Second Place

By Pamela Love

Life’s a marathon, and Derek Finley beat me to the finish line. His home health aide, Ms. Baxter, let me in. “He passed just as the clock struck noon,” she told me, lowering the sheet so I could see for myself.

Inwardly, I cursed. I’d heard the grandfather clock’s chimes while climbing the front steps. What does it say about me that I yearned to have the satisfaction of handcuffing a dying man?

Seeing my grimace, Ms. Baxter reassured me, “Mr. Finley didn’t suffer. He had such a peaceful expression on his face.”

Oh, I’ll just bet he did, Ms. Baxter. Why shouldn’t he feel peaceful, since now he’d permanently escaped punishment for any of the dozen museum heists he’d pulled off without ever being suspected—that is, until I’d been assigned to the case.

“He just drifted off to sleep watching TV and never woke up.”

Not a surprise, considering the bland local news that was on. Five more minutes about a warehouse zoning dispute and I’d pass out. I started to turn it off, then sucked in my breath. Underneath the remote was my name—Detective Fernanda Alves—on a business-sized envelope.

My heart beat faster as I opened it. A confession?

No such luck. Inside was a cheap ribbon, the generic kind bought in bulk. The thin gold printing on the scarlet faux-satin read, “Second Place.” Adequate to let the world know you’d lost, but that was it. Finley’s way of telling me he’d won, as if I couldn’t figure that out for myself. Gee, thanks.

Unless… This was almost a dying declaration, wasn’t it? He could’ve just written, “Ha, ha. You lost.”

“Ms. Baxter, have you ever seen this before?”

She blinked at the ribbon. “Why, no.”

“Did Mr. Finley have any other aides or visitors?”

“No, it’s just been me. We had food and things like that delivered.”

Hmm. I’d only been on the case for two months, which meant he’d had to obtain the ribbon himself, before he was too weak to leave his house at all. I’d bet it wasn’t something of his from childhood. From what I’d learned about Finley’s life, he wouldn’t have hung onto anything that didn’t represent victory. He rented a storage unit crammed full with every first-place award he’d ever received, from the Little League trophies won as his team’s star pitcher to the Employee of the Month plaques earned as a clerk in multiple museum gift shops. That craving for triumph was what led me to him in the first place.

I’d had a hunch the heists were an inside job, so in each museum where a theft occurred, I investigated the employees, looking for a common thread. I found it in the gift shops on their “Employee of the Month” wall of photos. Although a different name was listed, the same one face appeared in every location. At the thirteenth museum, I recognized him standing behind a cash register. I had a sudden need to purchase a wall calendar.

“Congratulation on making Employee of the Month.” I nodded toward his photo. Sagging against the counter, he scanned the bar code. A smile wavered against his sallow skin. “Thanks.”

“What’s your secret?” He blinked, and just for a second, his face turned ashier than before. So I added, “To winning the award, I mean.”

“Oh, I guess it’s just how I use my time.”

He spotted the gun inside my blazer. His pupils widened. “Excuse me.” He bolted toward the rest rooms. I should’ve followed, but honestly, he looked nauseated. After discovering his real name—Derek Finley—I’d finally tracked him down here, only to have him die before I could arrest him.

Since I already had the warrant, I called the precinct for backup in searching the house. Surprise, surprise, nothing. So disappointing when I’d hoped to locate a stolen masterpiece or two.

I pulled the ribbon from my pocket. With Finley dead, the only possible justice I could get for the victims would be finding their stolen art. He must have known that. Could this be some kind of clue? I flipped the ribbon over. Blank.

Okay, Alves, be a detective. “How did Mr. Finley spend his time? Besides watching TV, that is.”

“He liked crossword puzzles. He was doing one in ink just this morning.”

Crossword puzzles. Hmm. Okay, what would “red ribbon” mean if it were a crossword puzzle clue? Second place, or something like that, which didn’t help.

Ms. Baxter took out her phone. “Excuse me, Detective, but I should really call the funeral parlor now. Mr. Finley left instructions. But if you need to—”

“Just a second. I…” How he’d used time. I spun around to face the grandfather clock. “Second place!”

I opened the back of the clock while it ticked the seconds away. On a little shelf lay a key and a slip of paper with an address.

Turns out it was another storage unit. There I found the Picasso and Renoir from his last heist. The best “runner-up” prize ever.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

After graduating from Bucknell University, Pamela Love worked as a teacher and in marketing before turning to writing. Her science fiction and fantasy stories have appeared in Cricket, Beyond Centauri, and Spaceports & Spidersilk, among other magazines. Her fantasy novel, The Pegasus Potential, is available on Amazon and Smashwords. She is also working on a new fantasy novel.

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