I'll Never Stop (Hamlet Book 4)

by Jessica Lynch

  She wasn’t exaggerating, either. Grace watched in awe of Maria’s artistic ability. She used the ruler to draw a line about three inches from the bottom. Above the line, she sketched a faceless ballerina, arms outstretched, tutu wrapped around her high waist. She used three colored pencils to fill it in—red, pink, and white—then inked it with her felt-tip pen. Underneath, she used simple but elaborately decorated letters to spell out exactly what Grace wanted to offer: FREE BALLET LESSONS.

  “I’m going to make this one for you,” Maria said, underlining the message. “If you don’t want to leave Hamlet, we do have one shop with a copy machine. Jefferson’s market. We can get copies made and then I can show you all the places to drop them off.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Hmm.”

  “No, seriously. You’ve already done so much. Point me in the direction of this Jefferson’s place. I can do it.”

  Maria brushed her bangs out of her face, bending down over the poster again. “Yes, well, they’ll need some way to get in touch, sweetie.”

  On the bottom third of the sheet, she turned the page on its side and used a lovely cursive script to write: Contact Ophelia of Hamlet. She did it repeatedly, leaving a small gap between each line, then snipped the space until it looked like fringe.

  Oh. Grace got it now. It was one of those rip-a-number-off things. Perfect.

  “We’ll have to get you a radio eventually,” Maria mused, “but, ‘til then, we can share my channel. How’s that sound?”

  It sounded wonderful.

  Jefferson’s was about a ten minute drive from Ophelia, heading further into the heart of town. She was growing used to the way the locals gave directions around Hamlet. Mountainside, gulleyside, stay on Main. She thought it was weird how the deputy—because he wasn’t a cop, but a deputy—told her how to get to Ophelia by looking for stumps and lamp posts with purple ribbons. There really were no signs, or even traffic lights. Probably because there was hardly any traffic.

  Her whole drive over, she passed two cars and a golf cart. Seriously. A man with a blue ball cap was hunched over the steering wheel, putt-putting his golf cart down the main stretch of the road. Grace nearly pulled over and made sure he was supposed to be doing that before shaking her head and continuing on her trip. Hamlet was weird. She was getting used to it.

  Jefferson’s was the only market in town. Maria tried to explain that it wasn’t so much a grocery store as it was an everything store. If there was something you wanted that you couldn’t find at Jefferson’s, then you probably couldn’t get it in Hamlet.

  The store was set on an empty patch of gravel. It was a little bit wider than Ophelia, with a narrow door sandwiched between two massive glass windows. A faded red plastic sign rose above the sloped roof. In block letters, it said Jefferson’s, and it spanned half the length of the squat building.

  There was nowhere to park except for around back. Grace pulled up alongside a vintage Cadillac that was in mint condition. She held her breath as she opened her door. She didn’t want to ding the beauty and, alright, maybe she parked a scooch too close.

  Shimmying out of her little grey car, Grace didn’t breathe again until she was crunching her way toward the front of the store. She passed a door built into the side, painted a darker red than the shade on the sign, and kept going. Probably an employee’s entrance. Definitely not for customers.

  When she opened the glass door in the front, she wasn’t quite sure this was for customers, either. It led into a warehouse-style shop, with countless aisles and no way for her to make any sense of it.

  Good thing she didn’t have to.

  Once Maria gave in and accepted that Grace wanted to take the trip by herself, she gave her exact directions. First, how to find the place, then where to track down the copier. At the time, Grace thought she was being overly helpful. Because, honestly, how hard could it be to find a copier in a store?

  The answer was very hard. Thank God for the help. Following what Maria told her to do, Grace cut through the sixth aisle from the left, crossed into a room that seemed more like a closet, then opened the second door. And there it was.

  The copier was old and rickety, plus it took dimes to make copies. Luckily, Maria gave her a head’s up on that and she had a whole pocket full. It took about ten minutes and a couple of quick hits to the side to make sure it kept running, but Grace eventually had a stack of twenty-five copies.

  It wasn’t until she was done, heading back toward the front door with her copies in her hand, that someone else appeared inside the store.

  She was a middle-aged light-skinned black woman, her dark hair done in a row of braids that rested on her shoulders. She had on a loose blouse with flowy sleeves that kissed her wrist. With a flick, she knocked one back so that she could offer Grace a smile and a friendly wave.

  “Well, hello there. Welcome to Jefferson’s.”

  Grace returned her grin, a quick upwards quirk of her lips. She must work here, she decided. That made her feel better. Hamlet was small and maybe the locals knew each other well enough, but it seemed pretty risky to have a whole store of product and no one watching it.

  Or maybe that was just months of paranoia and Tommy’s bad habits poking their nose in again.

  The other woman continued to approach. “Anything I can help you find?”

  She lifted up her stack of copies. “I’ve been doing okay so far, but thanks.” She paused, remembering Maria’s other suggestion. “Actually, I’m looking for Mr. Jefferson. Do you know him?”

  “I sure hope so. By the way, I’m Dinah Jefferson. Jefferson’s my husband.”

  Grace blinked. She couldn’t help it. The words blurted out on their own. “His name is Jefferson Jefferson?”

  “Nope. Just Jefferson.” Her confusion must’ve been obvious from her expression because Dinah let out a soft laugh. “It’s what he answers to, even from me. Twenty-five years of marriage and he’s just Jefferson.”

  “Okay. Um… is he here?”

  She waved her hand absently. “He’s somewhere. He’ll mosey on out when he’s ready. I can help you, though. I guess you could say we’re both Jefferson.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you—”

  Dinah’s dark eyes twinkled. “You didn’t. It’s fine. You’re an outsider.”

  She was, wasn’t she? Grace was reminded of that every time she stepped outside of Ophelia. “I am. I’m staying over on Orchard Avenue—”

  “At Maria De Angelis’s little hotel. I’ve heard. It’s nice to meet you at last.”

  Dinah Jefferson might have a habit of interrupting her, but she did it while wearing a sincere, well-meaning grin, and Grace found she couldn’t get annoyed at that. Hearing her mention how casually people were talking about her? That bugged her.

  It worried her, too. She came to Hamlet to lay low. Sure, Lucas warned her that staying anonymous would be tough, living in such a small town. She thought he was exaggerating. Her experience in Hamlet so far proved that, if anything, he undersold it.

  “Thanks. You, too. She told me all about your store, how it’s the place to go if I need anything in town. I used your copier,” she added, holding up her stack of copies before plucking the one Maria made from the top. Since it was the one that was already cut at the bottom, she offered it out to Dinah. “I was wondering if there was somewhere I could put this up.”

  Dinah took the flier, running her eyes over it. “You a dancer? Or a teacher?”

  “I’m hoping to be both. I spent my life as a ballerina. Now that I’m retired, I thought I could teach others a little bit about it.”

  “That’s good. That’s nice. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of takers once word gets out. Of course I’ll post it for you. Just need to get some tape.” Cupping her hand over her mouth, Dinah let out a loud bellow. “Jefferson!”

  The echo of a much softer reply. “Yes?”

  “I need you. And can you grab some tape?”

  �
��Sure thing, honey.”

  Dinah beamed over at Grace. “He’ll be right out.”

  Jefferson didn’t take long. Within minutes, he strode out from a different point in the store; it looked like one of the hallways back behind where they had the copier. Grace was able to spot him immediately because the big, black man absolutely towered over the aisles.

  She put him at 6’4’, maybe 6’5”. Jefferson was pretty thick and kind of wide, with thighs like tree trunks and a paunch of a belly hanging low in front. He kept his black hair short, a vein of grey twisted throughout the tight curls. A pair of wire-rim glasses sat on his nose. Those, added to the faintly bemused expression on his face as he headed for them, made his size seem not so noticeable after the surprise wore off.

  He was older, maybe a good ten years older than his wife, and the way his eyes lit up behind his glasses when he looked at her revealed how much he deeply loved her.

  “Your tape,” he said, holding out a roll of scotch tape. “Now, what did you need me for?”

  “To hang something for this sweet young girl. You can reach without the stepladder.” Dinah spared another smile for Grace. “Come on. Let’s put this by the register so that none of the regulars miss it.” As she marched over toward the counter, the other two following close behind, Dinah made introductions. “Jefferson, this is Grace. She’s the outsider who’s been staying with Maria.”

  Since Jefferson’s hands were busy, reaching up to place Grace’s poster next to the sign that listed the five brands of cigarettes they carried behind the counter, she didn’t offer to shake even if it seemed like she should. Instead, she waved. “Hi.”

  “Nice to meet you, Grace.” Once the poster was in place, Jefferson shook his head, his glasses slipping down his nose. He absently set them back. “You know, it’s so strange you’ve come by today. Maybe it’s just the day for outsiders.”

  Outsiders.

  A sudden chill skittered up and down her spine. Outsiders. Plural. What did Jefferson mean?

  His wife obviously wondered the same thing. “You have some other outsider customers this morning, Jefferson? I didn’t know that.”

  “Did I forget to mention it? It was early, probably when you were picking up some of Addy’s scones. Two fellas stopped by, definitely outsiders. Fancy suits, shiny shoes, and one was wearing a pair of mirrored shades. The other one, Di? I swear, he had hair longer than you.”

  Not Tommy, then. Not Boone. Still didn’t make it any easier to hear. Because the suits? The shoes? The shades? All hallmarks of Tommy’s associates.

  Maybe it was a coincidence.

  Please let it be a coincidence.

  Jefferson continued, oblivious of Grace’s inner worries and sudden fear. “They spent some time looking around the store, but didn’t buy anything. Asked me about a place to stay, though. Wanted my recommendation since they were new to town.”

  “What did you tell them?” asked his wife.

  Yes, Grace wondered, her heart leaping up to lodge in her throat. What did he tell them?

  “Sent them on to Bonnie Mitchell’s place. The Hamlet Inn.” Over the rim of his glasses, Jefferson’s gaze landed on Grace. He frowned. “Ah. I forgot all about Maria’s little bed and breakfast. I should’ve sent them over her way, given her some business, but it totally slipped my mind. I guess I never think of her, not after what happened the first time she had an outsider stay.”

  Dinah wrinkled her nose. “Mack Turner. Devil take his soul.”

  “That’s right.” Jefferson clucked his tongue. “Got what he deserved in my opinion, no mistake.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Mack Turner? Grace hadn’t met all the locals yet, and most of them were a bunch of faceless blurs, but that name wasn’t familiar. She tucked it away, though, just in case. It would be worth it to ask Maria, especially if the idyllic town held other dangers.

  Then Jefferson murmured, “Real strange pair,” under his breath. He was back to talking about the other outsiders. She needed to pay attention.

  Rubbing his nose with one of his mitt-sized hands, Jefferson called out to his wife. “Lookie here, Di. It was so strange. Those two didn’t want to buy anything, but they left this on our counter all the same before they left.”

  A ding and the cash drawer slid out from underneath the register. Jefferson reached in, pulling out a crisp bill, holding it up so Dinah could see.

  The last of Grace’s hopes disappeared. Her curiosity? Gone. Because when Jefferson held up that money, she knew exactly why it had been left behind.

  “Fifty dollars?” breathed out Dinah. “Whatever for?”

  Jefferson shrugged before putting it back in the till. “Don’t know, honey. I noticed it after they left and, by the time I figured they must have forgotten it, they’d already taken off in some shiny black car. I figure, I’ll keep it safe in the register in case they come back. Seems right.”

  “Could be a tip.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Peering at her through the thick lenses of his glasses, Jefferson found Grace again. “Do outsiders usually tip like that?”

  “Some do,” she said, offering the shopkeeper a weak smile. Her stomach was roiling, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. The hand not holding the copies started to twitch and she quickly grasped the other side of the stack to hide it. The sharp edge of the sheets bit into her palm; she never lost that smile. “Thank you for the copies. Oh, and posting my flier, too. I really appreciate it.”

  And then, with the stack clutched tightly to her chest, Grace murmured her goodbyes and made her escape.

  11

  Grace couldn’t get that fifty out of her head.

  Hamlet was small. Between the big drop out front and the massive mountains that loomed on the skyline, Grace accepted that Tessa wasn’t kidding when she said it was secluded; it was basically its own little world, cut off from the rest of it. Still, did the Jeffersons not really understand that that was a bribe?

  Okay, she amended, maybe not a bribe. It was definitely an incentive, though. She’d seen Tommy or one of his goons pull something like that countless times before. Leave a small token—and, for a Mathers, fifty bucks was a small token—and you bought the appreciation of an otherwise upstanding citizen. They might not even know what they were doing. But the next time those guys came around with more questions, maybe asking in a more direct way if Jefferson met any other outsiders, the shopkeeper might remember their token and be a little more talkative.

  Jefferson didn’t seem like the type. His wife, either. It was obvious that Jefferson was leery of the suits so there was a good chance that he’d keep her visit to his store a secret if she asked. If it was one outsider or the other, she wanted to be the one he helped.

  It had to be Pope. After Boone, he was Tommy’s top enforcer. He was a pretty man who used his good looks as a weapon as much as his piece and, she recalled, he was fanatically vain when it came to his hair. It was an amazing mix of colors—reds, browns, and golden highlights—that he wore down to his shoulders. Long hair? It had to be Pope.

  The edge of a purple ribbon flapping in the wind caught her attention, momentarily ripping her frantic thoughts away from Tommy and his guys.

  She kept driving, right on past the turn that would take her back to the bed and breakfast.

  She wasn’t sure why. Grace wasn’t looking for the way out of Hamlet. The few things she brought to Ophelia with her were important and, even if she heeded her sudden desire to escape, she wouldn’t leave them behind. Plus, in the last week, she had grown closer to Maria De Angelis than she had to anyone else since Monica. It wouldn’t be right to leave without saying goodbye.

  So she flew by the entrance to Orchard Avenue, knowing that she would be heading back to Ophelia long before the locks engaged. Just… just not yet.

  Maybe she was looking to see if she found Pope’s ride. It wouldn’t be as flashy as Tommy’s Jaguar, though it would still be fast, silent, and super expensive. She already knew
from Jefferson that it was another black car.

  So she kept an eye out for one.

  Part of her accepted that, once again, Tommy was winning. If he had his men scoping out Hamlet, he couldn’t be too far behind. So maybe, more than anything else, she continued to stroll down the unfamiliar streets, daring them to find her.

  Here I am, she thought in bitter defeat. Come and get me.

  Grace didn’t know where she was going. No clue. So long as the mountains stayed on one side and she didn’t come up on the gulley, she figured she was within the borders of Hamlet. Since she’d barely gone farther than Main Street in the last week and a half, it was no surprise that she was passing houses and landmarks that weren’t familiar to her.

  That’s when she caught sight of a sign coming up on her right-hand side. It was wide and probably made of wood. The twin posts on each end definitely were. The bulk of the sign was painted a cream color, with two words drawn on in a vivid blue swirl: the coffeehouse.

  The plastic sign for Jefferson’s store might not have been Maria’s work. There was no denying that this one was. It was hand-painted, each letter, each adornment a piece of art. And it was called the coffeehouse. That made it all the more tempting.

  Grace could use some coffee. She decided it was worth it to stop.

  Like at the market, there wasn’t a true parking lot. There were about seven or eight cars lined up along the curb—none of them shiny or black—and she drove around them until hers was at the front of the queue. She hated to parallel park. Walking a couple of blocks back toward this coffeehouse she stumbled upon was better than trying to fit her tiny car in some of the spaces left between vehicles.

  Once she got back to the sign, her tote bag slung over her shoulder, her arms crossed over her chest, Grace looked at the two buildings behind it. The one closer to her was much bigger. A tall, narrow Victorian-style home complete with turrets and railings loomed in front of her. Just behind it, though, was a squat, flat version of the other house.