Sisterhood is Deadly: A Sorority Sisters Mystery

by Lindsay Emory

  Amanda pursed her lips and seemed to collect herself. “Of course, it went fine. There’s always some tensions about those reports. No one likes admitting what’s happened under their watch. And then he wanted to ask about that Stefanie girl that they’re looking for. I didn’t even know what to say, I barely knew her. All I knew was she was a Delta Beta who’d gotten herself into some trouble.”

  “I wonder if she had a history of violent behavior,” I mused. “It seems crazy that our alumnae would recommend someone like that.” Like many sororities, Delta Beta generally required a letter of recommendation from an alumna before a bid was extended during rush.

  Amanda looked annoyed. “Something really needs to be done about that. Maybe I’ll talk to Mabel. Is she still in town?”

  “No,” I said, pausing for the delivery of my tea and Amanda’s chilled wine. “She left right after we left the police station.”

  “So she took Liza’s effects with her?”

  The thought of the phone made me smile, remembering the jokes that Casey and I had made last night. But then I remembered that as far as Amanda knew, the phone-­sex operation was just a rumor perpetrated by the Tri Mus and I decided not to share the shenanigans that Casey had forced me to participate in. So I just shrugged, and said, “No. Turned out, the phone wasn’t the sorority’s,” and left it at that.

  Amanda reached for her glass and took a rather long sip. “Let’s talk about happier things,” she said brightly. “I have an announcement.” She lifted her glass. “I got a promotion!”

  I gasped in delight. “What! When?”

  “This morning. I’m moving to administration. Vice President of Student Affairs.”

  My mouth dropped open. That was huge. “Congratulations, Big!” I clinked my iced-­tea glass to her wineglass. “Will you be sad to leave Panhellenic?”

  “No,” she said definitively. “I see this move as broadening the work I can do for students. Now I can benefit the whole student body, not just the Greeks.”

  That was a true Deb response, right there. Always focused on the greater good.

  “And,” she continued, “there’s a huge raise. Which is always nice in academia.”

  I reminded myself that Amanda had had a very difficult childhood in a West Virginia coal mine. Or close to one. Of course she deserved all the raises in the world.

  Amanda ordered a second glass of wine, which she also totally deserved, and the lunch stretched into an hour—­just like it used to be, me and my big, laughing and gossiping and drinking.

  Her phone rang, and she checked the number. “Ugh,” She said. “I’m so sorry. They’re already asking me to do stuff for them.”

  As before, she took the call outside, which I thought was very nice manners. While I was waiting at the table, I saw a familiar blond head watching us. This time, she was dressed in all black, which looked very chic and slimming, even on a Moo.

  Amanda’s call took a while, so I checked my e-­mail before she returned, very apologetic for taking so long. “It’s fine,” I said. “No one understands better than me that some jobs are twenty-­four/seven.”

  She nodded and drained her chardonnay. That would be her second. But I wasn’t counting.

  I hated to bring up a possibly uncomfortable topic, but I had to know. “So what’s going on with you and Dean?”

  She frowned, and settled her hands in her lap. “Dean and I are over.”

  “Oh,” I said, with not a small amount of relief. If she and Dean were over, then maybe I was relieved of any responsibility to tell her about his preference for eighteen-­year-­olds named Heather and Stefanie. “That’s … sad.” It might have been sad, but I really couldn’t tell from the carefully composed look she’d put on.

  “Yes. Well, you know what they say. ­People are in your life for a reason.”

  The saying was, ­“People are in your life for a season, a reason, or a lifetime.” I should know. I had had that framed and given it to Amanda for her graduation gift.

  “Mr. Perfect is still out there,” I said supportively.

  Amanda made a dismissive sound. “Maybe. Or maybe they’re all self-­involved, entitled jerks.” That didn’t sound like Amanda; maybe Dean had hurt her more than she was letting on.

  I focused back on the problem at hand. “No, you don’t believe that. Remember how we made those lists in college, like Oprah told us to? The ones about defining our perfect man?” I smiled reassuringly. “Of course, my perfect man was Matt Damon and yours was Ben Affleck, so we could stay best friends and double-­date all the time.” I counted off on my fingers. “You wanted someone artistic and sensitive and financially independent. And someone who liked to surf.” I couldn’t remember why that one was on there. It had seemed important at the time. “Your artistic millionaire surfer is out there, I know it.”

  The expression on Amanda’s face was indecipherable. Maybe she wanted to believe me, maybe she was too depressed by her breakup to believe that good things happen for ­people. Then she gave herself a little shake and waved at the waitress for the check. “Thanks, Margot,” she said a bit condescendingly, just like a big sister. “But until Ben Affleck gets here, I’m going to have to take care of myself.”

  Chapter Twenty-­eight

  AMANDA PAID FOR the lunch, insisting that she had invited me, so it was her treat. After a friendly good-­bye squeeze, she left, her Kate Spade heels snapping down the sidewalk. I counted to ten and, as I expected, I was joined by none other than Ainsley St. John, as if she’d come out of nowhere. There were so many similarities between her and Aubrey, but I was beginning to see the differences now. Aubrey’s lips were poutier, her cheeks fuller. Ainsley’s eyes were a tad closer together, her nose a bit sharper. They were both beautiful, as much as it annoyed me to admit that about a Tri Mu.

  “We have to stop meeting like this,” I drawled. Knowing that she was one of Liza’s phone-­sex operators made me like her a whole lot less.

  “What were you two doing in there?” Ainsley demanded, pointing at the restaurant where Amanda and I had just eaten.

  “None of your business,” I said as politely as I could. It should have been obvious, what with the forks and the plates of food.

  Ainsley’s eyes narrowed on me. “I thought you would do something. That’s why I gave you the numbers.”

  Right. The numbers. Now I concluded there might be something seriously wrong with Aubrey’s twin. Or maybe she wasn’t taking her meds like she should. It was just a tragedy pileup where this girl was concerned. I had taken her seriously when she’d said she wanted the phone-­sex ring shut down; but that was before I knew she was an integral part of its operation.

  “What do you want?” I asked, trying to sound nice. Maybe if I was nice, she’d go away. That usually worked with the overeager sales associates trying to sell me perfume at the department store.

  “I want justice.” The self-­righ­teous­ness in her tone was shocking. Like she, of all ho-­bags, had any room to demand anything.

  “If ­people keep picking up the phone, there’s nothing I can do.” I looked at her accusingly. I understood that she felt victimized. My one experience the night before had definitely given me insight into the sleaziness of the business Ainsley was involved in. But she had to take responsibility and acknowledge that if she kept accepting calls from perverts, she might be helping to perpetuate the nastiness.

  “Margot?” The voice came from behind me. I turned, and there was Amanda, a question huge on her face as her eyes darted between me and Ainsley. She pointed lamely at the tearoom door. “I think I left my credit card.”

  The three of us faced off awkwardly for a moment. I thought fast. I didn’t want a mentally unstable Ainsley to attack Amanda or anything. That could cause PTSD. For Amanda and me. “She’s not involved in this,” I said to Ainsley. “She’s not Panhellenic anymore. This is between us. Deb and Moo … Mu. Mu.” I hoped she would ignore the slightly insulting slip of the tongue. My pledge trainer taught
me better than that.

  Ainsley pointed at Amanda. “She could have stopped this from the beginning.” Ainsley looked back at me, ferociousness in her pretty eyes. “It was her job!”

  Amanda gasped self-­righ­teously. I put my hands out between them. “Seriously. Leave her alone.” I used my sternest chapter-­advisor voice, the one that really hadn’t been working so well recently.

  Ainsley’s lip curled. “You’re just as bad as the rest of them. You just won’t take me seriously until I expose every last one of you slutty Delta Beta bitches.” And with that dramatic statement, she whirled and stomped off down the street.

  “Ainsley …” I called after her halfheartedly. The chapter advisor in me wanted to broker some sort of peace. The Delta Beta in me wanted her far, far, away from me. On another planet. Without hair dye or moisturizer.

  Then I remembered Amanda, awkwardly standing by after being attacked for no good reason. “Are you okay?” I asked, searching her face. She nodded, and I saw that she was upset by Ainsley’s uncalled-­for verbal abuse of our sorority. But then, like a strong Deb woman, she pushed her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and went to get her credit card.

  Chapter Twenty-­nine

  I WAS KNEE deep in a fascinating TLC marathon about big fat Amish gypsies when the doorbell rang. I picked up my broom, just in case I had to chase a fraternity pledge with it.

  Instead, it was just Ty Hatfield.

  “Again?” I asked.

  “I could say the same about you,” he said, pushing his way in the door. A dark-­haired officer followed him: Malouf, the same one who had come the night that Liza died.

  “Is Hunter Curtis around?” Ty asked.

  I didn’t like the sound of his voice. It was very … official. And not very friendly. And when a cop talks like that, it makes you stand straight and answer, pronto.

  “He’s probably in the dining room. We just finished dinner.”

  Because he was looking all official, and sounding official, and had another officer with him, my stomach felt like lead as we walked back to the dining room.

  “Hunter?” I called his name, seeing the hard worker cleaning off the tables where the ladies had just eaten chicken à la king and fruit salad for dinner. “These gentlemen …”

  But I was cut off by Ty’s stepping forward. “Hunter Curtis?” There was his authoritative cop voice again.

  Hunter nodded, struck mute by the same respect for law enforcement that I had.

  “You’re under arrest.” The dark-­haired officer Malouf grabbed Hunter by the shoulder and spun him around, linking both of Hunter’s hands behind his lower back.

  “For what?” I demanded hotly.

  Ty gave me a cool look. “For burglary, destruction of property, criminal mischief.”

  I was shocked. Yet Hunter was not. His head hung low, and his shoulders slumped as he was led out of the house. It was to be expected that sorority sisters started gathering in the hall, their nightly activities interrupted, yet again, by police in the sorority house. If Hunter was a criminal, working for us, working among us, it was going to devastate everyone.

  Ty walked slower than his partner, staying behind with me. My mind was running a mile a minute. I’d have to call HQ—­again—­and ask about Hunter’s background employment check. They’d have to call our lawyer about liability. And Casey! I’d have to call him the second the police left to formulate a PR statement.

  “His fingerprints were all over the room,” Ty said under his breath.

  “What?” My head spun to look at him. “What room?”

  “The chapter advisor’s office.”

  I stopped dead. “Let Hunter go, right this second.”

  Ty stopped and stared. “Excuse me?”

  “He’s the house brother,” I explained calmly. “He does housework for us. His fingerprints are all over this house. That’s no proof of anything.”

  “They were wrapped around the award used to destroy the computer.” Ty’s words chilled me. “They weren’t accidental, housecleaning fingerprints.”

  I let go of the breath I was holding, slow and measured. Ty continued. “The fingerprints matched ones taken at the Beta Gamma house two years ago when their chapter room was stacked with giant blowup phalluses.”

  I rolled my eyes. “They called the cops about that?” I asked incredulously. Beta Gamma had no sense of humor. Ty was deadpan, and I remembered something about goats in the bathroom. I decided to focus on the bigger issue. “So Hunter broke into the office as a frat-­pledge prank? He’s not even a pledge!”

  Ty shrugged. “Or he helped his pledges get into the house.” He started walking toward the door again, paused, and looked back at me. “Have you thought about a security system yet?”

  A frustrated exhale blew my bangs out of my eyes. I watched Hunter being put into the police car, then they drove off, leaving me and thirty sorority women with no one to clear our plates. This was getting ridiculous.

  I hustled up some pledges to help with the kitchen cleanup, promising them a reprieve on their other pledge duties later. Until we hired a new house brother, or Hunter came back, I’d have to come up with a rotating system for the chores he normally did. I mostly focused on the inconvenience until we finished, then I remembered what else had happened the night that the chapter advisor’s office had been trashed. Stefanie Grossman’s file had disappeared.

  Why would the frat pledges have stolen just one file from our office? It didn’t make sense. But then, goats and giant phalluses and a hundred pineapple-­no-­cheese pizzas didn’t make sense either. These were fraternities we were talking about.

  Still, with the sensitive information contained in Stefanie’s file, I needed to make sure that didn’t get passed around fraternity row. Delta Beta’s reputation would be toast.

  I grabbed my purse and headed to campus.

  I KNEW JUST where to find the Interfraternity Council offices. Logically, at the Commons, segregated from the sorority Panhellenic offices on the opposite side of the basement. A traditional institution founded by devout Carolina Presbyterians, Sutton College experienced the sexual-­equality movement later than most, and in some ways it didn’t quite catch on.

  I was surprised to find Brice Concannon in his office. A man who dressed well and wore nice cologne surely had more exciting places to be than this Cold-­War-­era bunker.

  “Margot!” He stood when I walked in, a real Southern gentleman. “May I call you Margot?”

  “Of course,” I said graciously.

  He invited me to sit, which I did, basking in his apparent admiration and trying to resist the impulse to nervously brush my bangs off my face. The tension in that windowless office was enough to make a girl forget that she was visiting to discuss illegal activities and sexual misconduct.

  When he asked me what he could do for me, I had to bring myself back to the unfortunate situation at hand. As I explained Hunter’s arrest, Brice interrupted to ask, “What fraternity is he a member of?”

  “Omega Omicron Rho.” When Brice relaxed slightly, I understood. He was worried that Hunter was an Eta Ep, one of his brothers. I could relate.

  “Do you want me to talk to their advisor?” Brice reached out for a pen to write something down, and I jerked forward to cover his hand with mine.

  “It’s a little more complicated than that.” Following his glance at my ragged manicure, I pulled back my hand. “Pranks are one thing. We can laugh them off, we can accept them as a normal part of college life. But if Hunter’s brothers put him up to this prank, it’s not funny. This is criminal. Breaking and entering. Burglary.”

  “What did they take?”

  I bit my lip. Sharing this information was dangerous if Brice Concannon wasn’t a gentleman.

  “I don’t know if I should say. It involves a violation of our Standards and Morals code …”

  Brice held up a hand. “Say no more. I understand.”

  I sighed in relief. Finally, someone who understood
that I couldn’t spill all the nasty beans about my sisters. Unlike Ty Hatfield, Brice Concannon understood that I needed to protect ladies’ reputations.

  “I’m sure the phone-­sex ring has been really disruptive to the Debs.”

  Oh, crap.

  “The what?” I tried playing innocent, which didn’t wipe the amused look off Brice’s face.

  “There have been rumors, Margot. But if it makes you feel any better, I think they’re all complimentary.”

  No. That did not make me feel better. Neither did what I had to say next.

  “I was actually referring to another violation …” I swallowed and decided to come out with it. “A sister’s S&M file was taken from my office. Presumably by the Omegas, Hunter’s brothers.”

  When Brice’s brows lifted at “S&M” I rolled my eyes. “It’s short for Standards and Morals.”

  “Ah.”

  “This is a confidential file. If it got out on fraternity row, it could hurt reputations.”

  “Is the stuff in the file true?”

  “Does it matter?” I snapped.

  Brice shrugged. “If she did it, then she probably deserves what happens to her.”

  It was one thing for me to apply antiquated moral requirements to my sisters. It was another thing for a frat brother to do it.

  Now I remembered Ty’s warning and wondered why he’d given it. “Hunter was arrested by Officer Hatfield tonight. Do you know him?”

  Brice’s eyes closed briefly with a reluctant smile. “Unfortunately, yes. If he’s the one that arrested Hunter, this all makes a lot more sense.”

  “It does?”

  “Hatfield is known around town for being anti-­Greek. His track record speaks for itself. Every time there’s a fraternity getting in trouble, it’s usually Hatfield there, writing tickets and whatnot.” He waved his hand. “You know, boys will be boys. But some ­people have to be all uptight about it.”

  “Like the pranks,” I offered.

  “Exactly.” Brice shook his head. “You and I, we understand that this is a normal part of Greek life. High jinks, crazy parties, pranks. Officer Hatfield, on the other hand, gets all bent out of shape when guys have one little party where some underaged girl brings her own Rohypnol.”