Rushing to Die (12 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-­two

A
S S
OON AS
I turned the corner onto Greek Row, I knew why Maya had been so insistent that Sheila and I return to our houses. Emergency vehicles blocked one end of the street, and crowds of young women stood in front of each of the sorority houses. I pulled my car over and parked illegally in front of a fire hydrant since every cop in Sutton was at the house with yellow crime-­scene tape around it.

Thankfully, it wasn't mine.

Pushing through the crowds, I moved as fast as I could, feeling sick to my stomach.

Then I saw another familiar sight, the gurney and the ambulance and the tall, straight back of Lieutenant Hatfield, his sandy head bent and windblown as he talked to Sarah McLane at the Tri Mu house. My hand covered my mouth.
Oh no.

“Margot!” I turned and saw Callie and Aubrey running to me, still in their pajama pants and slippers. It wasn't proper attire for leaving the house, especially during first-­impression-­is-­everything rush week, but given that every sorority sister at Sutton was out here in similar outfits, I wouldn't give it another thought. I clutched them tight to me with the horrible realization that we weren't promised today, or tomorrow. Or the next day. With Callie and Aubrey in my arms, I leaned in and whispered urgently, “Did we do something?”

I let them go and saw that although their eyes were wide, their heads were shaking vehemently. Good. The last thing I needed was this being a smoke-­bomb prank gone wrong.

Our attention was again absorbed in the scene playing out in front of us at the Tri Mu house—­it felt wrong to call them Moos at a time like this.

“I saw on Twitter that it's a disgruntled rushee who came after the Tri Mus with a steak knife after they cut her,” Callie whispered to me.

“I heard it was Sheila DeGrasse finally snapping and throwing a flat iron into a bathtub.”

That didn't even make sense. “Sheila was with me all night,” I whispered back.

“I think you mean a toaster,” Callie corrected Aubrey.

“Why would someone have a bathtub in the kitchen?” Aubrey asked.

There was a reason why Aubrey was our chapter president.

“How was your night in prison?” Aubrey asked, full of concern.

“Well, it wasn't prison exactly,” I said, feeling vaguely guilty about my blissful nine hours of uninterrupted,
Law-­&-­Order
-­induced sleep. “But more importantly, how did it go last night? Did the skit go well? What about the cues? Did anyone miss her cues?” I asked in a hushed voice, so that no one could overhear.

Aubrey and Callie hurriedly gave me the CliffsNotes version of the third day of rush. Although there were a few minor errors (how hard is it to play a ukulele, really?), it seemed as if the chapter's vast and concerted effort to be the most prepared chapter that Sutton rush had ever seen was paying off. Our top choices for sisters were coming back every night, and we had been extremely popular with all the rushees. So popular, we were having to cut a substantial percentage every day—­heartbreaking. If I could open Delta Beta sisterhood to every woman in the world, I would. As long as they met our high criteria.

Through the crowd, I saw the police setting up a barricade in front of a few reporters and cameramen. There was Nick Holden, at the front of the group, with his head low and talking to the man next to him.

Memories of his unnecessarily venomous tweets about sorority life and the Debs in particular came back to me as I pushed through the crowd and got his attention. He followed me down to the Epsilon Chi house before I turned to speak.

“What was all that about the other night?”

Nick's eyelids dropped, and he licked his lips. “What other night?”

I threw up my hands. “Your tweets during the rush parties! They were uncalled for, hateful, spiteful. Why do you want to cause so much trouble?”

“I'm a public figure, Margot, and ­people are entitled to my opinion.”

“Oh please,” I scoffed. “You're a reporter who's trying to drum up controversy.”

“I'm trying to open ­people's eyes and show them what sorority life is all about.” He pointed at the Tri Mu house and the emergency vehicles parked there. “And I think I've been proved correct.”

“You are disgusting. These are horrible events—­”

“That seem to only happen to sorority women. The community, parents, the college, all are starting to see a pattern. Why can't you?”

I felt sick to my stomach when he mentioned a “pattern.” Reality was yanking me out of my happy little fantasy world, and I hated when that happened. “What's your end game, Holden,” I said quietly.

He smiled ruefully. “I told you in the coffee shop. You must not have been listening.”

“The end of sororities?” I had to laugh. It was never going to happen. “Our sisterhoods will survive this.”

“No, Margot. Your sisterhoods are self-­destructing, and you can't even see it.”

Maybe I couldn't see this pattern of self-­destruction, but I knew I couldn't even look at him anymore. I spun on my heel and made it back to Aubrey and Callie. I put my arms around their shoulders again, reminding myself that sisterhood could withstand all threats, both foreign and domestic.

“Seriously, guys,” I muttered. “Did anyone break curfew last night? Anything I should know about?”

“No,” Aubrey answered. “Why?”

“Because Lieutenant Hatfield's headed this way, and from the looks of him, he has some questions for me.”

And he did. “Margot.” He tipped his baseball cap with the Sutton College eagle on it.

“Was it . . .”

“No,” Ty answered, knowing what I needed to know. I breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn't one of my sisters in the back of that ambulance—­though I immediately felt like a horrible person. It was still someone else's sister.

“She was rushing. A freshman.”

A stab of pain shot through my stomach. I thought that hearing that a Delta Beta had been murdered would be the worst news I could hear, but this was shocking.

“Can you do me a favor?”

Of course, I said yes, and I didn't even regret my answer when I heard what the favor was.

He led me to the back door of the Tri Mu house. I hadn't been there since college, but it still looked the same. On the small, screened-­in porch, Sarah McLane sat, completely devastated. As vast as the differences were between Delta Beta and Mu Mu Mu, today I recognized the pain in Sarah's face. One devoted chapter advisor to another, I knelt by her chair and took her hand. A Mu sister stood nearby, tear-­stained and vulnerable.

“You—­” I pointed at the sister. “Get me two cups of coffee and something sugary. A donut or something.” She ran off so fast, I had confidence that she would know exactly where to find pastries here at the Tri Mu house.

I sat there silently, holding Sarah's hand until the coffees and a cherry Danish were produced. From experience, I knew that no amount of platitudes and vague prayers were going to make this any better. Women like us needed black coffee and time to adjust to a new reality. Then we'd be back.

In a little bit, the caffeine and sugar had helped walk Sarah back from the cliff of shock. I knew when she yanked her hand from mine that she was feeling one hundred percent back to normal.

Her mouth settled into a determined line as she stared with vacant eyes at the crime-­scene investigation now taking over her chapter's backyard.

“You good?” I asked her.

“Not really,” she bit out.

I put my coffee cup down. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you.” The words came out through gritted teeth like she was being waxed down there.

My favor done, I started heading back toward the street, when Ty stopped me.

“Thanks,” he said.

Of course, I didn't mind helping out, even if Sarah was a Moo. Panhellenic spirit and all. Age-­old rivalries took a backseat to tragedy. And I knew what was going to happen—­what had to happen. Ty read my mind.

“Even the governor's office won't like this,” he said with an edge in his voice.

“No, of course not,” I agreed quickly. I wouldn't be requesting any pulled-­string shenanigans this time from my PR-­specialist best friend Casey.

“I've already put in a call to Panhellenic.”

“You're shutting rush down,” I said.

“There's a murderer out there.” Ty's jaw was hard, and his tone was like he expected me to argue. And why wouldn't he? I'd been completely unhelpful with the first murder investigation, putting up every roadblock I could fabricate. If I hadn't been so obstinate, maybe this wouldn't have happened.

“Come on,” he said roughly. “You can't fall apart. This whole street's going to be looking to you to set an example.”

My laugh sounded hollow. Me? I'd always striven to be a role model, a paragon of Delta Beta ideals; showing the entire Panhellenic system how to survive a murder investigation was never part of the job description.

But we are all called to different destinies, and apparently, this was mine. I lifted my chin and blinked back my tears. On my long, long list of vital items to do, now I had one more—­help solve a murder.

“I have something to show you,” I said.

Ty's face stayed composed, with his slightly lifted eyebrow the only sign that he had heard me. “When you have time . . .” I licked my lips nervously. “Come by the house. We might have something that will help.”

A curt nod and a tight jaw was all the response I got, and as I walked away, I wasn't sure whether I had just done my civic duty or signed my own arrest warrant.

 

Chapter Twenty-­three

A
FTER THE DRAMA
at the Tri Mu house, I had never been so happy to return to the drama of the Delta Beta house.

I was in our front yard when I heard voices coming from the tent, set up to shelter the rushees who wouldn't be coming today.

“This isn't sufficient.”

The voice was snooty and grating, like gel nails on a chalkboard. Von Douton?

Then I heard my name. “Margot is doing everything by the book.”

Ginnifer? Why was she talking to Von Douton about me?

“If you want me to help you, you know what you have to do.”

Von Douton
was helping us? In what alternative universe? I had to set Ginnifer straight. I whirled around the corner and flipped open the tent door, practically running into Ginnifer, startling the snot out of her. “Margot!”

“What's going on?” I demanded, glancing between Ginnifer and Von Douton.

She looked confused, and I was pretty sure I hadn't given her a brain injury or something. “Oh. Right,” she finally said. “No, I ran into Mrs. Von Douton. I thought she might know where I could . . . get a form.”

“What form?”

“An extra budget form.”

I glanced at Von Douton's Chanel bag and wondered if Ginnifer seriously thought the Mafia carried around extra copies of Panhellenic forms everywhere they went.

“I have those in the office,” I explained to Ginnifer.

“She's so conscientious and detail-­oriented, isn't she?” We both turned toward Von Douton and the strange note in her voice. “Dotting every i and crossing every T. You're so very lucky to have her.”

At the compliment, Ginnifer's face paled, and I guess I would have done the same. Somehow, a compliment coming from a remarkably wrinkle-­free Old Moo didn't seem as complimentary as it could have.

Not feeling particularly pleasant, I decided to keep my mouth zipped and just nod and smile as Von Douton excused herself. She was still a member of the Mafia. That deserved some level of respect.

Von Douton's mauve-­licious lips turned into a small smile as she walked by. “Good evening, ladies.”

As she opened the door to the tent, I noticed something concerning.

“Your shoes!”

Von Douton whirled around, her face panicked as if I'd told her there were big clumps of bubble gum covering the stiletto soles. “I mean, you've got mud all over them. Do you want a towel or something?”

Von Douton frowned as she looked down at her heels. They were caked in mud, nearly up to the red-­leather sole. I wasn't being nice because this was Von Douton. I was being nice because they were really hot shoes.

I looked down at the ground; the January grass was dry, our dirt was hard from the winter. Where would someone as chic as Von Douton get her feet so dirty? Unless she was wearing her designer shoes into her spa mud bath.

“No thank you.” Von Douton lifted her nose. “I'll have my maid clean them.”

I rolled my eyes at her back, and when it was safe, I grabbed Ginnifer's arm. “What did she want?” I hissed.

“She was just walking by . . . I needed a form . . .” Something wasn't right. Ginnifer was smarter than this.

I looked closely in her eyes, wishing I could do that human-­lie-­detector thing I'd seen on
Law & Order
once. “What did Von Douton really want?”

Ginnifer swallowed hard. “She said something about your not being organized.”

Of course she would. That Moo would jump on any chance to point out a Deb's deficiencies. “I don't know how they did this in Alabama, but here? We don't rely on the Tri Mus to bring our forms to us. And for the record, I have a dozen copies of everything in the office. All you have to do is ask me.” I smoothed out her shirt and gave her a little squeeze, to make her feel better after contact with Von Douton, but the show of affection didn't seem to relax Ginnifer any, nor did the news that I, as a chapter advisor, was also very prepared in the form-­collection area. When we entered the front door of the Deb house, I wondered if such a high-­strung, high-­maintenance woman as Ginnifer would be able to survive the rigors of Sutton College rush—­I mean recruitment—­week.

And she wasn't the only one. The house was in a midrecruitment-­week state of disaster. Half of the chapter wasn't talking to the other because of some rush-­crush drama. Sitting with Sarah McLane had reminded me that it was a good day if no one had died, so I yelled, “PLEASE try not to kill each other for half an hour!” which stunned a few girls; but, for the most part, the message was received. The verbal threats died down to murderous glances, and I locked myself in the chapter advisor's apartment for a long, hot shower and a fresh change of clothes.

I had just pulled on a black sweatshirt printed with the Delta Beta crest and my last remaining pair of clean skinny jeans (what? It was rush week. If there was no time to eat, there was no time for laundry) when I heard the doorbell ring. Steeling myself for some lengthy explanations to Sutton PD's Finest, I answered the door to find not a stern Lieutenant Hatfield, or a slightly more agreeable Officer Malouf, but Louella Jackson, bundled up in a very chic red-­wool trench coat and balanced on fierce, patent-­leather pumps that I could have sworn Alexandria Von Douton had also worn earlier this week. Seriously. Did they share a personal shopper? And how could I get her number?

She walked straight into the house, as was her right as a Delta Beta alumna, but I was still slightly taken aback by the lack of courtesy chitchat. As she looked around the messy house, I could feel her critical eye as acutely as I had back in college when she informed me that my hand-­painted Delta Beta banners were an embarrassment to banners everywhere.

“Hello, Louella.” Her eyes slowly lifted to the painted banner hanging from the curved staircase rail.

“I didn't paint that one,” I said quickly.

“I can tell.”

I won't lie. That still hurt. But I had to thank Louella. Once she described my art skills as “something her Chihuahua could do,” I resolved to find other ways to serve Delta Beta, like exercising my ­people skills and giving free fashion consultations.

Louella started sliding her black gloves off her hand, finger by finger. “I'm here as the Delta Beta representative of the Panhellenic Rush Council.”

“You mean Recruitment Council.” I couldn't help correcting her, which got me a chilled glance in return.

“As I'm sure you're aware, there's been another incident.” I would have corrected her word choice again, but I respected the older generation's need to use euphemisms. They were so delicate, after all. “And unfortunately, the police have made the ill-­considered request to temporarily halt the recruitment process.”

Based on the determination on Ty's face earlier, I knew it hadn't been a “request” but more of a “shut this place down before I shut your face down” kind of conversation, but again, I deferred to Louella's sensitive nature.

“And the council's decided to grant the request?” I prodded.

“Majority rules,” Louella sighed, which not only let me know which side of the debate Louella had been on but also her feelings toward the democratic process, which I sympathized with. Sometimes things were much more palatable when there was a benevolent dictator running things, like a wise yet fun chapter advisor.

“I think it's the best decision,” I said, hoping to make Louella feel better about losing her argument. “After all, there are safety considerations.”

“It's
rush
.”

Given that her opinion had been mine approximately twenty-­four hours ago, I was sympathetic. But still. “This was a rushee,” I said gently. “We can't let something like this happen again.”

Louella's face didn't soften one bit at my reminder. “It's one girl out of hundreds. What are we supposed to say to the ones who didn't die?”

Wow.

Maybe empathy was something senior citizens lost, along with their hearing and their ability to walk in high heels. I had to hand it to Louella, she was still rocking it in that department. But she was a Deb. We kept our [redacted to protect sorority privilege] vows very seriously.

“I'm sure the administration is keeping everyone's interests in mind.” I always tried to see the glass as half-­full, but Louella was having none of it.

“You mean the administration is listening to Nick Holden and his yellow journalism,” she said.

She slapped her gloves in her hand and crinkled her nose at them. “Effective immediately, and until further notice, Sutton sorority recruitment is postponed. We will let the chapters know further developments via e-­mail.”

That lifted my spirits. “You mean you won't be coming back?”

Maybe that was too chipper-­sounding because Louella froze me with her eyes before reaching for the door handle and leaving without another word. I couldn't say I was sorry to have her go, wishing we had a different relationship with the most prominent Delta Beta alumna in Sutton County. Maybe she had to be neutral, on the council for the entire Panhellenic system.

Rush might have been delayed, but the Delta Betas wouldn't use this unexpected free time preparing for the spring semester or catching up on self-­care. We still had work to do.

Luckily, Ginnifer was already on it.

When the chapter convened, Ginnifer had already gotten everything together, which once again made me give her two snaps up for her competence.

Preference night, or “pref” was the most solemn and holy of nights during rush. It was the last night, the last opportunity for the sisters to show what their sisterhood meant, and the last chance for the rushees to make the right decision and put Delta Beta as their number one choice. All across the country, each chapter developed its own unique, timeless, and emotional preference ceremony, usually involving as many candles as possible.

In my job as a Delta Beta sisterhood mentor, I had traveled throughout North America and Canada too, and I had seen many, many preference ceremonies. I had also witnessed many, many accidental fires as a result of all the highly poetic yet highly dangerous open flames. Rehearsal was imperative, to avoid any more 9-­1-­1 calls.

The first time we had practiced this, Asha Patel lost a lovely spiral of her dark curls and a liberal dose of Febreeze had been applied to the surrounding carpets and draperies to dissipate the smell of burnt hair. The second time, Eliza-­Jane Jergenson had somehow lit a chunk of hair on the back of her head on fire. I quietly blamed the helicopter-­parent culture for not allowing kids these days to learn how to play with matches safely, opened all the windows and doors of the house, and gave thanks that Zoe had been watching Eliza-­Jane's back—­literally.

Before we got started, I quickly glanced up and confirmed that the smoke detectors were disconnected. Then I clapped my hands. “All right, ladies, I know it's hard to concentrate today, but let's take advantage of this unexpected free time to really perfect all the details in the preference ceremony.”

Our musicians readied their violin, guitar, and piano, respectively. The music chair put her pitch pipe to her lips. I hit the button on the remote, and the lights in the chapter room dimmed.

The chords started, the beautiful swell of the music took me back. This song had graced these halls for a generation, reminding us what was truest and best about being a Delta Beta.

The melody was simple, the words profound. “I'll be there for you, when the rain starts to pour,” the ladies sang. “I'll be there for you like I've been there before . . .” Although everyone was relatively composed today, on the actual night of the preference ceremony, there wouldn't be a dry eye in the house. “I'll be there for you, 'cause you're there for me, too . . .”

After the song, there were poems, traditionally read by seniors. This year, Aubrey and Callie were the designated orators, and they stepped forward and recited the verses confidently and emotionally.

Then we entered the danger zone. A large white pillar candle stood on an elaborate pedestal at the front of the room. Each sister was supposed to go, light her gold taper from the Symbolic Eternal Flame of Friendship (c), circle the room three times, then offer her candle to her designated rushee. At this point, there would be a violin solo of “God Bless the Winding Road” as everyone looked in each other's eyes and thought about what sisterhood meant to them. Yes, it sounds awkward. But it's lovely and moving.

Then everyone would file out of the room, (sobbing, hopefully) and whisper all sorts of unsanctioned things like “I can't wait for you to be my sister” and “You're so getting a bid tomorrow,” and the doors would close, and we'd do it all over again and mean it just as much to the next group.

Here, in practice, Zoe lit the Symbolic Eternal Flame of Friendship, and the chapter readied their gold tapers.

“Wait!” I cried out. Ginnifer sent me a what-­the-­hay look from across the room, where she was diligently timing the ceremony to ensure that we stayed within Panhellenic parameters.

“Let's just practice it without the flames,” I suggested. Ginnifer very obviously clicked off her stopwatch.

“But we need to practice so we don't burn the house down.”

She was right. I was just a jumble of nerves from this morning. Seeing body bags tended to does that to me. Right. We had to do this. For the safety of everyone's highlights.

I nodded. “Let's do it.” At my signal, the ceremony restarted, and women began to file down to the Eternal Flame, while the piano tinkled softly in the background.

I almost passed out from holding my breath as each of the tapers were lit without incident, held a safe distance from flammable draperies, clothing or hair-­spray-­coated tresses, then blown out again at the completion of the ceremony.