Sisterhood is Deadly: A Sorority Sisters Mystery Read online

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Acknowledgments

  An Announcement Page to Rushing to Die

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Dedication

  To women everywhere

  who share their light with others

  and shine brighter for it.

  Epigraph

  Disclaimer:

  This book is not about your sorority.

  It’s about the sorority you hate.

  Chapter One

  SISTERHOOD IS POWERFUL.

  I have a pillow with that saying embroidered on it. My big sister Amanda gave it to me for my twenty-­first birthday, along with a bottle of tequila and a shot glass with the Delta Beta sorority crest enameled on it.

  We weren’t blood sisters. Amanda was my sorority big sis, a pledge year ahead of me, and she and the rest of the Delta Betas (or Debs, as we’re known) taught me the pillars of true sisterhood: loyalty, pride, and willingness to hold your sister’s hair back when she’s puking tequila on her twenty-­first birthday.

  The words on Amanda’s pillow came back to me as I stood in the chapter room of the Delta Beta house at Sutton College. As a visitor to this chapter, I didn’t know anyone’s name, but I marveled at the strength of our sisterhood as I held hands with the active sisters and recited the words to our sorority creed—­similar to the Apostle’s Creed, only more inspiring. There were no strangers here tonight. We were all sisters, bound by our oaths to one another.

  For every chapter I visited, the rituals of Delta Beta were the same. The same lit XXXXX, the same book of XXXXXX, the same song lyrics espousing XXXXXX and XXXXXXX. (Details redacted to protect the sanctity of Delta Beta rites.) Here at Sutton College, it was no different. I was proud to call this small chapter of fifty young women my sisters. The rituals were even more meaningful here because Sutton College was my alma mater. This was the house where I was initiated and became a Delta Beta woman. I lived and laughed in these walls, calling them home for four years.

  That is the beauty of the Delta Beta sorority. Everywhere I go, anywhere in the world, I have a sister, which is nice for an only child like myself. Maybe that’s why I took to sorority life so well as an undergrad and why, after graduation, I applied to be a Sisterhood Mentor.

  Nearly all of the national sororities have some program like Sisterhood Mentors. Young alumnae travel to different chapters to advise and assist the collegiate members on all sorts of very important sorority issues. (Don’t laugh. There are lots of important sorority issues.) Generally, the programs last for two years, then the consultants and the advisors and the mentors move on to real careers. Me? I’m on my sixth year.

  I’m not an idiot. The Delta Beta Executive Council has hinted a few times that maybe I should step down. They even offered me a permanent position at headquarters, something to do with accounting or rush consulting or something. But I always talk them out of firing me; softened by a few wise quotes from our founders, Leticia Baumgardner and Mary Gerald Callahan, the executive council is putty in my hands. They love Delta Beta as much as I do.

  I’m Margot Blythe, professional sorority girl.

  I was a philosophy major. What do you expect me to do for a living?

  The opening ritual completed, the chapter president began conducting business. From my corner, I listened carefully, taking detailed notes. In six years, I had learned that the key to successfully mentoring sisters was often found in the minutiae of these chapter meetings. How they talked to each other, what problems the chapter was facing, and which fraternities they mixed with all provided clues about the state of the chapter. Sometimes it took an alumna to see behind the Tory Burch flats and Lilly Pulitzer prints.

  After a full hour of debates on T-­shirt designs, scholarship awards, and the next date-­party theme, the closing ritual began. We joined hands again, a beautiful gesture of trust and strength. With one voice, we chanted the words to our motto (in Greek, of course, like all serious sororities) and lifted our hands in our secret sign.

  It was precisely because we were all doing the exact same thing that I noticed something was wrong. One of us did not form a circle with her forefinger and thumb. One of us did not place the circle over her heart.

  One of us fell to the floor, lifeless, before the meeting was officially closed.

  Chapter Two

  TEN YEARS AS a Delta Beta had prepared me for dealing with hysterical young women. Of course, I’d never dealt with the aftermath of a chapter advisor dropping dead in a chapter meeting. My closest experience with this level of tragedy was when the WU chapter failed to place in Epsilon Chi’s Sing-­a-­thon. Total and complete heartbreak.

  Once we’d realized what had happened, I quickly ran to the fallen sister’s side, trying to remember my Red Cross training and ordering someone to call 911. Her last gasp for breath sounded like a rattlesnake, her chest strained, her face frozen yet drooping on one side. A sister cried out that she was a lifeguard, and I let her take over the CPR attempt, but it was soon apparent that it was pointless. My duties lay with the living, scattered into small clumps around the room, some sobbing, some silent and shocked. It all happened so fast.

  I’d just met Liza McCarthy, the now-­shrouded young woman currently being wheeled out by the Sutton medical examiner. I crossed myself like a Real Housewife of New Jersey as I saw the ambulance doors close behind her. She was a sociology graduate student at Sutton and by all accounts a smart, beautiful woman who truly personified the Delta Beta ideal. Our sisterhood had lost a star. And one so young! Liza McCarthy must have been around my age, too young to be felled by a heart attack or stroke or whatever silent killer had interrupted our sorority’s most sacred rites.

  With the chapter advisor rolling away to the morgue, I was left as the responsible adult on the scene. I herded the pledges into the dining room, the actives into the TV room, and called for volunteers to distribute lemonade and whatever snacks could be rounded up in the kitchen, hoping to distract the young women until the police had finished.

  The Delta Beta sorority house was not large. Essentially a dormitory, it felt more like a gracious home, with bedrooms for about thirty initiated
members. The first of three floors had a dining room, TV room, and chapter room off an impressive two-­story foyer with a curved stairwell. I felt the warmth and comfort of the house envelop all the hyperventilating, confused young women grieving the sudden death that had occurred in their midst.

  Even though I knew that Sutton, North Carolina, was a small town, I was unimpressed with the spare police force that showed up at the house, which lacked the gravitas of TV police work. After the paramedics and medical examiner left, only two police officers strolled around, taking notes and photographing “the scene.” It seemed they had nothing better to do on a Monday night except make a big production out of a senseless tragedy.

  I was busy consoling several girls when I overheard one of the policemen say, “Tell me what happened next,” to one of the chapter officers.

  Heck, no. That was not happening on Margot Blythe’s watch.

  I marched over to the policeman to shut him down—­but my irritation didn’t stop me from noticing that this was one extremely good-­looking man. Several inches over six feet tall, with wavy, dark blond hair: Of course I noticed. At a different time, I probably would have approached him differently. Maybe smile charmingly, bat my eyelashes, and even place a hand on that very firm-­looking bicep of his … but ­people were grieving, and I couldn’t let him take advantage of our pain.

  “Don’t say another word,” I said to the young woman being questioned. Her nose was red and puffy, her cheeks tear-­stained, her chapter-­worthy shift dress wrinkled and tired-­looking.

  “We were in the middle of something,” said the police officer. I turned to him, my hands on my hips. He wasn’t in uniform, but he wore a navy polo embroidered with the police insignia. A name tag identified him as “HATFIELD.”

  “Mr. Hatfield,” I addressed him.

  “Lieutenant Hatfield,” he corrected me.

  “This is a minor. You can’t question a minor without a guardian or parent.” I’d read that somewhere in a manual. It seemed legit.

  “She’s not under suspicion, Miss …”

  “Blythe.” I provided my name with all the authority I could muster. I was the chapter’s Sisterhood Mentor, after all. “Margot Blythe.”

  Hatfield’s head jerked back, a satisfying reaction. Funny how well ­people will respond to an authoritarian tone. “Ms. Blythe,” he started to say again. “I’m just talking to witnesses. This is a friendly conversation. Nobody’s under any suspicion.”

  “Fine,” I said. “But I’m staying right here.” I wrapped an arm around the girl’s shoulder so she knew I was there for support and protection.

  Hatfield didn’t welcome me, but he couldn’t do much about it. He looked back at his notes and started again.

  “You said you were wrapping up the chapter meeting and the girls started to recite something …””

  “Objection,” I said.

  Hatfield raised his eyebrows at me. “What did you say?”

  “Objection,” I repeated. Did he think I’d never seen Law & Order? I’d always liked the ‘order’ part better—­more drama. I looked at the girl. “Don’t answer that.”

  Looking from me to the girl, Hatfield ignored me and repeated the question. “What were y’all reciting?”

  “Objection!” I glared at him.

  Hatfield looked stunned. “What in the world are you objecting to?”

  “You’re asking about privileged information!”

  “Was a lawyer there? A doctor? A priest?”

  Now he was talking crazy. “Of course not,” I said. “You are asking about secret sorority rituals. We can’t share those with anyone who has not been initiated, and that includes the police.”

  Hatfield lowered his pad and pen and stared at me, like I was some kind of exotic tropical bird. “Who are you again?”

  “Margot Blythe,” I repeated hotly.

  “Got that,” he said. “I meant, why are you here?”

  “I’m the designated Sisterhood Mentor to the Sutton chapter for the next six weeks. And in the unfortunate absence of the chapter advisor, it’s my duty, as the representative of the Delta Beta Executive Council, to advise these young ladies accordingly.”

  His posture and expression remained hostile. “You can’t object to these questions,” he ground out.

  “Do you see this badge?” I asked him, hooking a thumb into my suit lapel, where a small gold pin in the shape of a delta and a beta was prominently displayed. “This badge says I can object.”

  Hatfield seemed to relax, which I took as a sign that he understood my position and was going to be reasonable. Then he took something out of his pants pocket: a gold shield. “Do you see this badge?”

  And that was when I was arrested in front of an entire sorority chapter. It was heartless, in my opinion, to add to the ladies’ grief by taking away two of their sisters in the same night.

  Chapter Three

  IT TURNED OUT that I wasn’t officially “arrested.” Hatfield escorted me to his police car with a firm grip on my elbow while I said some not very nice things under my breath that neither Mary Gerald Callahan nor Leticia Baumgardner would have thought befitting a Delta Beta lady. Hatfield told me to sit in the backseat and slammed the door, which was really uncalled for.

  Did you know that the rear doors of police cars have kiddie locks on them? Who locks children in the back of a police car? I tried for nearly thirty minutes to get out of the car until the second police officer at the scene, who was both less attractive than Hatfield (unfortunately) and even less personable, got in the front seat and drove off, completely ignoring my protests and the not-­so-­nice things I was yelling in the backseat.

  This officer’s name tag which I saw as he escorted me to a cell, identified him as Malouf. The Sutton police station had one large holding cell, which was grim: a square, blank room with benches. All alone, I passed the time redecorating the cell in my mind until Hatfield reappeared.

  As much as I wanted to be cool and ignore the man, I also wanted to bust out and return to the chapter. I would have to put my best Deb face on and charm my way out.

  Hatfield stood at the door silently while I pretended not to notice him. “This is really unnecessary,” I finally said, once my cool patience frayed. “You probably traumatized those poor girls back there when you hauled me off without probable cause, you know.”

  He chewed the inside of his jaw. I couldn’t tell if he was sorry or just embarrassed for what he’d done.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything? Don’t I get a phone call or something?”

  When he still didn’t answer, that ticked me off. “I know ­people! You do not want to mess with me!”

  Hatfield held up his hands in surrender. “Oooh, I’m scared of the official sorority representative.”

  I stood up, putting my hands on my hips. “Yes, yes, you’ve made your point. Your badge is more important than mine. I still think you have your priorities out of whack.”

  Hatfield’s eyes widened before he quickly (and dramatically, I might add) squeezed them shut. “I have my priorities out of whack? You put your stupid poems before a police investigation!”

  “A poem? This is way more than a poem! You are just putting your ego before the proper oversight of young college women who need someone responsible and caring in their lives tonight!”

  Blowing out a rough sigh, he reached for the cell door and unlocked it.

  “A rug would be a nice touch,” I said as I walked by him.

  “In there?” he asked. “Do you know what ­people do on that floor?”

  I looked at the drain in the middle of the holding cell. Hatfield finally had a decent point.

  Safely out of the cell, I turned and looked around the town’s police offices, disappointed by the lack of activity on a Monday night. No detectives were hustling perps out of interview rooms; no skankily dressed undercover cops drank bad coffee out of paper cups. Nope, it was just me and Hatfield, a few desks, some computers, and a half-­filled
watercooler.

  It was clear that life as a Sutton police officer was boring as heck. No wonder Hatfield didn’t know what to do with me. I was so outside his comfort zone.

  “Can I make my phone call now?”

  Hatfield rolled his eyes. “You don’t get a phone call.”

  “I know my rights.”

  “You’re not under arrest.” He paused, seeming a little uncomfortable. “You were accidentally transported here.”

  For as long as I can remember, I have never been really, truly speechless. Accidentally transported to a holding cell? Of all the inept, low-­rent, unprofessional, amateur-­hour moves … I took a breath to rip this guy a new one. And remind him again that yes, I knew ­people, and, yes, those ­people knew ­people who could maybe, potentially get him fired.

  But there had been a tragedy tonight, and I needed information from Deputy Do-­Right.

  “What comes next?” I asked, “For Liza?”

  “Who?” The exasperation on my face made him self-­correct. “Oh, Liza. Liza McCarthy. Yes, she’ll be checked out and released to her family.”

  “Checked out?”

  “For cause of death.”

  “I’d like to be there.”

  “For an autopsy?” Hatfield asked, like no one had ever asked that before.

  “No. To talk to her family.”