Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 48, No. 1, January 2003

There was a fuzziness on the picture. I said, feeling my way, “Sadd, granted it was ghastly, really ghastly, but it was an accident.”

“True.”

“Looking back on it, doesn’t her reaction seem to you a bit of an overkill?”

His eyebrows went up. “How so?”

“Is it possible that she had heard about the trouble with the restaurant and this was a chance to get out?”

Wrong guess; Sadd flared. “If you knew this girl — and you will shortly — you’d never say that.”

Oh, dear. Elderly gentlemen and sweet young things; you can’t win. I said, “What do you mean I’ll meet her shortly?”

“Come with me.” He walked into the house and I followed. He said, “Let me play that phone message for you. I know what it is.”

He punched a button and a nice male voice said, “Sadd, this is Malcom. Five o’clock is fine with Sophie and me. We’ll expect you.”

Sadd looked at his watch. “It’s only ten minutes from here. Would you mind waiting on supper? Are you hungry?”

“No. Why exactly are we going?”

“So you can hear about the mystery. I’ve mentioned your sleuthing skills.”

“Oh, please.” I hate that expression. “And if the mystery is why Sophie acted quixotically, well, I’ve already given you my guess, which you rejected, and I can’t think of another.”

“That’s not the mystery.” Sadd reached for his car keys. “The real one only developed a few days ago.” He looked smug. “Are you ready for it? The ring has surfaced.”

I gasped. “At that same beach?”

“No. At an estate sale in New York City.”

We drove along the road that bordered the gulf, Christmas lights beginning to glow from trees and windows. Sadd held forth at length on the superior merits of the clam chowder he had made that morning and which awaited us for supper. I half listened, looking out at the deep green of the balmy Florida pre-twilight.

I said, “How rotten for someone to find the ring and not return it.

“Clara, we’re talking about something that happened three years ago. The thing could have been found last week by some tourist from Kansas having fun with a detector.” He slowed at a corner.

“Yes...” I reconsidered. “Or by someone on the beach that day but not at the wedding who heard the hubbub and joined in the search. Finders keepers, I suppose. Where is the ring now?”

“I believe it reposes on Sophie’s finger.”

“What? How did it get there?”

“I don’t know any more about it than you do. Presumably, that’s what we’re about to find out.”

We had turned away from the gulf onto a street bordering on a canal with glimpses of masts and davits. It was a cul-de-sac and we slowed at the middle house on the circle, a pretty yellow one with a front porch and almost a New England look. A tall, very thin, elderly man was fastening a wreath to the front door. He turned brandishing the hammer in a wave as the door opened and a young woman stood there laughing and reaching for the hammer.

“Don’t brain me, Gramps. Hi, Mr. Saddlier.”

Petite, short dark hair, pretty as pie — a pixie in a sweat suit. She came down the porch steps, her arms out to Sadd. As she hugged him, sure enough a gorgeous ring glowed on the middle finger of her right hand, which she now held out to me.

I simply said, “You’re Sophie, and this is the ring.”

She smiled. “And you’re Mrs. Gamadge and you find out about things.”

I began to protest this blithe assumption, but Malcom came down the steps and was introduced. We started into the house and I asked if we could sit on the porch. “It’s so lovely out here and I have to go back to New York weather.” Everybody commiserated and agreed the porch would be fine. Wicker chairs were dragged forward and Sadd sat down on the top step, saying he liked to feel that railing post against his back. Then, bless him, he said at once, “Malcom, we’re wild with curiosity. When did you first learn that the ring had been recovered?”

“A week ago.” The frail old man sat forward, clasping his granddaughter’s hand as she perched on the arm of his chair; the ring gleamed between their fingers. “I have an old friend who owns an antique shop on Madison Avenue. He’s visited me here a number of times and has seen the ring and always admired it. Well, it seems that he went to a dealer’s presale at a mansion up on Riverside Drive and was stunned to see the ring. He couldn’t believe I’d parted with it and checked the inscription to be sure. Then he called me to ask if it had been stolen. I told him to get it at any price and I’d explain later. Sophie was here when he called—”

“—and we were bawling and hugging each other—” from Sophie.

“—and she flew to New York the next day—” Malcom put the ring hand to his cheek. “—and it’s like a miracle, isn’t it?”

It certainly was and Sadd and I made appropriate sounds of wonder and congratulations.

“Have you been able to find out where the ring spent the time between the sand in Florida and the sale in New York?” I asked.

“No, and we’re not going to try,” said Sophie. “I don’t want Gramps getting all het-up trying to investigate. We have the ring back and that’s all that matters.”