Rushing to Die (3 page)

 

Chapter Four

“S
HUT THE DOOR,”
I instructed the last person to enter the chapter advisor's office, now converted into the Rush Dungeon.

I stood behind the desk, piled with papers and pictures and miscellaneous peacock feathers (I didn't even know what for), and took a deep breath. These were my core team, the ones I had to trust if Delta Beta was going to pledge anyone this year.

Aubrey St. John, Callie Campbell, and Zoe were not at their personal best. Aubrey's perfect blond hair hadn't seen a curling iron in a week, Callie's mascara had rubbed off hours ago, and Zoe's T-­shirt was rumpled and might have been slept in. But I knew these imperfections were because these three young women were devoting twenty-­one hours a day to skit practice, decorations, and conversation development.

Yes. Conversation development. Where would we be as a society without a preplanned and approved list of riveting yet insightful conversation topics between nineteen-­year-­olds?

“Margot?” Aubrey's eyes were filled with concern. “What happened?”

“You're shaking,” Callie pointed out.

“More like vibrating,” Zoe said.

I held up a hand. Maybe there was a slight tremor there. But that was probably normal for someone who had gone through what I had in the past twenty-­four hours.

“Where's the Martinet?” I asked.

“Who?” Callie asked.

“She means the Gineral,” Aubrey explained. “And she's on the third floor, sewing the drapes for the skit.”

“I thought Melissa was going to do that?” I asked, reaching for the massive to-­do list in my rush binder.

“She was, but the Gineral said her seams weren't straight enough,” Zoe answered with a tone that said exactly what she thought about Ginnifer's critique.

Notwithstanding the validity of Ginnifer's straight-­seam judgment, this worked in our favor. I did not want Ginnifer in this meeting.

I gave a quick update to the girls about the Panhellenic meeting that morning. Aubrey covered her mouth. Zoe's hand went to her forehead as if she wanted to claw her frontal lobe out. Callie stayed ice-­cold.

“Does this mean what I think it means?” Callie asked. As a fifth generation Delta Beta and direct descendant of one of our founders, Mary Gerald Callahan, Callie had grown up with Deb blood running through her veins. She understood the way the sorority world worked.

I nodded grimly.

“All because of this Sheila DeGrasse person? She's working for Tri Mu. We're really afraid of her?”

Zoe had a point. See, sororities were supposed to be supportive of each other, encourage the entire Greek community, blah-­blah. Generally, Delta Beta was a prime example of this Panhellenic spirit except when it came to the sorority officially known as Mu Mu Mu. Or Tri Mu. Or their more appropriate nickname, the Moos. Tri Mu was our archenemy, for good reason. Namely, they were kind of trashy.

So, no. Generally, a Delta Beta woman is not intimidated by the Moos. It's like comparing a unicorn to a My Little Pony doll. Just because they both have four legs and a tail doesn't mean they're in the same class.

But this was Sheila DeGrasse we were talking about. I decided to lay it on the line, so that the ladies would understand. “Four years ago, I was visiting Immaculate Conception University during rush, in my official capacity as sisterhood mentor. Sheila DeGrasse was hired by the Lambda chapter, which then had twelve members, three of whom were pregnant and one of whom was facing a federal indictment. At the end of rush week, the Lambdas had grown to three hundred sisters, and the Miss Universe pageant director had asked for head shots of the pledge class.”

“That's great for them and all, but—­”

I cut Zoe off. “That's not all. During that rush, the entire Epsilon Chi chapter was hospitalized for food poisoning. The Tri Mus lost their hot water during rush week. And the Deb house got bedbugs.”

Aubrey gasped and clenched at her shirt. I held up a calming hand. “We took care of them fairly quickly. There was a lot of hair spray used. And a sister's lighter.”

Zoe shook her head. “So Sheila DeGrasse did all of that?”

I shrugged. “It could have been a coincidence. But do we want to find out what it's like not to have hot water?”

Three heads shook solemnly before me.

“I'm going to need your help, ladies. We had a hard enough challenge in front of us just trying to overcome the murders three months ago.”

“But now we have another one,” said Aubrey. Smart as a whip, that one.

“We don't know for sure.”

“You said there was blood.”

I lifted my hands. “Who knows how that happened?”

Zoe scratched her chin. “Are you saying it was an accident?”

“Anything's possible?”

“A stranger, dressed in a Delta Beta shirt, spontaneously dies of a head wound in our yard?” And sometimes Aubrey made too much sense for me.

“Look. I'm just saying, I'm not ready to give up. Now is not the time to think negatively. We need to be focusing on the positives.” I tapped the papers in front of me. “Like all of these things that we haven't done yet.”

The girls nodded, like I knew they would. They were dependable, hardworking Debs, and right now we needed to work our little hearts out if we wanted to have any advantage over the other chapters—­especially Sheila DeGrasse and the Moos. I picked up the list and was about to start dividing tasks when I was interrupted by Callie.

“What about Plan B?”

“Callie, I don't think—­”

“We came up with Plan B for a reason. And if Sheila DeGrasse isn't a good reason, I don't know what is.”

I dropped the to-­do list and considered what Callie was saying. Over the holiday break, Callie's family had graciously invited me and the rush team to their Richmond, Virginia, home. There, surrounded by Delta Beta historical memorabilia, Callie's mother and grandmother helped Callie, Aubrey, Zoe, and me formulate Plan B. It was top secret and very, very illegal. Well, illegal in a sorority sense. No actual laws of the state of North Carolina would be broken.

Aubrey looked doubtful, and Zoe seemed on the fence as well. Their expressions mirrored my own, I was sure. Things looked challenging but not quite devastating. “It's not time for Plan B.”

“But we can't waste time—­”

“We're not wasting time. We've worked hard, harder than any other house on Greek Row. We have Panhellenic, the Mafia, our alumnae, headquarters, everyone watching every step we take.” I lowered my voice. “We have a sisterhood mentor in this house right now who, if you haven't noticed, is a little obsessed with following the rules. We will not break the rules, not until we absolutely have to.”

“But—­”

I cut Callie off again. She had to realize that I was the chapter advisor, albeit cute honorary older sister. I was calling the shots. “No. We're not talking about it anymore. We can still do this.”

“Do what?” Ginnifer was standing in the doorway.

The girls leaped to attention, and I might have peed my pants a little. “This,” I said quickly, picking up my to-­do list and wondering how much Ginnifer had heard. If she knew what the girls and I had planned, she would go straight to headquarters, and President Mabel Donahue would have my pin, for sure.

Ginnifer nodded approvingly at the papers in my hand before barking, “Campbell, St. John, Witherspoon! You're dismissed!”

The three women could hardly argue with the authority in the Gineral's orders, and I wondered if they'd ever listened to me with such respect and jump-­to-­it-­ness. It seemed like I was always trying to “reason” with ­people or “explain” my actions. Maybe I could stand to incorporate a little of the Gineral's dictatorial style.

“Good job learning their names,” I said, trying to give credit where credit was due. “When I visited chapters, I always had trouble learning so many names right away.”

“It's easy for me.” Ginnifer sniffed as she closed the office door. “How did the Panhellenic meeting go?”

I sank into my desk chair and briefly relayed all the updates again; the lower-­than-­usual registration numbers, the rule changes, the Sheila DeGrasse news.

Unlike everyone else in Sutton, the Gineral was not impressed with that last bit of news.

“Sheila DeGrasse,” I repeated, more loudly this time, just in case Ginnifer's hearing had been damaged from the constant megaphone use.

Ginnifer shrugged. “She's a cheat. Everyone knows that.”

“But she's a ruthless, malicious, bloodthirsty cheat.”

“The way to beat her is to follow the rules.” Ginnifer's eyes glinted dangerously. “We document every violation, every toe they put over the line, and if keep our hands clean, we won't have anything to worry about.”

In my experience at Immaculate Conception University, following Panhellenic's rules hadn't saved the other houses, but it wasn't a point I was going to argue with Ginnifer.

“You're right.” I nodded, sitting up in my chair. “We're going to rock this rush.”

“Recruitment.”

“What?”

“Recruitment. That's the appropriate terminology, approved by National Panhellenic in Volume 6, register 4.2 of the revised rules and regulations.”

I was a bit put out. Of course I knew that, but, “No one calls it that, even the rushees—­”

“Potential new members,” chirped Ginnifer. “Please, if we don't use the right vocabulary . . .” Her words hung there, chiding me.

“Well, it's not like the rush police are going to come get us.” I laughed, trying to make a joke. Really. Every real sorority woman used the traditional vocabulary, like “rush” and “rushee” and “pledge,” and darned if we were going to let Panhellenic try to change us. We were sororities, for Leticia's sake. We were all about traditions.

Ginnifer sighed. “Recruitment, Margot. This is what I'm talking about. We can't let ourselves slip, not even for a moment. Don't you care about rescuing this chapter? After what happened three months ago, I'd think that you of all ­people would be trying to do what's right.”

I hated being corrected by a twenty-­two-­year-­old. Even more, I hated that she was probably right. I knew that the murders three months ago weren't my fault, but I still felt responsible, in some dysfunctional way that my high-­school therapist would probably have a field day with. It probably had to do with my mother. Her guilt trips could be written up in scholarly journals and used as examples of how not to parent on the
Dr. Phil Show
.

“Have you heard anything?”

I shook my head, like I was trying to shake Mother's voice out of my ears. “About what?”

“About the . . . body.” She whispered it, like there was a possibility our conversation was being recorded. Which, given the history of this office, wasn't the craziest fear.

“No,” I replied. “It's been less than twelve hours.” Hopefully, the county medical examiner had determined that the girl had a rare condition that caused her head to explode. I'm sure I've heard of those on TLC shows. Unfortunately, the event had happened in our backyard, while she was wearing a Delta Beta T-­shirt . . .

Ginnifer must have seen the look on my face. “Are you worried? You're worried. You can't be worried.”

Something about the way those three phrases came out made me look closer at the heretofore unflappable, stern martinet. A little more flappy, a little less stern, Ginnifer's breath had quickened, and she was waiting for my response, as if I were about to tell her my secret to a poreless complexion.

I wasn't ready to admit I was worried. Not to Callie, Zoe, and Aubrey, and certainly not to the Gineral. She might be an alumna sisterhood mentor, but she was only twenty-­two, and I had to set a good example for her.

“Of course I'm not worried.”

Ginnifer's shoulders relaxed a little when I said that. “No. Of course you're not. We're not,” she added. “We have to be a team, Margot.” Ginnifer's voice was stern yet filled with sincerity. Even though she was tougher, meaner, and scarier than I, I knew it was coming from a good place. Down in her heart, she loved Delta Beta just as I did. “You and I, together. We cannot let this chapter down.”

“Of course we won't,” I promised her. Letting Delta Beta down was never an option. Not for me.

 

Chapter Five

T
HERE WAS A
short knock on the doorframe. Ginnifer spun around and gasped in horror. “Excuse me!” Ginnifer's voice was shrill. “There are no men allowed in this part of the Deb house.”

I looked around her and had to agree with the horror. Brice Concannon, the fraternity-­council advisor, stood there looking as cute and preppy as ever. Too bad he was a misogynist weirdo who didn't think there was anything wrong with slipping sorority girls roofies, or so he'd told me a few months ago while he was trying to get me to go out with him. To his surprise, my answer was no.

“Margot,” he said with a superwhite smile. “I was hoping I'd catch you.”

“You need to leave,” Ginnifer said. “Or didn't you hear me?”

“You must not know me. I'm Brice Concannon. I'm with President Desper's office.”

Ugh. He was so gross. “He's actually the Interfraternity Council advisor,” I told Ginnifer. “And I'm assuming he's here on official business?”

“Of course.”

Darn. If he were here on personal business, I'd have happily let Ginnifer employ her Alabama kung fu and throw him out.

“He can stay,” I told Ginnifer. “But leave the door open.”

After Ginnifer left, Brice came in the office without an invitation. I crossed my arms. “What can I help you with?”

“I just came from the president's office.”

“How exciting for you.”

“We had a special guest.” Brice paused, waiting for me to ask, but he couldn't help himself from explaining. “Nick Holden. From ITV.”

Crap. I shut the door behind me. This was not what the women inside needed to hear tonight. “What did Nick Holden want?” I asked. One never knew. Maybe the reporter was doing an investigative report on the theater department's groundbreaking production of
Guys and Dolls
, starring guys as dolls and dolls as guys. Those theater nerds could really make you think about social issues in a new way.

Brice looked downright regretful. “He's doing a follow-­up, prime-­time special. This time, the college is participating.”

My cheeks got hot in the chilly air. “What for?”

“There's been another death, and during sorority recruitment, too,” Brice responded solemnly. “The college has to take this seriously. The special was already in the works and he was already in town conducting interviews with students and staff. When the president found out about the chick kicking the bucket he invited Nick—­and me—­in to talk.”

Brice patted my arm. Somehow he'd slid closer to me without my gagging. “Don't worry, Margot. I'm here for you.”

Ew.

“Am I interrupting something?” Thank God. I jumped back from Brice's cologne-­scented personal space and nearly bumped into Lieutenant Hatfield.

“Brice was just leaving,” I said hurriedly. To Brice, I said, “Police stuff. It's privileged,” and tried to ignore the amused crinkle of Ty's eyes when I added that.

“Lieutenant Hatfield,” Brice greeted Ty. “I've left five messages for you. President Desper has appointed me again to keep him updated on the police investigation. As a liaison, if you will.” Gah. The man pronounced liaison like he was in a French movie.

“Then I'll be sure to give you an update when I have one.”

That took the wind out of Brice's sails. Since he couldn't force Ty to update him, he focused back on me. “Nick wants to meet you.”

That was not going to happen. “I'm really busy this week,” I said.

“It's rush week,” Ty added.

I did a double take at Ty. Brice said to me, “He's interviewing someone named Sheila DeGrasse first—­”

“I'll be there,” I said.

“I'll send you the details,” Brice said with a smarmy grin, and made his exit, leaving me with a suspicious cop.

“Who's Nick?”

“Nick is Nick Holden, the former host of
Have A Super Day USA.
The one who did the special on us.”

Ty looked annoyed. “He misquoted me.”

“He's awful,” I agreed. “And apparently he's back and doing another special. Just our luck that someone had to go and die.”

Ty looked troubled; I knew national-­media attention on his investigation was a major pain in his rear. So I thought I'd cheer him up.

“You look nice today,” I said. And he did—­nice and cozy, wearing a black parka with the Sutton Police Department logo.

“That's not what the guard dog down the hall said to me.”

It was an easy guess. Ginnifer. “She's trying to keep us in line.”

“Now why would she think we need a chaperone?”

Something fluttered in my chest. “Not us. I mean, she's trying to keep the chapter in line.”

Ty scratched below his ear, but it didn't hide the interested light in his eyes. “Sure it's not because she's afraid for your virtue?”

I rolled my eyes. “Please don't egg her on. She's doing a great job for Delta Beta.”

“I would never tease an official Delta Beta representative. I've learned that one the hard way.”

His delivery was so dry, I didn't know what to make of the comment, so I decided to let it go. After all, it would be nice if sorority officials finally got the equal treatment we deserve from local law enforcement. It is our civil right not to be discriminated against based on the Greek letters on our chest.

Speaking of which, I pulled back my shoulders and tried to look as professional as I could while dressed in a monogrammed North Face fleece and Lululemon yoga pants. It was T minus two days to rush; I couldn't be expected to be fashion-­blog-­worthy at this stage of the game.

But, of course, Ty Hatfield noticed everything. “What happened to your hair, by the way?”

A self-­conscious hand went to the side of my head. “Highlights. For rush.” I dropped my hand and changed the subject, second-­guessing my new blond streaks all of a sudden. “Is there something we needed to discuss?”

Ty stared at my hair for another half second before shaking his head a little. “We haven't been able to identify the DOA from yesterday.”

“Why?”

“She didn't have identification on her. Just a set of car keys and these.” Ty reached into his pocket and withdrew a plastic baggie with a pair of eyeglasses in it.

“Did you get any prints?” I asked, completely familiar with the lingo after being involved in the last two murder investigations involving this sorority house.

“Just hers. And she hasn't come up in any searches.”

Don't say it, don't say it.
I prayed and kept my face blank and my mouth zipped. I was not going to make this easy for him.

There was a pause, like he was waiting for me, but I was not walking into this one. “So, if you're available this afternoon . . .”

“Excuse me?”

“Since it's Saturday, I thought you could come down to the station and—­”

“Oh. Since it's Saturday, and I
obviously
don't have anything better to do, is that what you're saying?”

“Well, this is a murder investigation, Margot. I'm trying to be respectful here.”

I threw up my hands. “Rush starts in two days!
Two
days!” I knew I was coming close to making a very unladylike screeching sound, but I was beyond reason. “What do you think I'm doing with my time? Spending a relaxing Saturday afternoon watching
Law & Order
reruns and Internet shopping?” He opened his mouth, and I held a finger out. “Do NOT answer that.”

“We're going to need to see if anyone recognizes her.”

“You want to call my chapter members down? Do you have any idea how much needs to be done?” I picked up the four-­inch-­thick rush binder and let it fall to the desk in a loud smack. “DO YOU?”

“Margot.” Ty's voice was low and authoritative; and then he was in front of me, taking me by the shoulders. “Breathe.”

But I found that breathing was difficult, and the air I was taking in wasn't filling my lungs completely.

“You're shaking. Vibrating.” Ty's hand went to the back of my head and forced me to look into his eyes. “When was the last time you ate.”

“I had a latte this morning,” I managed to say.

“Okay, but when did you eat last?”

This man had no clue. I didn't have time for chewing. Or breathing, for that matter.

“You have to take care of yourself,” he said. Ty Hatfield was never going to understand me or my work. I was not here on this planet to take care of me.

“I have a job to do,” I muttered shakily.

He pulled back and studied me. “So do I. Which is why you and the members of this chapter are coming down to the station at four this afternoon to identify the body.”

“But—­”

Ty cut off my protest. “I'm compromising, and this is all you're going to get. You can schedule an hour out of your day so that that girl's family can know where she is.”

Of course, he was right. Just because I didn't know this person didn't mean somebody else didn't love her and want her at home. Feeling suddenly exhausted and ashamed, I nodded, keeping my face low to hide my embarrassment. Taking an hour out of rush prep wasn't the end of the world. Maybe we could even bring some work with us; after all, Delta Betas had invented multitasking. It was in our Wikipedia entry.

“What if none of us recognizes her?”

Ty looked grim. “We'll figure something out.” His grip tightened on the plastic bag in his hand.

“You have car keys,” I pointed out. He didn't seem to understand what I was saying. “Was there a fob? What kind of car is it?”

“Why?” he asked, a sudden suspicion in his eyes.

I shrugged. “Maybe it's a stupid idea. It's not like you could go around town pointing a key chain at every Toyota or Chevrolet to see which car alarm goes off.”

“Do you know what goes into being a cop? You think I have time to go around town clicking at random cars?” He looked down at the plastic bag with the glasses, then back up at me. “I hope one of your girls knows who she is.”

After Ty had gone, I wondered. Was it in the chapter's best interest to identify this mystery woman? At the thought, a rush of shame washed over me again. In everything I did, I tried to exemplify the standards that our esteemed founders, Leticia Baumgardner and Mary Gerald Callahan, had established for the sisters of Delta Beta. Two days before rush, I just wasn't sure whether they'd want me to help the police investigate a murder that could totally derail our chapter—­or support my sisters in kicking some serious Tri Mu butt.