Sisterhood is Deadly: A Sorority Sisters Mystery

by Lindsay Emory

  “It was for both of us,” I said as I put the picture back.

  Amanda reached out and clutched my hand. “No, you always took care of me. And now you’re doing it again. Taking care of all the little Debs.”

  I blushed and changed the subject. Because this really wasn’t about me. “I guess I need to do some paperwork with you?”

  Amanda got right on the ball, as I knew she would, registering me with the college as a student advisor. We went over the Panhellenic policy, procedures, and codes of conduct, and the calendar of meetings and events of the next month. We finished with the plan for the Tri Mu Bowling Tournament the next weekend.

  “Poor Liza,” Amanda said. “She really hated the Tri Mus.”

  I nodded in sympathy. Every good Delta Beta hated the Tri Mus. “Did you know her well?” I asked. I didn’t think so, but if Amanda was overcome by Liza’s death, I had to be a good friend.

  Amanda wobbled her head. “Yes and no. She was great with the girls, of course, a real charismatic leader. But with the college staff, she was a little more standoffish. Maybe because she hadn’t gotten her doctorate yet.” Amanda crinkled her nose as a sad thought occurred to her. “Maybe if I had told her I was a Deb, we could have been better friends.”

  “You were there for her,” I assured Amanda. “She knew in her heart you were a sister.”

  Amanda closed her eyes and nodded, accepting my wise platitudes. “How are the girls holding up?”

  I thought of the still-­red eyes and hushed voices at breakfast this morning. “They’re strong. They’ll hold it together.”

  “And what about you? How do you plan to do all this? Even a temporary gig is going to be tough.”

  “I’m going to hold one-­on-­ones with the chapter officers in the next few days, get status reports from everyone. Hopefully, that will give me a good overview of the chapter. Plus, headquarters is sending me the financials to review.”

  Amanda nodded at the plan. “Let me know if you need help with anything.” She frowned, then said, “I should let you know, the administration is kind of freaking out about all this. I’ve already had about six calls this morning. You should probably expect a few yourself.”

  I made a note to check the voice mail at the chapter advisor’s office. An image of a gold badge and a cute guy popped in my head. “Do you happen to know Lieutenant Hatfield,” I asked. “At the Sutton police department?”

  Amanda pursed her lips. “He comes on campus every fall to do a dating-­violence-­prevention thing. Are you going to ask him out?”

  I rolled my eyes. So typical of Amanda to go there immediately. Let’s just say that during college, she could have been kind of … slutty, if she hadn’t been so discreet. “No way. He just seemed …” I searched for the words to describe Hatfield’s odd behavior the night before. “A little obtuse.”

  “Really,” Amanda said with surprise.

  “Like, I don’t think he understood what sorority life was all about,” I explained, thinking of his complete disregard for our rituals, and his confusion that I would like to help comfort Liza McCarthy’s family.

  “I get that all. The. Time. Unaffiliated ­people just don’t understand.”

  “Gosh darn independents,” I said.

  Amanda nodded in commiseration. She understood me perfectly.

  Chapter Six

  HOLDING A CHAPTER meeting just twenty-­four hours after the last one would never be a popular thing to do. For most sorority girls, chapter meetings are like dental examinations, or going to church, or hanging out with your rich maiden aunt because she’s got to leave the lake house to someone in her will. It’s a required act that you don’t necessarily enjoy.

  I understood the sentiment. These were young college women who also had priorities like studying, exercising, and watching Supernatural marathons on Netflix. Chapter meetings could be grueling, with endless debates and Robert’s Rules of Order and pin attire, requiring that sorority members get dressed up for chapter. Again, like visiting your rich aunt, you had to show some respect when you went.

  So there I stood, in front of fifty slightly pissed-­off, confused, grieving Debs. With a heavy heart, I informed them that I, Margot Blythe, was going to be their temporary chapter advisor.

  About twenty-­five hands went up. About twenty-­five cell phones were whipped out. I calmly and patiently answered everyone’s burning questions. Yes, the date party was still scheduled to occur. Yes, the T-­shirts would still get ordered. No, I didn’t know which DJ would be playing at the date party. Yes, I agreed that the Tri Mu bowling tournament was a ridiculous waste of time. Yes, we were still going to attend as a chapter and show our Panhellenic support.

  The questioning got a little intense, and I blessed Liza McCarthy’s memory for having the stamina and courage to face down a chapter of Debs every Monday, week after week. I thanked them for their support and friendship in the weeks to come, and invoked a quotation of Mary Gerald Callahan’s that I’d always loved: “A Delta Beta sister is steadfast, in times of sorrow and despair when things look bleakest, at the end of days, when evil and corruption shall reign over the earth.” That seemed to make everyone feel better.

  Then I sat down in my chair off to the side of the chapter president, Aubrey St. John, who resumed conducting the meeting.

  An impatient hand from a willowy, almond-­skinned sister in the front row was called upon. “I’d like to know if the chapter has any contingency plans for this week.”

  I looked around, confused. I had just announced that I was the chapter advisor in Liza’s absence. Wasn’t that the contingency plan?

  Another hand shot up. This one belonged to a curvy girl in a pretty emerald dress. ”I heard the Betas are on total lockdown.”

  Lockdown? I knew the death of a sorority row chapter advisor was newsworthy, but I didn’t think it placed every chapter in imminent jeopardy. Just ours.

  The first row girl nodded. “The Epsilon Chis have instituted the buddy system.”

  Another young lady in the back with a pixie cut and a deep Southern accent chimed in. “The Moos aren’t even accepting mail this week.”

  There was a gasp throughout the chapter room. ”But what about their online shopping deliveries?” someone cried.

  Miss Pixie Cut looked forlorn. “They’ll be delayed. Can you imagine?”

  Chattering and murmurs spread throughout the room. I stood, addressing the chapter once again. ”Ladies, I’m sure that the police will speak to each of those chapters and reassure them that whatever tragedy we endured here will not be repeated elsewhere.”

  Fifty sets of eyes fixed on me.

  “Margot.” Aubrey cleared her throat delicately. “I’m afraid that what the chapter is discussing is something altogether more … threatening.”

  I was thoroughly confused. What could be more threatening than a sudden and unexplained death?

  Aubrey explained. “It’s fraternity-­pledge prank week.”

  Ah. That made a whole lot more sense.

  Every year in the fall, Sutton College fraternities competed against each other to outwit, outsmart, and outprank each other. Local legend has it that long ago the pranks were committed fraternity against fraternity, mano a mano. But when the Iota Kap house burned down following an unfortunate incident involving flaming kegs, the Interfraternity Council decreed that henceforth, no pranks would be committed against fellow fraternities. But the damn IFC didn’t say anything about sororities.

  Since then, the fraternities still waged a war every fall, sending their pledges into skirmishes of prank-­offs on the sorority houses. Apparently, as long as no house burned down, the IFC was cool with it. Most of the time, the pranks were annoying, and occasionally, they were hilarious. Like the time the doors and windows of the Tri Mu house were boarded up from the outside. (Although the fire department didn’t think that was so funny.) Or the time that the Tri Mu composite was photocopied and spread across campus with GOT MILK? written over it. To this d
ay, I know absolutely nothing about who might have possibly perpetrated that brilliant prank or who could have provided the frat with a copy of the composite accidentally misplaced from the photographer’s studio when I was picking up the Delta Beta pledge portraits.

  “Other sororities are instituting buddy systems?” I asked the chapter.

  “And curfews,” a voice from the back added.

  “And no mail,” the pixie-­cut girl emphasized dramatically.

  “Are the pranks that bad now?”

  The chapter nodded almost uniformly in the affirmative.

  “But it’s not unsafe, is it?” I couldn’t imagine fraternity pledges doing something that would physically harm a sorority sister.

  That question was considered way more seriously than I would have liked. A sister in an unfortunate shade of yellow raised her hand. “There was that Gamma who had her eyebrows shaved off …”

  That speculation was dismissed by the social director. “She blamed a fraternity prank, but her little sis goes to my big sister’s tanning salon. She said that was totally an at-­home wax job gone bad.”

  Fifty heads bobbed in comprehension.

  “What about those Tri Mu pledges who went to the hospital?” It was the girl in the emerald dress again. Seriously, I had to ask her where she bought that. My skin would look fantastic in it.

  The chapter was curiously silent on that front.

  “Was it a fraternity prank or not?” I asked.

  Eyes met across the room. Obviously, no one knew for sure, one way or another. I decided to let it go, but the thought that the fraternities might be out of control unsettled me for the rest of the meeting.

  I asked the chapter officers to stay behind after closing rituals, which occurred faster than I’d ever seen them. The ladies—­and I—­flew through the chant and the poem, scared that someone else might drop dead. Thankfully, everyone stayed upright, which was a nice testament to Delta Beta stamina.

  I rearranged some chairs for me and the five officers. As in every Deb chapter, there was a chapter president, a standards and morals director, an academic director, a social activity director, and a pledge trainer. The officers reflected the five pointed star of the Delta Beta crest, with each point standing for a character requirement of a Deb woman: leadership, ethics, scholarship, civic life, and telling other ­people what to do.

  Some of the officers I had met the night before, and as the meeting went on, I was most impressed with their composure and maturity. The president, Aubrey St. John, was particularly impressive. A poised young lady, she spoke well, had superb posture, and seemed to immediately grasp almost all of my needs. I could tell I would rely on her greatly as the days went by.

  The academic director was studious, the social activity director was bubbly, and the pledge trainer was a lesbian. Which was perfectly fine. Delta Betas loved all their sisters, even if that sister loved other sisters. I was also very impressed with the standards and morals director, or, as we Debs shorten it, S&M. I’ll admit, I knew who she was before I even arrived on campus. When she’d pledged Delta Beta two years earlier, the news was trumpeted throughout the alumnae associations and in the alumnae magazine, The Busy Bee: She was Callahan Campbell, a direct descendant of our revered founder, Mary Gerald Callahan. The seventh generation of Callahan descendants to pledge Delta Beta, she was kind of like our sorority’s royalty.

  “It’s an honor to work with you, Callahan,” I told her, in my best non-­suck-­up voice.

  “Call me Callie,” she said with a dimpled smile. It was official. I had a girl crush.

  I arranged times to meet with each of them, to understand what was going on in the chapter and address any of their substantive concerns. No one seemed to have any issues with the change of advisors, and they all stood up fairly quickly to leave, seeming to have everything under control.

  Aubrey St. John stayed behind, which was both sweet and conscientious. By this point, I admit I was feeling a little out of my depth. There was a lot to do in a very short time.

  “Ms. Blythe,” she started to say.

  I interrupted her. “Call me Margot, please,” I insisted. “After all, we’re sisters.”

  Aubrey smiled back. While she didn’t have dimples, she was an adorable girl. Her hair was curled in perfect blond waves, her makeup expertly applied like a YouTube guru. She was a testament to Delta Beta womanhood. “I didn’t want to ask in front of the other girls,” she said, her words tentative, “but … what’s happening with Liza?”

  I reached over and patted Aubrey’s hand. Concern was etched all over her face. “The police will be contacting her family soon.”

  “She doesn’t have a family,” Aubrey said. “Not really. Her parents died in a freak accident when she was in college. She told me once, over …” A guilty look flashed across Aubrey’s face. “Drinks,” she finished weakly. I patted her hand again. Aubrey didn’t need to feel guilty confessing to underage drinking. Not with me. But then I remembered: I was the chapter advisor now. Maybe I should say something about it. I quickly dismissed that thought. This was a time for comfort, not chastisement. I made a mental note to chastise later.

  “Does—­did—­she have any brothers or sisters?”

  Aubrey shook her head. “That’s the thing. She lost her brother in Iraq. And her only sisters were Debs.”

  That shot a single arrow through my heart. The Delta Beta sorority was all Liza McCarthy had in the world, and we were there for her, holding her hand at the bitter end, reciting our sacred words in unison. I could only hope for such a death.

  “I’ll find out,” I promised Aubrey. “We’ll take care of Liza.”

  Aubrey used the back of her hand to wipe at her cheeks. “I guess I need to show you your new office.”

  Chapter Seven

  I WAS ORIENTING myself in the chapter advisor’s office when there was a knock at the door. Without waiting for me to say anything, the door opened and in walked a cute policeman who, inconceivably, didn’t seem happy to see me.

  “What are you doing back here?” I asked.

  “I came to see you.” The flat line of his mouth showed that he wasn’t that excited about it. Which hurt the ego, a little, if I’m telling the truth.

  I glanced at the door in irritation. “Men aren’t allowed back here.”

  “A man showed me back here.”

  I rolled my eyes. I was so right when I talked to Amanda. Hatfield didn’t understand sororities at all.

  “That’s the house brother.” Hatfield still didn’t look like he understood. “He’s a house brother,” I repeated, a little slower this time to see if that worked.

  “I know what a house brother is,” he said irritably. “I just think it’s a stupid name for someone you hire to wash dishes.”

  I so wasn’t getting into this conversation. Delta Betas were expected to exhibit the highest standards of housekeeping. And who we hired to help us with the dishes was our business.

  “Can I help you with something?” I asked, pointedly.

  Hatfield came into the office and shut the door behind him. He leaned against a bookshelf and crossed his arms. I tried not to notice how that stretched his police-­department polo shirt across a nicely built chest and his firm upper arms. He had a whole young Matthew McConaughey meets John Wayne vibe going on, all tanned, laconic, and suspicious.

  “How well did you know Liza McCarthy?”

  “I didn’t, really,” I said. “I just met her yesterday morning when I came into town.”

  Hatfield looked like he was trying to decide something. “They don’t have anyone to release the body to,” he finally said.

  I nodded. “She had no family. They’ve all passed.”

  His eyes narrowed on me. “I thought you didn’t know her.”

  “One, I learned that from a sister here. Two, I don’t appreciate the implication that I am dishonest. Debs are always honest.” It was in our creed.

  But I couldn’t waste time on being sass
y with a police officer. He might throw me in the clink again. Accidentally. And I had promised Aubrey that we were going to be there for the departed chapter advisor. “So what’s going to happen to Liza?”

  “The coroner’s holding the body for further tests. Since she doesn’t have family …”

  I cut him off right there. “She does have family. Her Delta Beta—­”

  Hatfield rolled his eyes. “Cut that out already.”

  “Excuse me?” As much as I was trying to avoid the back of a police car, I couldn’t let this slide.

  “Stop acting all high-­and-­mighty. You and I both know this sorority stuff is a crock of bull.”

  “I do not know that,” I assured him, affecting the posture of someone most offended.

  He reared his head back, studying me for a long moment. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Taken aback, I searched his face while I searched my memory. A tall drink of water with a bad attitude against sororities seems like someone I’d definitely remember. “No.” I tried to be polite. “Should I?” Something occurred to me. Hatfield, Hatfield … “What’s your first name?”

  “Ty.”

  Ty Hatfield. I rolled the name around in my head for a moment, but nothing. There’s only room for about eighty names in my memory at any given time. A hundred, max. And maybe the name Ty Hatfield rang a bell. But maybe it sounded like a thousand other names I’d learned in the last six years.

  “When did we meet?” I asked, tentatively. He didn’t look like we’d been close.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he spat out. He reached for the door handle. Oh no: He didn’t get to walk in here, be both suspicious and annoying, then walk out.

  “Why did you come over here?” I had the distinct feeling he hadn’t told me everything yet. “And what did you mean by further tests?”

  Maybe I wasn’t good with names. But I was pretty damn good with remembering details about my sisters.

  Ty Hatfield looked at me long and hard. Under other circumstances, with those baby blues, it was something I could get used to. Right now, I felt like he was about to bring out the handcuffs. And not in the good way. “There are some inconsistencies with the preliminary report on Ms. McCarthy’s death.”