“I don’t see anything wrong with seeing the good in people,” I said softly.
“Even with everything that’s gone down?” Ty shook his head in disbelief.
I nodded. “Even with everything that’s gone down.” My echo of his words was quiet and a little more affirmative.
“Do you want to talk about it?” It was one of my favorite phrases. Only the best people used it.
I pushed back the tears that had been threatening since I had left Amanda in the police station. “I’ll be okay,” I said. I had gotten pretty tough. Jail could do that to a person.
We sat on the swing, our feet pushing back and forth in unison, the only sound the creak of the chains tied to the big oak’s branch.
“So, what’s next for Margot Blythe?” His questions were often statements, but I heard the inquiry in those words, just the same.
It was a good question.
I needed to call Mabel to tell her I’d stay in Sutton until a new, reliable, moral, nonadvantage-taking chapter advisor was hired. “I’ll probably stay here, for the time being.”
Stay. Here. Time. Those were words I hadn’t really used since … well, since ever. Even as an adolescent, I felt restless, ready to go, explore, adventure. Being a Sisterhood Mentor allowed me to keep moving, keep traveling. But if the last ten days had proved anything, they had proved that adventure could come even when you stayed in one place.
That was kind of deep. Even for a philosophy major.
“Oh,” was all Ty Hatfield said.
I had to comment. “That’s it? No snarky retort? No snide implications about hoping your overtime gets paid or setting up extra staff to deal with sorority girls?”
Ty’s head bobbed. “Nope. Think you got it.”
Oh, him. I elbowed his flannel-covered side, and wondered if he was always that warm and cozy or if it was just tonight.
“I think you’ll be good for this place,” Ty said after ten swings back and forth had passed.
“What? Delta Beta?”
Ty’s shoulder rubbed against mine when he shrugged. “Here. Sutton. The college.”
That was nicer than I expected, but I didn’t understand the comment. “Why would I be good for the college?”
Ty spent longer than I would like thinking about his answer. “Goats. You’re pretty good with goats.”
I smiled as if he’d given me a huge compliment. It probably was. Not many women could say they were good with goats. It seemed like something that would define a woman’s character.
We sat and swung, and five minutes later, a group of Debs walked down the front steps, dressed all in black. They sat down on the steps and talked quietly among themselves. Another group noiselessly walked down the street and convened on the sidewalk. They, too, were in dark clothes and sneakers, their hair pulled back into ponytails and tucked under hats and headbands.
At nearly half past midnight, I estimated there were almost fifty young women loitering in the front yard of the Delta Beta house, all of whom were in black or gray clothing. I reached into the pocket of my fleece and pulled on a black ski mask.
I heard Ty’s tortured sigh next to me. “Blythe …” he groaned under his breath. I had to turn my head all the way to see him because the ski mask severely limited my peripheral vision. In one moment, his face was shadowed by tree branches, and in the next, the clouds parted, and he was illuminated. Those normally guarded blue eyes were full of suspicion and … could it be? Humor?
“There’s no law against wearing a ski mask, Lieutenant Hatfield.” I picked up the Super Soaker that had been resting next to me on the swing. Now Ty groaned louder.
“Do I want to know?” he asked with resignation.
“Nope,” I said, mimicking his single-word intonation. “I plead the Fifth.”
“The Fifth?”
“The Fifth Amendment. I don’t want to incriminate myself.” I stood, and the swing sank lower on his end.
Turning back to the house, I saw fifty women pick up assorted shapes and sizes of water guns, settling hats and masks and bandannas around their faces. Nothing to see here, Officer, all completely innocent. There isn’t anything illegal about a bunch of sorority sisters playing with water guns, dressed in all black in the dead of an October night. Move along.
With a signal, we started jogging down sorority row, cutting through the Epsilon Chi yard and following an alley toward fraternity row. As we dipped out of sight, I was pretty sure the law was still watching me.
Jane had looked up the average date of first frost in Sutton and compared it to the Farmer’s Almanac predictions for the year. In about two weeks, Mother Nature would do her thing, and leaves that were now green would turn yellow and brown. After a full winter, spring would hit Sutton in March, but even then, it would take another six weeks or so for the grass to grow back completely. By then, it would be nearly the end of the school year, with graduation looming. All of fraternity and sorority row would be initiating another batch of fresh pledges, eager to be taught the lessons of their new secret societies.
By then, they would know.
But tonight, no one would have proof of any wrongdoing, any mischief, any ill intent.
Yes, fifty sorority women in all-black gear spraying water guns at the lawns of fraternity houses might look a little funny. But as I told the girls, there was nothing illegal about any of it. And I should know. I was practically the expert on the North Carolina criminal code by this point.
Five fraternity houses were lined up in a row, so we split up into five squads of ten. Each squad moved efficiently and quickly, wasting no time. At each house, a Delta Beta sorority sister whipped out a can of whipped cream and sprayed in huge letters a single word, spread from border to border. In the morning, the whipped cream would be dissolved. The remaining women sprayed the contents of their water guns along the lines of the whipped cream. The liquid was clear and lightweight, but it wasn’t pure water. It was water with a whole lot of salt in it. Jane called it a “solution,” and I agreed that it was solving a problem. By the time the salt water had faded the grass, the first frost would make the results faint, if not invisible. As the winter progressed, the salt water would kill the grass, and when spring returned, the message carved out in the salted grass would be clear to even the most drunk fraternity brother.
DON’T.
MESS.
WITH.
DELTA.
BETA.
If anyone called the police about that next April, well, I’d deal with Lieutenant Hatfield myself.
THE LADIES OF Delta Beta relaxed over mugs of hot chocolate, laughing and giggling and reliving the Dirty Dozen techniques that had been employed by almost everyone. Becca had thought for sure she’d seen someone looking out the window at the Alpha Kappa house and had dived behind a bush. Christina had accidentally shot Asha in the bottom with a load of salt water and Asha had retaliated with a spray of whipped cream. As for me, I had left my Super Soaker jammed under the hood of a shiny silver BMW that looked just like Brice Concannon’s, parked in front of an apartment building between here and fraternity row. I liked imagining the look on his face and the paranoid thoughts that might run through his mind the next morning. Maybe he’d think twice about participating in sketchy parties from now on. The leftover cans of whipped cream were held high, there was a cheer, and more whipped cream was sprayed into steamy, fragrant mugs.
Maybe the fraternities would prank us even harder next year. Maybe teaching the chapter to fight back wasn’t the best example I could have given them. Maybe we should have found a more ladylike way to make our point, as Leticia Baumgardner and Mary Gerald Callahan would have liked.
But as I sat there and looked over the chapter, I noticed how, in one evening, their bond had strengthened, ties been formed, and memories had been made, even after we had been continually tested and knocked down. Maybe our sisterhood would survive just fine, after all.
Acknowledgments
ONCE AGAIN, TH
IS book could not have been published without the help of many women who supported me, urged me to take action, and didn’t let me take no for an answer. Thanks to Jill, who empowered me to get this book out there. A million thanks to my agent, Cassie Hanjian, who would be one of Margot Blythe’s role models, because she is determined, passionate, and has really good hair. Thanks to Trish Daly, who believed in me, and Margot, who makes the editing process as easy and fun as a sorority mixer.
To my lunching writer sisters, Ophelia and Alexandra, who always tell me exactly what I need to hear.
And finally, my sorority sisters. This book is 100% fiction, but it started with a spark from you. Thanks for sharing your light.
Look for Lindsay Emory’s
next Sorority Sisters Mystery,
RUSHING TO DIE
Available November 2015 from Witness Impulse
About the Author
LINDSAY EMORY is a native Texan and recovering sorority girl. She is also the author of the contemporary romance Know When to Hold Him.
@Lindsay_Emory
www.lindsayemory.com
www.witnessimpulse.com
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SISTERHOOD IS DEADLY. Copyright © 2015 by Lindsay Emory. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition JULY 2015 ISBN: 9780062418340
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062418333
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Sisterhood is Deadly: A Sorority Sisters Mystery Page 23
