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CHAPTER NINE

The drive to Charleston was pleasant enough, though my nerves made it difficult to appreciate the verdant marsh views as we crossed the causeway connecting Grimm Island to the mainland.

My vintage Karmann Ghia hummed contentedly along the highway while Hank sat beside me, his panama hat perfectly positioned on his silver hair, dressed in a seersucker suit that practically screamed retired federal judge.

“You’re grinding the gears, Mabel,” he commented mildly as I downshifted with perhaps more force than necessary. “This old girl deserves better treatment.”

My hands tightened on the steering wheel as we drove through the congested streets. “I feel like I should have practiced an interrogation technique or two. My experience is limited to asking customers if they’d like another scone.”

“This isn’t an interrogation,” Hank said, his voice carrying the measured tone that had likely calmed countless courtrooms. “It’s a conversation with a potentially valuable witness.”

“A conversation about a thirty-year-old murder that was covered up by half the island’s power players,” I pointed out. “Hardly afternoon tea.”

Hank’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “In my experience, the most effective legal strategy is often just good conversation paired with careful listening. Save the dramatic table-pounding for television courtrooms.”

“Is that what made you such a feared judge? Your conversation skills?”

“That,” Hank replied with a hint of a smile, “and an unerring ability to spot a liar at twenty paces. Forty-three years on the bench, you learn to be precise with language.” He glanced at me.

“Besides, we have no evidence connecting Brooks to Elizabeth’s death.

Just what we assume is his initial in her diary. ”

I nodded, focusing on the road ahead as Spanish moss-draped oak trees gave way to the outskirts of Charleston. The morning sun glinted off the Cooper River as we crossed the bridge into the historic downtown.

“Take King Street,” Hank directed. “Brooks’ office is in that fancy new building near Marion Square. The one that looks like a glass spaceship landed on top of a brick warehouse.”

“I know the one,” I said, maneuvering through the increasingly congested streets. Charleston always felt like stepping into another century—until you hit traffic. Then it felt like being trapped in purgatory with tourists wielding selfie sticks.

As we drove, I snuck glances at Hank, realizing how little I knew about him despite all the years he’d been coming to my tea shop. Judge Henry “Hank” Hardeman was something of a legend in South Carolina legal circles, but he rarely spoke about his career or personal life.

“How well do you actually know Jason Brooks?” I asked, breaking the companionable silence.

Hank’s expression grew thoughtful, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Well enough to know his reputation. Smart man. Ambitious. Always calibrating which way the wind was blowing before he’d offer an opinion.”

“That doesn’t sound like someone who’d risk his career to help a college student investigating corruption.”

“People are rarely all one thing, Mabel,” Hank said, adjusting his cuff links—sterling silver scales of justice that had been a retirement gift from his clerks. “Brooks was different back then. Younger, more idealistic. Sometimes the years sand down our sharp edges, make us more accommodating.”

There was something in his tone that suggested personal experience, and I found myself curious about the man behind the judicial facade.

“Is that what happened to you?” I asked, unable to stop myself. “Did you become more accommodating with age?”

Hank barked out a laugh that filled the small car. “Good Lord, no. Just ask anyone who’s known me longer than a decade. I’ve only grown more obstinate with time.”

I smiled, thinking of the stern but fair-minded man who’d been a fixture at my tea shop for years. “Eleanor always said you were stubborn as an old mule,” I remarked, remembering his late wife fondly. She’d been a regular at my shop in its early days.

A shadow crossed Hank’s face at the mention of her name. “She would know better than anyone.”

“I still miss seeing her at the shop,” I said quietly. “Her book club was one of my first regular gatherings.”

“Forty-four years we were married,” he said, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “She was my third time at the altar, you know.”

“Third?” I couldn’t hide my surprise. Growing up on Grimm Island, I’d only ever known Hank with Eleanor. The idea that he’d had a life—marriages, even—before moving to the island was strangely jarring.

“Most folks on the island only know us from after I was appointed to the federal bench,” he said, seeming to read my thoughts.

“But I was a practicing attorney in Charleston for years before that. Eleanor and I bought our weekend house here on Grimm Island in ’76, but I commuted to Charleston until my appointment in ’83. That’s when we moved here permanently.”

“So you had a previous life?” I prompted, intrigued by this new side of someone I thought I knew well.

“First was Catherine,” he said, a nostalgic smile playing at his lips. “College sweetheart. Married right after law school when I was twenty-five. Lasted less than two years. She wanted a husband who came home for dinner. I wanted to change the world one case at a time.”

“Then came Vivian,” he continued, gazing out the window at the historic homes we passed.

“Brilliant attorney. We met while I was clerking for a judge and she was working at the DA’s office.

Another brief experiment—all passion mixed with the excitement of law—a year of working together, living together, fighting together. We burned too bright too fast.”

“That sounds contentious,” I observed, turning onto Meeting Street.

“Most civilized divorce in Charleston history,” Hank replied. “We drafted the agreement over a bottle of Macallan 25 and parted as friends. She’s a state supreme court justice now.”

“I had no idea,” I said, reconciling this new information with the Hank Hardeman I thought I’d known all my life. “You never mentioned them.”

“Grimm Island knows me as the man I became with Eleanor,” he said simply.

“We met when I was thirty, and suddenly I understood what marriage was supposed to be. After she got sick with cancer, I finally retired from the bench. She’d been after me to do it for years.

” His voice caught slightly. “Wish I’d done it sooner, spent more time with her. ”

I knew those feelings of regret all too well.

Patrick had been thirty-six, in the prime of his life and healthy.

We were ready to start a family. And then all of a sudden, he was gone.

He’d had a massive heart attack on the ninth hole of the golf course at the country club. I’d been told he’d died instantly.

“She was the one who taught me to appreciate tea,” Hank added, his eyes distant with memory. “Always said coffee was for lawyers in a hurry, but tea was for judges who needed to contemplate the weight of their decisions.”

That explained his loyalty to my tea shop, I realized. It wasn’t just about the Silver Sleuths or the scones—it was a connection to Eleanor.

As we crossed the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge, Charleston’s skyline came into view—a mixture of church steeples, historic buildings, and modern glass towers rising against the blue harbor backdrop.

The city where Hank had begun his career was now our destination to uncover more pieces of Elizabeth Calvert’s story.

“There it is,” Hank said, gesturing toward a striking building where traditional brick met contemporary glass. “Brooks’ office is on the twelfth floor of that architectural identity crisis ahead. Park in the garage around back. I called ahead—he’s expecting us at eleven.”

I navigated into the parking garage and found a spot close to the elevators so Hank wouldn’t have to walk so far.

“Ready?” Hank asked as I shut off the engine.

“As I’ll ever be,” I said, reaching for my vintage leather satchel. Inside was a notebook, Elizabeth’s diary (the copy, not the original), and copies of the ledger pages we’d found in the lighthouse.

I caught my reflection in the mirrored doors of the elevator—navy linen dress with white piping, matching navy heels, and my hair pinned back with vintage barrettes.

We took the elevator to the twelfth floor, where Brooks, Holloway & Winters occupied a corner suite with sweeping views of the Charleston harbor.

The reception area screamed old money and new technology—heart pine floors and exposed brick walls contrasting with sleek glass partitions and modern art.

The receptionist, a polished young woman in a perfectly tailored designer suit, smiled with practiced warmth. “Judge Hardeman? Mr. Brooks is expecting you. May I offer you coffee while you wait?”

“Tea, if you have it,” Hank replied.

“Of course,” she said smoothly. “And for you?” She glanced at me with barely concealed curiosity.

“The same,” I said.

We were shown to a seating area where Charleston Magazine was prominently displayed alongside legal journals and financial publications. The coffee-table book showcasing South Carolina’s historic courthouses was a nice touch—probably meant to impress visiting judges like Hank.

“How much do you know about Brooks’ career after the DA’s office?” I asked quietly as we waited.

“Followed the standard trajectory for ambitious attorneys in this state,” Hank replied.

“Left the DA’s office around ’98, joined a private firm, made a name representing developers and business interests.

Started his own firm about fifteen years ago.

” He nodded toward a wall of framed photographs showing Brooks with various politicians and business leaders.

“Made all the right connections. Never went into politics like he’d wanted to in his early years.

I always wondered why. He was ripe for it. ”