Page 38 of Skin and Bones

“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.”

Before I could ask more, a door opened, and Jason Brooks himself emerged. He was tall and trim, with salt-and-pepper hair that seemed deliberately styled to project distinguished authority rather than age. His custom suit hung perfectly on his frame, and his smile revealed teeth that had definitely benefited from cosmetic dentistry.

“Judge Hardeman,” Jason greeted, extending his hand. “What an unexpected pleasure. I was sorry to hear about Eleanor.”

“That’s kind of you,” Hank said, shaking his hand firmly. “And how’s Christine and the kids.”

“Not kids anymore,” he said. “I’ve got one at Georgetown Law School and the other is a sophomore at Stanford. As far as Christine—” He shrugged his shoulders and looked a bit sheepish. “We’ve been divorced about five years now. She wasn’t a fan of lawyer’s hours.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hank said.

“It’s just one of those things,” he said. “Probably for the best. Now I’m able to fully focus on the firm, the kids are taken care of, and when I get a few days off I pack up my fishing gear and head to Costa Rica to fish. I have no complaints. So to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I appreciate you making time on such short notice,” Hank said. “This is a friend of mine. Mabel McCoy.”

Brooks turned to me, his politician’s smile in place, and then it warmed considerably when he took a good look at me. He was a handsome man and obviously took very good care of himself, and after his hand lingered a little longer than was usual on mine I had to wonder if his divorce had anything to do with the flirtatious charm that seemed to emanate from his pores. I found myself a little flustered when I took my hand back.

“Ms. McCoy,” he said, smiling. “Hank keeps beautiful company. Please, both of you, come with me to my office.”

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