Sisterhood is Deadly: A Sorority Sisters Mystery

by Lindsay Emory

  I turned back to Ty, who continued spelling out the case against me. “Dean Xavier’s statement is pretty damaging testimony.”

  I shook my head. It was complete horse dookie. But good luck with proving that.

  “Then you found Stefanie Grossman’s body, and Amanda Cohen’s statement puts the final nail in the coffin.”

  I froze. “Who?”

  “Amanda Cohen.”

  “She’s my big sister!”

  Ty really looked regretful now. “I’m sorry, Margot.”

  What could Amanda have possibly said?

  He answered my unspoken question. “Your altercation with Ainsley St. John.”

  I gaped at him. “My what? We had a discussion on a public sidewalk, and both times Ainsley approached me, I never laid a finger on her.”

  Ty’s gaze didn’t waver.

  I let it all sink in, and that’s when I did a very un-­Delta-­Beta thing. I swore. Loudly and colorfully.

  I stood up and faced Ty at the bars. He was just inches away. “I didn’t do this, Ty.”

  He took an uneven breath. “I think I agree.”

  “YOU THINK?” As a suspect and an American citizen with all my unalienable rights, those words were not comforting.

  He chewed on his lip, then decided to say something. “We were freshmen. It was some pledge mixer. Ice-­cream social, I think. And there were some girls who were straight-­up bitches.”

  “Why?” I asked. It would help me narrow down the pool of potential bitches.

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anymore. The point is, you marched over and you lectured them for a good fifteen minutes on their conduct. Told them they should respect and represent their letters.” His lips quirked up at the memory. “That they should be ladies.”

  I shook my head. It was a nice story, but I didn’t see his point.

  Ty frowned at the floor, his hair hanging down, partially obscuring his eyes. “Seems like someone who cares that much about proper behavior wouldn’t poison a sister with a hefty dose of Botox.”

  For the first time, I felt a wave of hopelessness wash over me. Maybe a sister who cared about proper behavior would do exactly that. To protect the sorority she loved from a phone-­sex operation that could ruin its reputation forever.

  My head dropped, and my forehead rested against the bars. They were cool and comforting for, you know, jail. I had nothing to say. No way to convince anyone that I hadn’t murdered Liza. Or Stefanie. Or attacked Ainsley. Or blackmailed Dean Xavier.

  And even if I did have something to say, my Miranda rights were there for a reason. Only the guilty start blabbing to the cops. I knew that much from Law & Order. I also knew something else.

  “I want a phone call.” I glanced up and saw Ty staring, just inches away from me.

  Ty sighed heavily. “I don’t want to have to do that.”

  I pushed away from the bars and put my hands on my hips. He was the one who put me behind bars; he had to deal with the consequences.

  In short order, I was given access to a phone where I promptly called Casey. Mostly because his was the only phone number I knew. I always wondered about that while watching Law & Order. How did ­people know their lawyer’s numbers off the tops of their heads? Or their mother’s, for that matter? No one memorized phone numbers anymore in this day and age. But Casey also had two semesters of law school under his belt, and as public-­relations director for Delta Beta, he knew more lawyers than Lindsay Lohan. No comment on why he knew so many lawyers.

  While I was waiting for Casey’s wheels of justice to start turning, I found myself face-­to-­face with a real criminal: Hunter Curtis.

  I tried avoiding him for a while, but that was hard in a bare room, twelve by twelve with white walls and yellowed linoleum on the floor. I could only avert my eyes toward the drain so many times before I was completely grossed out.

  Finally, I couldn’t avoid him anymore. “Humph.” It was a pointed sound, exaggerated and obvious.

  Hunter immediately looked guilty. Good. “What do you have to say for yourself?” I demanded.

  He shook his head, looking stricken.

  “That’s it? You don’t have anything to say for yourself? You betrayed us, Hunter. We trusted you. The sisters of Delta Beta trusted you. And what did you do with that trust? You trashed it just like you trashed the office.”

  “Miss Blythe, I’m sorry.” Hunter shook his head again sorrowfully. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  “But you did it anyway. Just because some stupid boys asked you to.” I remembered my conversation with Callie the night before, about stupid boys and how we didn’t need them.

  “Boys?” Hunter lifted tortured eyes toward me. “What boys?”

  “Okay, fine, men,” I snapped, remembering that frats preferred being called men. Not like they acted like it.

  That didn’t change the confusion on Hunter’s face. “What men?”

  “Your brothers, the ones who asked you to help them with their fraternity prank.”

  “I didn’t …”

  “And what did you do with the file, Hunter?” I demanded, remembering the sensitive information contained in it. “Did you post it in your house? Who did you share it with?”

  “God, no!” I had to say, Hunter seemed convincing in his tortured guilt. “I would never do that. I love …”

  He broke off and swallowed hard, turning his face away from me.

  “Who?” I asked, more gently this time. Then I realized. “Stefanie? You loved Stefanie?” Everything clicked into place. “You loved her and were trying to protect her?”

  Hunter paused, then closed his eyes tightly and nodded. My heart melted for him. This was true love I was dealing with. Of course he was being brave and defiant. He had broken into the chapter advisor’s office and stolen Stefanie’s file to protect her.

  Then a horrible, horrible thought occurred to me. Did he know about Stefanie’s death? I moved across the cell and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Hunter, did you hear about what happened, to Stefanie?”

  He nodded slowly. “When Officer Hatfield said you were the one who found her.”

  Oh yeah. I had forgotten he was there. “Lieutenant. Lieutenant Hatfield.” I corrected him. “But …” I searched his face. “Are you okay?” He didn’t seem that broken up about his true love’s dying.

  Hunter lifted both shoulders in a slacker gesture. I stood, taking an angry step away from him. “REALLY?” I demanded. “Did you even love her? Now that she’s gone, do you even care?” I really needed to be let out of this cell, before I really did commit murder. “Callie was right,” I muttered, mostly to myself. “You’re all stupid.”

  Hunter gasped as if his feelings were hurt. Whatever. I stalked to the bars and shook them, hard, which made me feel like a bad ass. “TY!” I yelled. “Get me out of here!”

  Casey called a friend who called a friend, and, two hours later, I had a spitfire of an attorney drive in from Winston-­Salem. Her business card read, “Bibby Hepworth, the best criminal-­law attorney in North Carolina.” She worked her way from county judge on down and soon, I was being released as a favor to someone’s momma. Delta Beta sisterhood at its finest.

  Chapter Thirty-­seven

  WHILE I WAS out of jail, Bibby advised that I prepare for a court hearing to be called soon. The news was not welcome. I didn’t have anything left in my suitcase to wear to court. Then I remembered Aubrey’s offer to lend me clothes. I’d feel a whole lot better facing some judge in an outfit that hadn’t been worn three times already.

  Aubrey’s room was on the third floor, which was odd for the chapter president. When I lived in the house, the chapter president always lived on the second floor, just because it was livelier, closer to the action.

  But maybe Aubrey liked to study in her room. Her door was decorated with a whiteboard, which was quaint in college in this day and age of texts and chats and instas; but this whiteboard was decorated with hearts and smiley fac
es and an inside joke or two, so I guessed some things never changed.

  I knocked twice, then again. There was no answer. When I opened the door, I could quickly see that Aubrey had a single room, which, again, was probably appropriate for the president. She could have more privacy for meetings and stuff this way. A twin bed was draped with a pink-­and-­white-­striped comforter, Lilly-­Pulitzer-­style sheets, and about fifteen pillows in eyelet and satin. Very girly and cute.

  There were the normal sorority-­house furnishings: a desk, a chair, and her own massive beanbag, which was fuzzy and black. It didn’t seem to go with the eyelet and Lilly, but maybe it didn’t show coffee stains.

  Contrary to popular belief, sorority girls did not have massive, automated closets, with a row of designer bags showcased along the top shelves. No, in the Delta Beta house, we had tiny coffins of closets, stuffed to the brim with designer bags showcased along the top shelf.

  Aubrey had pushed her house-­issue dresser into the closet, which was a smart way to organize a tiny space, I had to say. I started sorting through the hanging dresses. As expected, she had lots of cute things, from J.Crew to Anthropologie to some boutique labels even I hadn’t heard of. One dress was perfect, but it had spaghetti straps, which would not be appropriate for legal proceedings in October. Maybe she had a coordinating cardigan? I remember she had worn one to Stefanie’s S&M hearing. I pulled open the top drawer of the dresser, intending to just do a cursory search for cardigans. The top drawer was, as I should have realized, Aubrey’s womanly underthings. I was about to shut it when I saw a peek of black under the stack of Victoria’s Secret Juicy boy shorts.

  Tentatively, I pulled the black cover of an address book out. It looked exactly like the one I had found in Liza’s drawer. The one that was missing. My fingers shook as I opened it and saw that it was, in fact, the exact one that had gone missing from my apartment bedroom.

  My heart rate zoomed and, by impulse, I closed the closet door while I tried to work this out. Ainsley was the one working for Liza. And Ainsley was the one who was now acting crazy trying to get Amanda and me to “shut down” the phone-­sex number. So why would Aubrey steal the book full of phone numbers? Unless Ainsley stole it and hid it here. Or maybe Aubrey stole it, to protect her sister.

  I shut my eyes. Of course. Aubrey would do anything to protect her sister even if her sister was a skanky good-­for-­nothing Moo. It’s what I would do, in her shoes, if I was cursed to have a twin sister who pledged Tri Mu.

  The door to Aubrey’s room opened, and I bit back a gasp and shoved the book into the back pocket of my jeans. I understood why Aubrey wanted to protect her sister, but I needed to safeguard an entire sorority’s reputation. I couldn’t just let this out there, not with the Tri Mus breathing down our necks.

  My hand went to the doorknob and paused as I heard Aubrey answer her phone.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  There was a pause.

  “This is she.”

  “No, I told you …” She stopped, interrupted by the someone on the other line. ”No,” she said again. “I won’t. That was the last time, I can’t do this anymore. My sister … she was hurt.” Another pause. “I understand. But I can’t help you. I quit.”

  The room got silent before it was filled with the sounds of Aubrey’s crying softly. Well, crap. I had two options, stay in a cramped closet and pray that Aubrey suddenly didn’t decide to change her clothes. Or two, come out of the closet and pretend that nothing had happened.

  I flung open the closet door with a handful of dresses on hangers in front of me. “Hey Aubs! Just borrowing your dresses like you said I could! Thanks!” With a cheerful wave, I sauntered toward the door and might have gotten out safely if I hadn’t heard a sniffle from the girl behind me, curled up on a massive black beanbag. My head hung low. Who was I, trying to avoid a crying girl? Crying girls were my specialty, intended or not.

  I turned and faced Aubrey, looking absolutely overwhelmed. “Okay,” I said, tossing the dresses on her bed. “What’s up?”

  She shook her head firmly, her lips pressed together, not wanting to talk. But everyone talked to me. I was the chapter advisor.

  I ripped the address book out of my pant pocket. “Is it about this?”

  To say Aubrey was stunned was putting it mildly. “I’m so sorry,” she finally gurgled. “I know I’ve let everyone down.”

  That was it. Aubrey St. John was as much of a saint as her last name implied. “Stop, Aubrey. You’re being too hard on yourself. It’s your sister who needs to apologize to you.”

  Aubrey’s red, wet face froze in confusion. “What? No. She was only trying to save me.”

  “I guess that’s one way of looking at it. You know she went to Tri Mu HQ, right? Spilled the beans about the whole operation.”

  And that got Aubrey wailing again. For as much crying as I’ve been dealing with the past week, I really wasn’t getting better at handling it. I seemed to be getting worse.

  “Our sorority is ruined! Because of me!”

  “Take a deep breath,” I told Aubrey. “It’s not you. You’re not the one who was having phone sex for money. Your sister made her own choices. You tried to save her, to protect her, but ultimately it’s going to be her fault.” And Liza’s. But it felt much better putting the blame on a Tri Mu.

  Aubrey hiccuped and looked at me with wide eyes. “NO!” She shook her head and reached for my hand, nearly sending me headlong into the belly of the beanbag. ”That’s not it! It was me! I’m the one who had phone sex for money. Ainsley was trying to protect me!”

  At that moment, I was pretty sure I was in an alternate dimension. My brain was fogged up, my ears were clogged. I couldn’t have just heard what I thought I heard … right?

  But then, everything clicked, fog and clogginess aside. Ainsley hadn’t been crazy. She was the protective one, ready to do anything, say anything to get her sister out of the phone-­sex ring. And when I’d called that number and heard Ainsley’s voice …

  “She picked up your phone, didn’t she? That’s how she found out.”

  Aubrey nodded glumly. “I left it in her car accidentally over summer break, right before school started. It rang and she answered and it was …”

  “Who?” I asked breathlessly.

  “Pistol Pete.” Aubrey looked away. “That’s what he called himself. He was a regular.”

  I couldn’t help my lip turning up. Pistol Pete? Really? Gross.

  “I tried telling her it was a guy I was dating. I thought she bought it, but then … my phone was missing another day and she found me at the Commons. She went nutso on me, saying she knew what I was doing, and I had to stop.”

  “Why didn’t you?” I asked gently.

  “At first, Liza just asked me to help with a sociology experiment. She needed girls she could trust. I was honored that she’d chosen me. But then the paychecks came in and I …” She paused as the memory put a woeful expression on her face. “There was a pair of Jimmy Choos that matched my semiformal dress perfectly …”

  Ah. I patted her hand. It all came back to shoes. I understood now.

  “The money was nice … really nice. But I also felt … used. I saw what my sister was saying, that I needed to quit. It was just hard. And when Liza died, I thought that was it. That was my out. But …”

  “The calls kept coming,” I finished for her.

  She waved her phone. That must have just been a call from a john that I heard.

  “Why did you steal this?” I asked, holding up the address book.

  “I had seen Liza with it a few times, she had told me that’s where she kept records, for her research. I thought I could find Heather’s number.”

  “Heather?” I remembered the call Casey had made to the hotline. The girl who had answered was Heather.

  “A lot of us used fake names, but Heather was Liza’s partner. I thought if I could get her direct line, I could call and ask her to take me off the list. Because I really, really
do want out, Margot.” Her bottom lip started trembling again. “Believe me, I do.”

  I did believe her. About as much as I believed anyone these days, that was.

  “Do you know anything else about Heather?” I asked, wondering if maybe Heather was the key to everything.

  “I just know what Liza told me a few times after she got off the phone with Heather.”

  “What is that?”

  “That Heather is a stone-­cold bitch.”

  A stone-­cold bitch sounded like a person who would commit murder. But so did a desperate sorority-­chapter president. Or a rival chapter’s president. Of course, I didn’t say any of this to Aubrey. On account of her being a potential murderer.

  “I think Stefanie met her, though,” Aubrey said carefully.

  “Stefanie Grossman?” I asked, because as I recalled there were about five Stephanie-­variations in the chapter.

  The name made Aubrey’s chin wobble, and I remembered Aubrey’s antics at Stefanie’s S&M hearing.

  “You guys were close, weren’t you?”

  Aubrey used the back of her hand to dab at her mascara-­rimmed eyes. “We were pledge sisters. Stefanie was like the extra triplet.”

  “So Ainsley knew her, too?”

  “For a few years, we all lived together in the dorm. But then Ainsley got all Tri Mu on us. I ran for chapter office, and Stefanie moved in with Liza.”

  Whoa. The elusive Stefanie and Liza were roommates? How had I not heard this? Aubrey must have seen the shock on my face. “They kept it quiet. Liza was already skirting the rules by keeping her own apartment, and if ­people knew she lived with a collegiate member, they’d all think she was playing favorites.”

  “But she wasn’t,” I said slowly. “Because Liza wrote Stefanie up for her S&M violations with a professor.”

  Aubrey looked pained at the memory. “What happened to Liza and Stefanie’s friendship, Aubrey?”

  She shrugged in slow motion, as if the simple act was difficult due to the weight of the world resting on her. “Same thing as me. Liza wanted out.”

  The fact that Stefanie was also one of Liza’s phone-­sex operators should have come as a bigger shock. It said a lot about what I had gone through this week that it wasn’t. Still, I wanted to be clear on all this.