Rushing to Die (10 page)

 

Chapter Eighteen

T
HE CHEERS WEREN'T
quite as jubilant after the doors closed today, but I still had to hand it to my girls. Overall, they'd faced severe adversity and survived, with their class and makeup intact. They were true testaments to the ideals of Delta Beta womanhood.

As proud as they were of their accomplishments, I could see the rumblings starting. Some had their phones out and were seeing Nick Holden's tweets about Sutton rush for the first time. If I didn't do something soon, I could have a revolt on my hands, maybe one I couldn't control.

I blew my whistle. “Into the chapter room, ladies!”

As the women were filing in, I grabbed Ginnifer by the elbow.

“You have to let me handle this,” I said in a low voice.

She looked confused and a little alarmed. “Handle what?”

“The stuff that happened today. You know as well as I do what sorority women are capable of. We have to allow the girls to let off some steam, or else real trouble is going to hit us.”

Ginnifer looked like she was about to say something but bit her lip and reluctantly nodded. I knew that restraint was probably going to be hard for someone like her, but I knew these women a bit better than she did. She had to trust me.

After the ladies settled down, I once again told them what a terrific job they had done. Then I addressed the elephant in the room.

“As some of you are aware, there have been some critics tweeting trying to mess with our heads. This is a psychological tactic, everyone; Nick Holden is trying to get into our heads. And I know that Delta Betas will not be brought down by mental issues. We have our own mental issues, and we're going to stick by them.”

I got a ­couple of strange looks, but I was tired, and I'm sure they knew what I meant.

“Please. Do not stoop to his level. Remember the five rules of recruitment. Do NOT go on social media, tonight, whatever you do. The Mafia will be watching for any misstep, and we are not going to give them that ammunition.”

Some ladies still looked different shades of ticked off and confused, but with my message delivered, I dismissed the chapter for dinner. I felt better for one moment, until the doorbell rang, instantly spiking my anxiety. It could be anything on the other side of that door. Thirty third-­grader hired assassins with Nerf guns. A flaming bag of dog poop. An Ed McMahon impersonator with a fake lottery check. Who knew what kind of evil plots the other chapters had up their sleeves?

So it was with a sigh of relief when I opened the door and found Lieutenant Hatfield, holding a bucket of fried chicken. Law enforcement and trans fats were not my favorite combination of weapons, but on a day like today, it was the least of my worries.

“Chicken?” He held the bucket toward me.

I shook my head regretfully; the grease would go straight to my hips. He selected a juicy leg, and I decided to start off on a good note.

“I'm sorry about today,” I said. “Again.” I really was. Ordinarily, a Delta Beta would always cooperate with law enforcement to the best of her ability. But I had been placed in an impossible position.

“Someone in your house knows something about Shannon Bender's murder,” Ty said.

“You shouldn't assume things.” Ty's eyes shifted from his chicken to me, and I felt encouraged to continue. “Maybe someone from another house followed her here and purposely murdered her to make us look bad.” It sounded insane, I knew. But when I told Ty about Nick Holden's tweets, he tossed his half-­eaten piece of chicken in the trash can and took out his notepad.

“He's purposely trying to make us look bad, to further his own agenda. Who would do something like that?” I asked after I told Ty what Nick had tweeted about the “Dead Delta Beta” house, pointing out that sorority women were one hundred percent more likely to die at our house. “It was just sick. Twisted.” I wrapped my arms around myself and realized that while I had pushed the chapter to overcome the murders of three months ago, I wasn't sure I ever would. The deaths of my sisters would forever haunt me. And that was when it hit me: Shannon Bender was someone's sister, too.

I had known that, logically, as soon as Ty had told me of her Tri Mu affiliation. But right then, I felt it, in my gut. Someone else would be haunted as I was.

“Have you told them?”

Ty looked up from his notes. “Told who what?”

“The Tri Mus. About Shannon Bender.”

He shook his head. “She wasn't a member here. She was a member from some school in the Northwest.”

That jiggled something in my brain. But I was too overcaffeinated, underrested, and anxious to fully explore it right now. “What was on the card? In the glasses?”

Ty made that face that he did when he didn't want to tell me something. I understood. I often did not want to tell him things. Still. “I want to help. I do. Maybe if you let me see it, I'll be able to see something, recognize something.”

His sigh told me he was still reluctant even if his next words didn't. “You could be a suspect.”

I threw up my hands. “Really? What was the time of death?”

He looked taken aback, then decided to tell me that the ME had approximated Shannon Bender's time of death to be around 9:00
A.M.
on Friday.

“HA! I cannot be a suspect, and neither can the rest of our chapter. Because at the time of Shannon Bender's death, we were having mandatory pedicures downtown at the Sutton Spa Royale.”

He looked skeptical, so I threw in the one piece of evidence that always worked on
Law &
Order
. “We have credit-­card receipts.”

“For the whole chapter?”

“All you had to do was ask.”

“Pedicures for a mass alibi,” he muttered as he scribbled in his notebook.

“Spa pedicures,” I added. “Which take nearly an hour and a half.”

Ty took a deep breath and closed his notebook. “Would you like to go down to the station with me?”

“In the front seat or backseat?” I had been to the Sutton police station both ways. I definitely had a preference.

“Front seat,” Ty said almost gallantly, and I was feeling pleasantly warm with the invitation until he shoved the bucket at me. “You can hold the chicken.”

T
Y PULLED UP
the files on his computer, and I watched in silence. There were only five minutes of shaky footage, and I wasn't sure I was going to be any help at all. But I asked to see it again and this time was moved to take notes.

But at the end of the second viewing, I didn't have anything that would help the Sutton Police Department find Shannon Bender's killer. “Nothing?” Ty asked incredulously. “You have nothing?”

I looked down at my notes. “She had a great shoe collection.”

Ty looked like that observation caused him pain, but of course I'd noticed the dust bags lying on her hotel-­room floor and the distinctive red soles of the heels on top of them. What kind of Delta Beta wouldn't make note of that?

There was only one other thing, and when I mentioned it, I could tell Ty was having a very hard time stopping his eyeballs from rolling into the back of his head.

“So?” he said, reluctantly.

“It just stood out, is all.”

“A vase of purple lilies stood out?”

There had been a blip, at the beginning of the recording. Maybe not even two seconds long, like there had been something else that was recorded over. There was a shot of a fabulous chandelier, then the person wearing the Witness glasses had moved her head, down to the center of what looked like a beautiful entry hall, where a crystal vase of deep violet lilies sat atop a shiny cherry antique table. Then the footage ended and restarted with Shannon doing a check in her hotel room of the glasses. Then that was it.

“It's January,” I tried to explain. “Lilies aren't big this time of year.”

“Okay . . .”

I sighed. That really wasn't why the lilies stood out. But like the shoes, they had, whether because I'm a girl who just likes a nice floral arrangement or because it really was a clue that my brain couldn't interpret at the moment.

“I don't know,” I said wearily. “If I think of something else, I'll let you know.”

Ty regarded me for a moment. “How much sleep have you gotten this week?”

I blinked. That was a conversation switcheroo. “I plead the fifth,” I answered cautiously. You never knew what was considered “illegal” to Ty Hatfield.

“I appreciate the help.” His voice sounded formal and sad, almost, and I thought I knew why. Because Ty Hatfield took pride in his work, like me, and he didn't like to let ­people down, either.

“I need to get back to the house,” I said, trying to bite back a yawn. Day two's completion only meant that the chapter needed to prepare for the next day of rush, and there were about three hundred votive candles that needed to be wrapped with gold ribbon and sealed off with hot glue.

Ty nodded. “I'll drive you back.” We had just buckled into the squad car when he checked a message on his phone and looked at me. “You wouldn't know anything about a hundred packages of stinky cheese being placed in the heating vents of a sorority house tonight . . .”

I couldn't help but laugh. That was a good one. I shook my head. “You know me better than that. I would never send my girls into HVAC systems.” The dust would wreak havoc on their clothes. And just think of their manicures.

Ty chuckled and threw the car into gear.

“Besides, we abide by all applicable Panhellenic curfews,” I said solemnly.

We drove for a few minutes, lost in our own thoughts, and when he finally pulled into the Deb parking lot, he nonchalantly asked, “So you've been meeting with Concannon?”

Ty and Brice had some history, but then so did Ty and me. We'd interacted a little in college, a time when he was fifty pounds heavier and not as hot and as assertive as he was now. He was scarily good at recalling details from years ago, and whatever Brice had done to tick Ty off, I knew it was probably serious.

“He's doing a report for the college. And he set up my interview with Nick Holden.”

“The reporter? You met with him, too? And you say you don't have time for the police investigation?”

That stung. “Hey, I'm cooperating now. As long as it doesn't interfere with rush.” I was just ribbing him a little, but he didn't smile back.

“Margot, this isn't a joke. I'm not asking you for information just because I like hanging around you. It concerns me that someone murdered Shannon Bender while she was wearing a Delta Beta shirt.” Ty's hand had reached across the car and brushed my jacket sleeve. “It could have been . . . someone else.”

I got what he was saying, I did. “No one's going to be breaking curfew, Ty. Not on my watch. We're playing it safe, from now on.”

 

Chapter Nineteen

I
AW
OKE EARLY
the next morning with my special Panhellenic ringtone blaring “Welcome to the Jungle.” “What,” I answered groggily. I usually sound a bit more professional when speaking to the Panhellenic advisor, but glue-­gunning hundreds of pieces of sparkly gold ribbon had taken until nearly 3:00
A.M.

Poor Maya Rodman stuttered nervously, “Emergency meeting. Th-­th-­thirty minutes,” right before hanging up. Really.

I rolled out of bed and knew I should make an effort, seeing as the Debs had been on thin ice at the last emergency meeting. But on the other hand, I had thirty minutes, and I had not had coffee yet. A girl had to make priorities.

And compromises, I thought, as I jogged down the stairs to the Panhellenic offices on campus. This morning's compromise had been wearing the dirty yoga pants (which were black, after all) with a clean Sutton College sweatshirt. I had also compromised with a drip coffee at the drive-­thru.

But I waved my personal Delta Beta coffee mug at the room when I walked in and smiled like I had no idea what was going on or why this meeting was called.

Because, to be honest? I didn't. And that was kind of annoying.

I'm the type of girl who likes to be in the know about everything, even if I act befuddled. I learned long ago that sometimes it pays to be considered the stupidest person in the room as long as you're secretly the smartest person. Today, it was galling to know that maybe I was the least knowledgeable person.

The advisors took their places at the table, and so did the Mafia.

The door opened again, we all turned, and who should it be but Her Evilness herself, Ms. Sheila DeGrasse.

I hated Sheila for many reasons. I hated what she stood for. I hated that she did rush for the money and not for the love of sisterhood. I hated that at eight thirty on a Wednesday during rush, she had the nerve to walk in here with a DVF wrap dress, a TDF statement necklace, and OTT platform heels. That bitch.

And now, somehow, she had ingratiated herself with the college president and the news reporter who had already produced one television special that tried to take Delta Beta down.

My mean-­girl detector was going off, big-­time. Sheila was up to something evil. As usual.

Unfortunately, she took a seat at the far end of the table, next to the Tri Mu advisor, as if she knew that I was only drinking drip coffee and wouldn't care if it spilled all over that lovely silk jersey dress she wore.

A bang came from the front of the room: Lo and behold, Patty Huntington actually held a gavel. That's when I knew things had gotten serious.

But none of the Mafia spoke. They sat there with their folded arms, their glares hot and judgmental behind their bifocals. I hadn't felt like this since my mother dropped me off for Catholic education, and the nuns found out I wasn't Catholic—­my mother had just needed some free child care.

The seconds ticked away, and I couldn't stand it anymore. Maybe the other houses had all their work done, but the Delta Betas had two hundred stuffed bumblebees to arrange artfully. I raised my hand. “I'm sorry—­Maya didn't tell me what this meeting was about.”

The room exploded, as every chapter advisor began unleashing her fury.

“Do you have any idea what blue cheese does to lace doilies?”

“It is unacceptable in this day and age! We need our Internet to be porn-­free!”

“With God as my witness, someone is going to pay for those lilies!”

Slowly, I began to realize that all of the houses had been the recipients of various pranks the night before, and that the Delta Betas had gotten off easy, with a port-­a-­potty in the front yard.

While the rest of the advisors were ranting about the injustices done to their house, I watched Sheila. Still sitting, her arms crossed, a stone-­cold look on her face. I remembered the rush at ICU and the bedbugs and the ice-­cold water and the food poisoning. The Internet hacking and the stinky cheese and a port-­a-­potty were exactly the kinds of tactics the Moos were paying for, in the form of one Ms. DeGrasse.

Patty Huntington banged her gavel again. “Ladies! This behavior is unacceptable!”

“Since when,” the Lambda advisor muttered.

“Since we have been under intense scrutiny from the college, parents, the press . . .”

Von Douton interrupted her. “Nick Holden, to be exact. It has come to our attention that he is here, in Sutton, demanding interviews with those who are connected with sororities.”

“Therefore, as of today, we are instituting a new transparency policy,” Louella Jackson said.

That wasn't good. Sororities didn't do transparency.

I raised my hand. “What do you mean by, ‘transparency'?” Yes, I used finger quotes.

Clara-­Jane Booth smiled, just like the kindly grandmother she undoubtedly wanted ­people to believe she was. “We want to foster a community of open, honest communication. We need to open our doors, share safety concerns, best practices, feel free to tell our stories.”

“Sunshine is the best disinfectant, after all,” Sue Harlow chirped.

That I could not agree with. Everyone I knew carried little bottles of apricot-­mango-­scented antibacterial gel to combat the winter colds that ran rampant during rush.

Von Douton spoke up. “That is why we are opening the floor to all of you, to discuss what you've heard about Nick Holden and his plans for his so-­called investigative report.” Then she glared at the panel of chapter advisors, as if it was our fault for not obstructing the freedom of the press.

This seemed . . . oddly specific. The Epsilon Chi advisor spoke first. “The interfraternity advisor e-­mailed me about speaking with Holden.” Several other ladies nodded.

“He invited rushees to a round table last week. I know a few of our members were contacted,” the Lambda advisor said. “And according to his Twitter feed, he seems to have very strong feelings about sorority life.”

“He thinks sororities are outdated and sexist,” the Epsilon Chi advisor added.

“He doesn't like us very much.” Sarah McLane pointed out the obvious, as usual.

“No, he doesn't,” Louella said sharply. She pointed a pen toward the Lambda advisor. “What did your girls say to him?”

“I . . . I . . . don't know. It's rush week.”

The answer made perfect sense to me, but Louella seemed shocked. “We have a
threat
on this campus, and you don't
know
what your members are telling him?”

As one, the Mafia shook their heads in dismay.

“I think it's obvious what needs to be done.” Alexandria sniffed. “From this point on, anyone who is found to be assisting Nick Holden in his attempts to destroy Sutton College Panhellenic will face severe consequences.”

“I second,” Louella said.

“All those in favor?” Alexandria didn't finish her question before four hands rose around her.

It was one thing when I had objections to assisting Nick Holden, but coming on the heels for a plea for “transparency,” something was fishy here. And I wasn't the only one who thought so.

Sheila DeGrasse stood gracefully. “I'd like to enter an objection to the recent motion.”

She was suddenly in the glare of the Mafia's ultracritical spotlight, and I had to admire how she stayed cool as a cucumber. “I fail to see how not cooperating with the press assists this Panhellenic. It won't protect us, it will only empower Nick Holden to come up with his own opinions on the recent events at Sutton. Don't we want him to hear our side?”

I shifted in my seat, acutely aware that Sheila's thoughts were eerily similar to my own.

“Everyone here needs to start cooperating, with each other, with the press, with the police.”

The way she said that got my attention. It was funny. In all the hubbub about transparency and dialogue, Sheila was the first one to mention giving information to the police. Was it her guilty conscience?

“You're not from here,” Louella pointed out, and many of the women in the room nodded in agreement. “You don't have a vested interest in the long-­term viability of this Panhellenic.”

Sheila's lips pursed. She clearly did not like being told that. “I've already spoken with Nick Holden and agreed to answer questions on camera.”

Suddenly, I realized I was in a very precarious position, as someone who had also already cooperated with Holden and for the same reasons as Sheila. The Mafia was wrong on this call, and Leticia and Mary Gerald would want me to speak up for the rights of anyone who believed in the First Amendment and the right to lie to the press.

“I find myself in the unfortunate position of agreeing with Ms. DeGrasse.”

Wait.

Did I really say that?

The rest of the advisors and Mafia seemed to be checking their hearing as well. A Delta Beta agreeing with Tri Mu? It was unheard of.

And very, very suspicious.

Alexandria Von Douton lifted a shocked brow as high as it could go, as frozen as her forehead was. “What, exactly, are you saying, Ms. Blythe.”

“I'm saying that the Delta Betas will be thrilled to cooperate with the police, as always.” That didn't sound right. “And I also will be participating in Mr. Holden's interviews. Because we can't let the terrorists win.”

Some of the women seemed disconcerted by that idea, and some looked ready to attack. I wondered who would win the Sutton town ser­vices pool if I called in after being beaten by a bunch of Coach handbags.

Patty Huntington opened a sheet of folded paper that Alexandria had just handed her. “It seems that charges have been filed against Ms. DeGrasse and Ms. Blythe.”

“What are you talking about?” Sheila demanded.

“I was cleared of those!” I screeched. “I'm innocent!”

Patty showed no emotion as she read, “The council will therefore apply rule 7.8, subsection D.”

That was one of the Mafia's new rules, so it took me a little longer to realize what was about to happen. But when I did, I thought I'd prefer being beaten senseless by a bunch of swinging leather handbags.