taste danced citrusy and acidic on the tongue, punctuated with savory notes. It would be perfect with some cheese. They had drunken a good part of the bottle- or rather, Columbo had- before Carsini asked a question.
“What do you think?”
“Refreshing. It’s terrific,” answered Columbo.
“Really,” he laughed, peering at the detective over the rim of his glass. “Where is the nuance from last time? The notes and the vinosity?”
“Sorry, sir, I’ve had a bit much to drink, and let me tell you– I don’t play well with wine,” Columbo said with a chuckle. “Told you, I’m more of a beer-guy. Couldn’t describe you left from right.”
Carsini leaned a touch closer and hummed. “I’m going to prison soon, detective. Indulge me.”
“Hm. Oranges, definitely.” Columbo raised his glass and found it empty. He smacked his lips a few times, and an inquisitive squint crossed his face. “You’re going to prison now, so this is more of a thought experiment, if you will. But if you accepted that Karen’s proposition– hypothetically– she could have corroborated your story. And maybe things could have turned up, regardless of the ball-and-chain."
“And the guard at the front would have discounted it anyways,” he quickly countered. “You know this already.”
“It would have been worth a shot, don’t you think?” A shrug.
“Lieutenant, ever since my scoundrel brother died, I’ve been nothing but mistakes left and right. I’m not cut out to be a killer.” Carsini examined the pale golden liquid in the chianti, suddenly sober. “I think it was inevitable that I would come to sit here, next to you. This line of questioning is an exercise in pedantism.”
“You’re right, sorry. Didn’t mean to split hairs– I’m a bit of a bloodhound when it comes to details. It’s just that, you know, most men wouldn’t have turned it down. She handed you a lifeboat.” Columbo turned away and for the first time, he looked bashful.
“Then in that case, I’m not like most men.” Carsini shifted in his seat and studied the detective. His eyes crinkled with something– investigative interest, perhaps, but with none of the scrutiny. Soft lines bordered his lopsided smile. His face took on a lively red flush. No wonder he was sitting so close, too– the man was tipsy, and his thin understanding of personal space seemed to disappear further. Carsini did not make an attempt to move away. He turned the woven bottle in his hands, eyes scanning for nothing in particular.
“That’s a weird name for a wine,” Columbo remarked with a huff. His cheek was half-pressed against his shoulder. “You think the exclamation points are part of the official title too? Trademark and all?”
Carsini snorted and rooted the base of the montefiascone snug between his legs. “Weird it may be, lieutenant, there is some interesting lore to be found in it. Do you know what language it is?”
“Oh, I could hardly speak even Italian! This is more Jerry’s speed. That’s my nephew, he’s a linguist.”
“Well, this Jerry should be able to tell me that this is Latin.” He had grown used to his enigmatic, winding mentions of his family. He was never going to know if they were indeed true. He slid a thumb over the wine wrapper and glanced at Columbo. “Latin for ‘it is’.”
“What is?”
That same curious squint. Karen had told him once that he had a penchant of prattling on. Columbo must have picked up on that, but now, there should have been hardly any use entertaining his tendencies. He remembered how much fun he had sitting him down in his office during a murder investigation and talking wine history– and Columbo's prodding smile– and he could hardly contain himself.
“Legend has it that in the year 1111, the King of Germany, Henry V, travelled to Rome to attend his coronation. He was to be crowned the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire."
A plunging whistle. “No kidding. Exactly that year?"
"It's a satisfying number, yes. Among his entourage was a bishop named Johan Fugger, a fellow whose pursuits were less political and more hedonistic. And the bishop had himself his own flock of servants. He would send them ahead of him to scout ahead for the inns that served the most sumptuous wines. These would be marked with 'est', to say: 'this is it'," explained Carsini, falling back into his old flourishes.
"Why, I’d go ahead and pick an establishment blind. I wouldn’t have the money to pay scouts anyhow. And it’s more fun that way. Little surprises and all. Oh, but surely this Johan fella had his pick of the litter?”
"Of course. Any bon vivant has his favorite vice, a poison of choice. An inn in the coastal town of Montefiascone would receive the highest distinction. So taken was this servant by the wine that he would write not one, but three ests on its door. A declaration thrice repeated. I suppose he must not have had much wines in his life– it’s not one of my favorites, but it’s quite thematic for the occasion.”
“Huh.” Columbo reached for the bottle between Carsini’s legs and tilted it to get a better look at the label. “Yeah, three ests, alright. Fanciful stuff for some alcohol, but with wine, y’know, I suppose it’s gotta be like that. Not that I doubt you or anything, but you think the story’s true?
The detective was too close, far too close, hand by a place where it shouldn’t be, head against his arm. He had to be doing this on purpose. Carsini put a tentative hand on his thigh, disguised as an attempt to right himself on his chair.. “Does it matter? You’re a bit of a malignant fibber yourself.”
He looked at the hand on his thigh then up at him, and Carsini found himself looking at his infuriating grin. Columbo knew. Of course he knew. “Oh yeah, I’ve been called all sorts of things. Some people find it funny– or charming. My wife does. I think you do.”
Carsini cleared his throat, suddenly flustered. “You didn’t answer, lieutenant. Indulge me, for old time’s sake: montefiascone, what do you think?”
“Well–” he leaned a touch closer, and took a whiff of the gap between his nose and Carsini’s mouth. “The bouquet is fruity. I did say orange. Got a bit of flower too, but I can’t quite tell.”
Carsini’s breath hitched in his throat. His nose, more adept at picking scents, could pick out the bouquet of montefiascone– but it was a footnote behind the smell of Columbo’s cigars, his breath on his nose as he spoke.
Twelve years he had known Karen, the perfect woman. But he had never been quite as attracted to anyone as he was now, sitting in the shitty passenger seat of a salaryman detective’s dying car. It was horrifying. It was stimulating.
“And the taste– the body?”
“Oh, that's…”
And the detective leaned in fully, lips pressing against lips. Carsini froze. He had kissed women before. They were alright, not quite as rich as his wines. He didn’t quite know what to do. This was his arresting officer. This was a man. He tasted just like he thought a man would-- acidic, like a sharp wine– pungently sour, from the cigars– a strange, disagreeable taste. And there it was: the wine on his tongue. His palate stung from the tastes and sensations. The kiss was chaste for the entirety of a second or so, then he felt Columbo’s tongue push. He sighed at the motion and met him halfway.
His hands found the collar of his wrinkled coat and he pulled him further in. Columbo balanced himself through the motion, one arm wrapping around Carsini’s headrest, and the other on his leg. Rough stubble crashed against his face. The kiss got greedy, hot– one would need a palate cleanser before sampling wine further, but there wasn’t much on hand but montefiascone and more of each other’s mouths. The bottle had disappeared, wedged somewhere by Carsini’s seat.
The body was good. His body was good.
Then Columbo pulled away, eyes lidded and face red. He combed a hand over his ruffled hair and smacked his lips again. “Um, light-bodied. Tasted like apples, kind of acidic. I’d say it was complex.”
Columbo, to his credit, was not wrong in his description.
Carsini had been fixing himself, straightening his tie and smoothing back his hair. He cleared his throat, peering around the winery, and remarked with an incredible nonchalance: “Interesting. A shame we can’t have any more wine-tastings, detective.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, and when the heat between them had evaporated considerably, Carsini spoke up again. “Thank you for indulging me, lieutenant. Taking me to the winery one last time, I mean. It’s an unnecessary kindness.”
“In my line of work, I find that kindness is in short supply. You take what you can get.”
He wondered if Columbo meant his words. Then, thinking about it further, he wondered if he meant anything. He had known him for all of two weeks as a lieutenant, nevermind his first name. The possibility that he had been taken advantage of somehow occurred to him Carsini was, after all, just another case ready to be stamped away into a drab file cabinet. Typed there would be his personal information, his charge, perhaps his sentence. But not the montefiascone he shared with the lieutenant, nor the kiss to taste.
Whatever the case, he was satisfied.
Columbo put his hand on the steering wheel, looked at the winery, and back at him. “You said goodbye?”
He gave the winery a long, solemn look, committing it to memory.
“Yes. I’m done, I think.”