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CHAPTER ONE

I had no plans to become a widow at the tender age of twenty-four.

I also had no plans to own a tea shop on a sleepy South Carolina island, but I’ve discovered life doesn’t give two figs about my plans. Life on Grimm Island taught me that lesson. Here, the oak trees drip with Spanish moss and secrets hang just as heavy in the humid air.

The Perfect Steep—my tea shop and little kingdom of mismatched chairs and vintage tea pots—sat on the corner of Harbor and Lighthouse.

From the outside, it was Grimm Island gentility personified—soft blue paint with crisp white trim, black shutters, and a sweeping wraparound porch where two rocking chairs waited patiently as if ready for Southern hospitality itself.

Inside was a different story entirely. Inside was pure me.

My name is Mabel McCoy, and I’d done a good job of pretending to be gentility personified since my husband died ten years ago. But I’d noticed lately there were times when I was starting to feel a bit frayed around the edges, and I wondered how long it would be before people started to notice.

My tea shop was what I affectionately called organized chaos with a tea obsession, a phrase that would have made Patrick smile if he’d lived to see it.

Shiplap walls that should have been pristine white were instead painted a pale yellow on one wall, mint green on another, and a soft lavender on the third—the result of my inability to choose just one color and my stubborn refusal to start over once I’d begun.

The heart pine floors creaked like they were telling secrets, especially in the three spots by the register that I’d learned to hop over during busy hours.

Ceiling fans with blades shaped like giant leaves spun lazily overhead, stirring the air that always smelled of whatever tea blend I was experimenting with that day. Today it was something with bergamot and cinnamon that made the whole place smell like Christmas morning, even in the middle of May.

I glanced at the hideous cherub clock on the wall—a wedding gift from Patrick’s grandmother that I couldn’t bring myself to take down despite its beady-eyed stare.

Five thirty. The afternoon crowd had thinned out, and I had about thirty minutes before the Silver Sleuths would arrive for their monthly book club meeting.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and smoothed back a stray blond curl.

At least the island’s humidity was good for something—my vintage waves actually seemed to like it.

I reapplied my red lipstick, the one bit of glamour I never skipped, and hummed along with Frank Sinatra as he sang “I Get a Kick Out of You” through the speakers.

I’d just finished boxing up a special tea blend to deliver to Mrs. Pembroke when the bell above the door jingled. Deputy Mark Reynolds strolled in, his uniform crisp despite the late hour, that easy smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Just in time,” I said. “It’s almost closing time.”

“My timing’s always been impeccable,” he replied, removing his hat. His rust-colored hair had gone silver at the temples since I’d known him, but his pale blue eyes still held that same kindness they had since I’d been a kid. “Got any of that cinnamon tea left? Been a day.”

“For you? Always.” I turned to prepare his usual as he settled onto his regular stool at the counter. “Rough shift?”

Reynolds sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Milton left us a mess to clean up. This new sheriff’s asking a lot of questions and digging through files none of us even knew existed.”

“And that’s a problem?” I asked, sliding his to-go tea across the counter.

“Can’t say I blame him,” he said. “But it’s just stirring up the past. Sheriff Milton did a lot of damage and people are hurting.

He even went through the case files from when those three girls went missing.

That might have been before you were born.

But those girls’ families still live on the island.

No need to dredge it all up and put them through that again.

Some things are better left buried, if you ask me. ”

He took a sip of tea and closed his eyes in appreciation. “Perfect as always, Mabel. Don’t know what I’d do without my evening fix.”

I smiled. Reactions like his to my teas were my favorite part of the job. It might seem boring by most people’s standards, but I didn’t need much. I considered myself a simple, easygoing woman.

“So how’s the new sheriff working out?” I asked, wiping down the counter.

“Beckett?” Reynolds shrugged. “By the book. Bit of an outsider, but seems decent enough. Time will tell if he sticks around.” He glanced at his watch. “Guess my break is over. You closing up for your book club tonight?”

“How did you know about that?” I asked, though I wasn’t really surprised. Nothing stayed secret on Grimm Island for long.

He tapped the side of his nose and said, “Hey, I’m a cop. I know things.” He finished his tea and slid a five-dollar bill across the counter.

“On the house,” I told him.

He put the five in the tip jar anyway and gave me a wink. “See you tomorrow.”

As the door chimed behind him, I went to clear china cups from a corner table, wiping it down and giving my last customer a side-eye because he’d been sitting there for three hours and kept filling up his teacup with whatever was in the thermos he’d brought from home.

I was getting ready to shoo him along when he hurriedly shoved his things in his bag and hurried out the door.

“Rude,” I said, cleaning up his mess. “Almost time, Chowder,” I said to my French bulldog, who was sprawled across the window seat, his wrinkled face looking particularly judgmental today. “The Silver Sleuths will be here soon.”

Chowder snorted and rolled onto his back, his stubby legs in the air.

“I’ll take that as excitement. Just try not to con Walt out of all his treats this time. You know what the vet said about your cholesterol.”

I wiped down the large round table by the front window—the Silver Sleuths’ preferred spot for their meetings.

They liked to see and be seen, a requirement for five seniors who considered people-watching a competitive sport.

I’d arranged six chairs around it, knowing that somehow they’d rope me into joining, despite my protests.

I gave my sea-green dress a final smoothing. It was vintage, with those puffed sleeves I loved, and paired perfectly with the pearl pendant Patrick had given me on our first anniversary.

Frank’s crooning faded, and Ella and Louis came on, deciding whether or not they could be friends as they debated the correct pronunciation of the word tomato. Chowder gave a soft woof and rolled to his side so he could look at passersby out the window.

“I agree,” I told him. “I could never fall in love with someone who says tamahto. A bit too pretentious for my taste.”

Chowder woofed again in agreement. There were some moments when Chowder and I were in perfect accord.

I’d just finished arranging a fresh bouquet of flowers in the center of the table when the bell above the door chimed again.

“Do I smell lemon scones?” Deidre Whitmore called as she bustled in, fifteen minutes early as usual.

Her silver hair was secured in a haphazard bun with what appeared to be a pencil, wayward curls flying in all directions.

She carried an enormous tote bag, and I knew it was filled with books and enough butterscotch candies to survive an apocalypse.

“Fresh out of the oven,” I confirmed, smiling despite myself.

Ms. Whitmore had been Grimm Island’s librarian for most of my life—a woman who had seemed positively ancient when I’d been a kid—only to finally retire a few years ago.

Somehow, she looked exactly the same as she had twenty years earlier.

I still couldn’t quite shake the feeling that I should whisper in her presence.

I also had trouble remembering to call her Deidre instead of Ms. Whitmore.

“Wonderful! I brought some of my lavender shortbread to share,” she said, extracting a tin from her bag. “The recipe’s from 1897. Found it in the historical society archives.”

I smiled and took the tin from her. “You know you don’t have to bring food, Ms. Whitmore. This is a tea shop. I’m happy to provide all the refreshments.”

“Call me Deidre, dear,” she reminded me for what had to be the hundredth time.

Her bright red culottes were a blur as she made her way to the prepared table.

She untied her red-and-white striped sweater from around her shoulders and put it on the back of her preferred chair to save her spot.

“And nonsense. It’s a book club, and book clubs have potlucks. ”

The bell jingled again, and Walt Garrison marched in with military precision, followed closely by Dottie Simmons and Hank Hardeman.

“Five forty-two,” Walt announced, consulting his ancient waterproof watch. He wore pressed navy slacks with sharp creases, a matching windbreaker, and the thick-soled shoes his orthopedist insisted he wear for fallen arches. “Right on schedule.”

“We’re early, Walt,” Dottie corrected, adjusting her green cat-eye glasses. “The meeting doesn’t start until six.”

“Early is on time, on time is late,” Walt replied with the air of someone who had been saying the same thing for at least seventy years.

“And late is unacceptable,” Hank finished with a sigh. “We know, Walt. We’ve known since 1972.”

Hank had spent a good part of his career as a federal judge and had finally retired a few years ago at his wife’s urging.

He was a no-nonsense sort of man, but he’d taken to wearing shorts since his retirement, showing off knobby knees and the black dress socks he wore pulled up to the middle of his shins.

“Where’s Bea?” I asked, noting the missing member of their quintet.

“Picking up Mr. Whiskers from the groomer,” Dottie explained. “That cat gets more salon appointments than I do.” She patted her freshly cut bob that had been dyed the jet black of her youth.