Not because of an intense performance, a suave interview or the fit of a tailcoat; Alex Benedict's charm becomes a problem when a summer breeze comes in through the window.
(For Columbo there are only cold drafts — never breezes — but this is his terrain and the music plays his way: a dry Monday becomes a Sunday, a piano becomes a flute, and a man...)
"Are you telling me you just need a piano and the music sheet to picture how each instrument should sound? Terrific."
"Well, the piano was just to illustrate it to you, but thank you, lieutenant."
Alex's fingers run featherlight across the keys, tickling them without making the slightest sound, mirroring the tease on his face. For an instant Columbo forgets about the hard ivory and wonders about the expression piano hands. Trying to conclude something about it takes his gaze back to his own fingers, the cigar nothing but a short stub, and he realizes he has overextended his visit.
"Thank you for your time, maestro, and for explaining how you people work at the orchestra. I'm sure it will help us get a better hang on this case."
Once again, the breeze. Alex steps away from the white piano and closer to him, right hand out for a handshake, and Columbo takes it.
"It was a pleasure watching you play."
Piano hands: slender, long, skilled fingers burn against his skin for days after that.
