Amber stood beside him, watching the evening unfold as Jameson had. They both tensed when Simon walked in with Tillman’s arm thrown over his shoulders. Simon looked as pained as Jameson did.
When the guests started filing into the dining room for dinner, Amber clocked the time glowing a bright green on Jameson’s built-in microwave. Just after 6:30.
While the diners worked their way through four courses—the wait staff tripling over the course of the hour—Amber kept a close eye on Simon. He sat between Tillman and Jameson, but neither one discreetly dumped anything suspicious into his food or drink.
Though this was Jameson’s house, the soirée, as Victoria had called it, was being run by the charismatic Mayor Sable, who sat at the head of the table. Molly Hargrove sat to Yvette’s left. Well, her place setting was beside the mayor, but Molly was on her feet snapping photos most of the time—so much so that she missed the first two courses. Every time she took a seat, the mayor seemed to urge her to snap a few more.
Jameson made conversation with anyone who spoke to him first, but he otherwise remained quiet, glaring down at his plate or into his glass. Nicolas Daniels, however, was loud and boisterous. He clapped people on the shoulder, told off-color jokes, and ribbed Jameson often. The other diners were either laughing and drinking with the same enthusiasm as Mayor Sable and Daniels, or quietly eating their food and gazing up and down the length of the table in unease, like Simon. Tillman was having a grand time, more or less flirting with any woman who so much as looked at him.
Amber knew some of the people here were from Simon’s safety committee, as well as staff members of the Marbleglen Herald, but the others, she guessed, were investors. People with money to spend on the land development deal that might push Joe Cooper off his generations-owned peppermint farm, but would bring an influx of jobs and cash to the town.
She was starting to feel as uncomfortable with this whole thing as Jameson.
Once dinner had ended, drinking began in earnest. Groups spilled out onto the front lawn to smoke, and others wandered into the backyard, whose awnings and trees were hung with lanterns that glowed like massive fireflies. A DJ booth had been set up in the corner, and a makeshift dance floor had been erected before it. There were people on the dance floor, sitting in the scattered lounge chairs, and clustered together in small groups, enjoying the crisp spring evening. Amber could have sworn that in the hour after dinner had ended, the attendees had doubled in number. She couldn’t figure out where they were all coming from.
She tried to take in the party from all angles, and to commit as many faces to memory as she could, knowing Simon hadn’t been drugged until close to nine p.m., around the time he’d called Bianca, his words slurred as he spoke of his dying magic.
Amber was only allowed a couple minutes to look around, however, before her magic tugged her back inside, back to Jameson who was once again sulking in the kitchen. When she stepped in from the backyard, she was surprised to see that standing beside Jameson, and looking just as sulky, was Simon. The two had been rivals, from everything Amber had heard, but the way they stood side by side now, staring into the living room through the open double doors of the kitchen, they looked like they were each other’s only friend in this place.
And, despite being at odds for months, maybe that was true.
As they stood there, a waiter with a silver platter topped by only two drinks strolled into the room and made a beeline for the pair of men. “Mr. Jameson, I have been told by the mayor to bring you and your companion a drink. She told me to tell you, ‘Stop pouting. This is a celebration. Drink and try to have some fun.’” The man handed Jameson a flute, bubbles dancing in the pale amber liquid inside. “And you, I hear, do not drink alcohol, so here is a ginger ale. The mayor said if you’re not mingling within the next ten minutes, Chief Jameson, sir, she’s going to drag you out by your ear.”
Jameson’s nostrils flared. His expression said he very much wanted to kill the messenger. The waiter visibly swallowed.
When Jameson made no move to grab the drinks, Simon grabbed them both off the tray. The waiter smiled at him in thanks, bowed slightly, then scurried out the open patio that led to the backyard just behind them.
“I hate champagne,” Jameson said, glaring at the two glasses in Simon’s hands. “Why don’t you drink? It’s the only way for me to get through the day.”
Amber knew the man had to be drunk by now, but there was something very lucid about him. Unflinchingly honest, too. Perhaps being this detached from his inhibitions brought him closer to his true self. Maybe it was why he always had to be drunk in order to call his daughter.
“My father was an alcoholic,” Simon said. “Champagne though … I haven’t had champagne since before my wife died. She loved the stuff. For a while I would drink it just as a way to remember her.” Then he lowered his head, his brow creased, like he couldn’t figure out why he’d just shared that with this man.
Jameson sighed heavily. “My condolences. My wife—ex-wife—passed, too.” He jutted his chin at the glasses. “I wouldn’t mind some ginger ale if you want the bubbly.”
“Ah, what the heck,” Simon said, handing over the soda. “Maybe it’ll help this night be less awkward.”
Jameson chuckled darkly at that, then took a swig of the ginger ale. “I hate parties even more than I hate champagne.”
Simon chuckled, too. After taking a sip of his drink, he said, “Then why throw one?”
“Oh, I had very little to do with it,” Jameson said. “I might be the chief, but none of these people care about that.”
Simon turned so his shoulder rested against the wall and faced Jameson. He took another sip of champagne. Jameson continued to brood. Simon polished off the glass. Holding the empty flute, Simon studied him for a moment, then placed his free hand over Jameson’s, the one holding the soda glass. The contact startled Jameson enough that he tore his gaze from the living room. “Are you Molly Hargrove’s true anonymous source?”
A truth spell!
“Yes,” Jameson said without hesitation, then his bloodshot eyes widened and he stumbled away from Simon. “What the hell was that?”
“What was what?” Simon asked.
Jameson stood nose-to-nose with Simon now, his jaw tight. Amber wasn’t sure if Jameson was planning to deck Simon or not. Then Jameson looked back toward the living room full of people and he said, “You can’t talk about stuff like that here. That kind of thing will get you killed.”
Abruptly, Jameson headed for the living room. Simon stared after him, his brows furrowed. Jameson stopped at the open doors of the kitchen and looked back, then jerked his head at Simon. Follow me, it said.
So he did, setting his empty glass on the counter as he went.
An unsettling sensation passed down Amber’s spine and she glanced toward the sliding glass door the waiter had hurried out of earlier. Victoria Sullivan stood there, the expression on her face curious now, rather than furious as she watched Jameson walk away this time. According to Daniels, Victoria had been the one who overhead Simon and Jameson talking, revealing that Molly’s source who was helping her with a story about the corruption of the Marbleglen police department hadn’t been Simon after all. When the two men were halfway across the living room, Victoria walked quickly into the living room, scanning the guests.
She seemed to spot Tillman first. Amber hurried after her.
Though she halted when Victoria did, Amber’s magic tugged her forward. It felt a bit like hitting the brakes on a speeding vehicle. Get to Jameson, her magic insisted. You’re here for him, no one else.
Amber resisted for as long as she could, desperate to hear what Victoria was going to tell the smarmy, Hollywood-handsome man. But all she heard when she eventually lost the battle with her magic and was yanked forward was, “I think you have a problem.”
Jameson had just reached the mouth of the hallway he’d been intending to disappear down when he came to an abrupt stop. Simon nearly slammed i
nto his back. Daniels had just rounded the corner and nearly collided with Jameson.
“Sorry, old man!” Daniels said with a jovial chuckle. “I got lost looking for the can.”
“Wrong hallway,” Jameson said, tone clipped.
“Right!” Daniels said, clapping Jameson on the shoulder. “Sorry about that.”
But before Daniels took another step, an amused shriek went up from somewhere in the living room where drunken partiers were talking and laughing too loudly. Jameson, Daniels, and Simon all turned toward the sound. Amber heard the whomp of the giant vase’s base circling on its edge before she saw it; seconds later, the thing toppled over and crashed into a dozen large shards.
Jameson twitched a couple times, as if he were being pummeled, like the destruction of the vase had physically hurt him. Amber wondered if it had been an expensive heirloom, or merely a sentimental one.
Though she knew she was a specter here, a silent observer, even she shied away when Eric Jameson aimed his wide, red-splotched face toward the people filling his house.
“That’s it,” he said. “Get out.”
Not everyone heard him, but those who did shot confused glances around the room.
“I said,” Jameson said louder this time, taking a step forward. Simon grabbed the man by the forearm but he wrenched away from him. Jameson whirled on Simon then. “Don’t touch me!” He stalked toward Simon until Simon’s back hit one of the windows lining the front of the room. The blinds had been drawn to half-mast and thudded now against the pane. Simon turned his head away, Jameson’s an inch from his. “You’re a worthless little man who just wanted to stir up trouble to make your pathetic life feel more interesting. Is this interesting enough for you? Huh? Huh!”
Jameson was suddenly yanked back. Daniels had pulled him off Simon—who looked pale and sickly now, watching Jameson with some mixture of horror and rage.
“Calm down,” Daniels said in tight voice.
“Or what?” Jameson snapped.
Tillman, who had been standing nearby with Molly Hargrove, an arm around her waist, unhanded the petite blonde and took a few steps forward. “Hey, Jameson, bud, we—”
“I’m not your bud, bud,” Jameson said, and shoved Tillman and Daniels out of the way. Jameson addressed everyone in the room now, fists clenched by his sides. “Get. Out. Get out of my house, you sycophants! You’re all greedy monsters.” A hand shot forward and people flinched, as if his pointed finger was a loaded gun spraying bullets. “All of you! Get out!”
There was a shift in the wall of bodies, and then Mayor Sable appeared, pushing her way through the crowd who looked more like statues now than drunken revelers. Music and laughter still trickled in from the backyard, making the tension in the room feel even thicker.
“It seems our chief of police may have had a bit too much to drink!” Mayor Sable said good-naturedly to the room at large, drawing a few awkward chuckles from the onlookers. “I hope none of you will hold it against him.” Then she closed the distance between herself and Jameson—Daniels and Tillman on either side of her like bodyguards; Simon still cowered against the window, a hand to his forehead. The mayor lowered her voice. “Go drink some coffee, or splash some water on your face, or take a long walk, but you will not kick these people out. Too much is riding on this.”
In a tone just as low, but ten times as venomous, he said, “I. Don’t. Care. Get them out or I’ll drag them all out by their ears.”
The mayor’s lips pursed. It was the same turn of phrase Sable had told the waiter to use when he’d delivered the celebratory champagne Jameson hadn’t wanted to drink.
He gave her a once-over. “I’m done being jerked around by you. This is my house. I want them—I want you—out.”
No one moved.
“Now!” he roared in the mayor’s face.
She flinched as if he’d just slapped her. Then she plastered on a smile and whirled around. “I do believe we’ve overstayed our welcome. If I could please have everyone file out so our chief can get some rest, it would be most appreciated. A line of cabs is already waiting out front, but I’ll be happy to call more for anyone who needs one.”
Jameson stayed rooted to the spot, a muscle feathering in his jaw and his fists clenching in some kind of rhythm—maybe mirroring his racing heartbeat. People collected bags and coats and shuffled toward the door, where the mayor now stood. She was cordial and apologetic, saying her goodbyes, shaking hands, and offering her thanks for their attendance as if this were her home. Tillman and Daniels stepped to the side to have a quiet conversation, shot a glance toward Jameson, and then headed for the kitchen, presumably to tell the folks outside that the party was over.
It wasn’t until the last of the guests had left, leaving behind the core group of six, that Jameson spoke. “I’m done.” His piercing gaze was angled at the floor.
He’d said it so softly that only Tillman seemed to have heard him.
“Done?” Tillman repeated. “Done with what?”
“All of it!” Jameson said, arms out wide. “You throwing parties in my house, schmoozing with investors, harassing innocent people to get what you want.”
“Oh, don’t come off as all high-and-mighty now,” Daniels said. “If we skim a little off the top here and there or use a little pressure to get a perp to be more cooperative, it’s because you taught us how to do it.”
“Yeah, well, it’s gone too far now,” Jameson said. “I’m out. Do whatever you’re going to do with Stone Gate and to Cooper, but I want no part of it.”
“Then resign,” the mayor said.
Jameson rounded on her. “Excuse me?”
She merely crossed her arms. “You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you? Can you really stand this job for another four or five years? Resign now and wipe your hands clean of all of it.”
Jameson stared her down, then his serious expression morphed into a smile, and he took several steps back, laughing. “Oh, this was your whole plan, wasn’t it?” he asked, waving a hand to encompass the three of them—Sable, Daniels, and Tillman. “Wear me down until I resign so you can run the whole town yourselves. No checks and balances.” He laughed again, then gestured at Simon. “And what about him and his safety committee? Was that all part of the plan, too? Did they recruit you, Simon, to make my life a living hell?”
“I don’t feel so good.” Simon was still slumped against the windowpane, a hand to his head. “I shouldn’t have had that champagne. Who knew I was such a lightweight now?”
Amber wasn’t sure how much of the conversation Simon had even heard.
The other three exchanged quick glances, brows raised.
“You drank the champagne, Simon?” the mayor asked. “I thought you didn’t drink.”
“He was feeling sentimental,” Jameson said with a sneer. “I hate the stuff.”
Simon pushed himself to standing, then blinked in an exaggerated fashion, as if he was trying to stay awake. He fixed Jameson with a very serious look. “You’re not so bad, you know? You’ve done some bad things, sure. But what you’re doing for Molly, for this town, that’s going to make up for a lot.”
Jameson’s face went a bright red, and it wasn’t from the alcohol. He wrapped an arm around a droopy Simon, and angled him toward Jameson’s office. “I want you all gone. I mean it. I’m going to sober him up and then he’s out too.”
He guided Simon into his office and Amber slipped in just as Jameson kicked the door shut. He locked the door, then got Simon into the chair behind his desk. Simon slumped over a little and Jameson kicked the chair in order to jostle Simon awake again. Jameson turned the chair to face him, placed a hand on either armrest, and leveled his face in front of Simon’s. “What are you feeling right now?”
“Uhh … sleepy,” Simon said. “Kind of dizzy. It feels like my magic is dying.”
“Guess we can add confusion to that list,” Jameson said, strangely lucid again. He spoke very slowly as he said, “I think what was in that glass
was meant for me. I think you’ve been drugged, Simon. Do you have someone you can call to come get you? You can’t drive like this, I’m too drunk, and those three out there can’t be trusted either.”
“My daughter,” Simon said after a moment. “I can call my daughter.”
“Good,” Jameson said. “Call Bianca.”
Simon nodded very solemnly, as if this was the greatest task he’d ever been given in his life, and fumbled to get his phone out of his pocket.
Jameson made his way to the locked office door and pressed his ear against it.
Simon managed to get the screen unlocked and called Bianca. “Hi, my baby. How are you? I’m at this dinner party and it’s very … it’s very strange. No one really wants to be here and there was almost a fist fight. A vase smashed and the chief is really angry and he’s not very nice, you know? But I think he’s trying. I think my drink was drugged, baby. I think they drugged me. My magic is dying. It’s like the dried twigs I use to make wreaths. Brittle and fragile and dead. Dying. It’s dying.”
There was a distant slam and Jameson turned away from the door he’d had his ear pressed to, nodding once to Simon. “I think they left. Is your daughter coming to get you?”
“My magic is dying,” Simon said sadly. “Yes. Bianca is coming. I think. Will my magic come back?”
Jameson groaned, unlocked the door, and peered into the hallway like a little kid searching for monsters lurking in the closet.
Simon leaned forward then and picked up a piece of paper in the middle of Jameson’s desk, an official letterhead at the top. “Oh, is this why you had champagne, chief?” Waving the paper overhead now. “I’m sorry I took your celebration champagne. What are you planning to do in retirement?”
Jameson closed the door without locking it again and cocked his head at Simon. “What on earth are you talking about?” He joined Simon, who was standing now, at the desk. In Simon’s hand was a resignation letter, stating Jameson would like to end his position, effective immediately. The only thing missing was his signature. Jameson stalked to the middle of the room, eyes focused on the paper. Then he turned and shook it in Simon’s general direction. “I didn’t write this.”
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