Title: The Case of the Poisoned Pumps
Fandom: Columbo
Rating: G
Length: 850 words
Content notes: Murder, Police Procedural, Sushi, Incorrect statements about Japanese culture
Author notes: prompt: prize; my first fan-flashworks submission
Summary: Lieutenant Columbo closes in on a poisoner



On the delicate porcelain plate lay transparent strips of some kind of fish, arranged into the shape of a butterfly. The server said something in Japanese as he set it down in front of Lieutenant Columbo. Then he bowed precisely and vanished.

“Uh, harry-gate-oh?” ventured Columbo awkwardly. He smiled sheepishly at his dining companion. “I’m trying to say thank you, but I don’t know Japanese,” he confessed. “What did he say?”

“The name of the dish,” said Mallory Bell, the dance company director. “Sashimi prepared from flounder. One of the head chef’s specialties.”

“Looks delish!” Then Columbo’s forehead wrinkled. “Hm, I’m missing a fork.”

“You use these,” said Bell, picking up his own pair of chopsticks.

“Chopsticks? Oh dear. I’m no good at that.”

“If you ask the waitress, perhaps she’d be willing to feed you,” said Bell, with a smirk.

Columbo ruffled his hair and ducked his head in embarrassment.

“So, you have found the murderer?“ asked Bell.

“Yes, sir. And a devious man he was. It was the red shoes, you see. They were poisoned.”

Bell arched an eyebrow. “Shoes? Poisoned?”

“Yes, sir. Very clever. According to the toxicologists, he used a very potent poison. Only a tiny amount can kill. And he put it into the footbed.

“Is this poison absorbed through the skin, then?”

“Yes. Only abraded skin. But he knew she suffered from that. Y’see, according to her medical records, she had a chronic case of athlete’s foot. And according to her colleagues, she never wore socks. She used to say that as a dancer, she wanted as few layers as possible between the Earth and the soles of her feet.”

“How well I remember,” said Bell. “Our Demi. What will we do without her?”

He picked up his small sake cup and sipped with a worried, mournful expression.

“But there’s one thing I don’t understand, Lieutenant,” he went on. “The shoes were a prize in a raffle. The killer wouldn’t have known which person would win the prize.”

“That was a stumper, I hafta admit, Mr Bell. I had only two theories to work with. One was that the killer didn’t care who wore the shoes. But the other theory...that one bore more fruit.”

“Oh?” said Bell, sitting very straight in his chair.

“I looked into the insurance policies your company holds. Turns out Demi Vaughan was insured for quite a sum, as your star performer.”

Columbo fixed Bell sternly with his one good eye, all awkwardness vanished now.

“You needed that insurance money, didn’t you, Mr Bell? More than you needed your Demi. She was getting on in years. Not the star draw she once was. But she refused to step aside for a younger performer.”

“Just what are you insinuating?” Bell snapped, his face flushing dark with anger.

“You masterminded Demi’s murder, Mr Bell. By putting poison in the red shoes and rigging the raffle to make sure she won that prize.”

Bell’s demeanor abruptly shifted from blustering to calculating. “A very interesting theory, Lieutenant. Proving it, however? That will be difficult.” He smiled smugly. “Shall we continue our meal?”

Columbo picked up the chopsticks resting next to his plate, handling them with more skill than he’d given himself credit for earlier. He used them to pluck up a delicate slice of the white fish. He started to bring it to his mouth, then suddenly stopped and let the morsel hover in the air between himself and the dance company director.

“I just remembered something I was told about Japan once. If you’re eating with someone you want to get to know better, you feed them the first bite of the meal, and vice versa. Can I feed you this sashimi?” In a surprisingly swift and dexterous gesture, he thrust the chopsticks holding the slice of fish at Bell’s mouth.

Bell scrambled out of his chair with a cry.

“No! Stop! Don’t put it in my mouth — it’s poison!”

Several police officers surrounded their table.

“The same poison you put in the red shoes?” asked Columbo quietly. “Tetradoxin. From fugu. Because this ain’t flounder after all, is it? They’re both white-fleshed, but that’s where the resemblance ends. Arrest him, officers. Charge him with the murder of Demi Vaughan.”

Another police officer came out of the kitchen, firmly holding the arm of a man in a chef’s uniform.

“And here’s the accomplice,” said Columbo. “Okuda Ryo. A trained preparer of fugu. He made the poison for you, in exchange for some of the insurance proceeds, because he needed money to expand his restaurant. But he was surprised and unhappy that you came to him and demanded he abet you in a second attempt at murder. Unhappy enough to come to the police about it, in fact.”

“Second murder?” asked one of the uniforms, once the entourage had left the restaurant. “Who, Lieutenant?”

“Me,” said Columbo. “It’s a good thing I hate fish.” He mussed his hair, sighed with relief, and took from the pocket of his raincoat a matchbook and the much-chewed stub of a stogie. He’d been craving a smoke all evening.