Rushing to Die (5 page)

 

Chapter Eight

G
INN
IFER SHOUTED A
warning over the megaphone, and I glanced at my watch. It was time for our afternoon sisterhood-­bonding session, as important as stringing twinkle lights and painting the giant wooden letters that would grace our front lawn during rush. The plan was a coffee break and catching up on the latest episode of
Grey's Anatomy
, but as I walked into the chapter room, I knew a change of plans was in order.

When everyone had coffee, I asked Ginnifer if I could use her megaphone and wheeled out the whiteboard we used for choreographing the dances for the skits. I wrote the numbers one through five. “Before we get to
Grey's Anatomy
, I have to go over these with you one more time.”

The ladies might have groaned. Probably just from the satisfaction they were getting from hot, foamy milk and extra shots.

“Top five Panhellenic rush rules!” I shouted through the Gineral's megaphone, which brought the entire Deb chapter to attention. I could see the benefits to these gadgets.

I pointed at a junior with suspiciously unsmudged eyeliner. Apparently, someone had too much free time. “Tell us one.”

She nodded solemnly. “No talking to other chapters.”

“RIGHT!” My bark shot through the room as if on performance enhancers. I put down the megaphone. “Why do we have this rule?”

A curvy blond in the front row raised her hand. “Because they don't want us to gang up on each other.”

I paused because that wasn't a bad idea. We could form an alliance with the Epsilon Chis, like on
Survivor
. . . I shook my head.
No, Margot
. “Not exactly,” I said. “The purpose of this rule is to make sure each house makes its sisterhood decisions free from the influence of others.” I looked around the room and was satisfied that everyone was nodding. “Anyone know the next one?”

Cheyenne, the pledge trainer, called out from the back of the room. “No dirty rushing!”

I nodded in the affirmative. “Why is that a rule?”

“Because every rushee”—­Cheyenne flinched at Ginnifer's glare—­“I mean, potential new member, should make her decisions without sisters in the houses lying and promising sh—­stuff—­they're not going to deliver.”

“Exactly. Number three?”

Two more ladies held up their hands. I chose Katie, the cutie from Kansas City. “No social media?” This was one of the most unpopular rules. But, as I liked to remind the women, it wasn't that long ago that Delta Beta successfully rushed women without constant checking of Instagram, Twitter, and Snap Chat.

“Yes. No social media during rush. Again, this is because we don't want to make decisions about women based on 140 characters, or just a fun pic of their roommates goofing off on the weekend. And”—­I held up a finger—­“we don't want them to make a decision about us based on the same considerations.”

Ginnifer stepped forward and grabbed the megaphone from my hand. “IF I SEE ANY OF YOU ON SOCIAL MEDIA THIS WEEK, THERE WILL BE SEVERE CONSEQUENCES.”

I reached over and flipped the
OFF
switch on her megaphone. “Number four?” I asked loudly.

There was a moody silence after the social-­media restriction, and the next rule was even more chafing. I put a hand up to my ear, but no one volunteered. “All chapters must abide by a mandatory curfew during rush week. Everyone will be in the chapters' houses between the hours of 7
P.M.
and 7
A.M.
”

Dissatisfied rustling and murmuring spread through the room. “Come on, ladies,” I said in my best empathetic but stern chapter-­advisor voice. “You've been here twenty-­four/seven this whole week, and it hasn't killed you. What's another week?”

There was a cough at the back of the room that sounded suspiciously like “Kill me now,” but I had learned long ago to ignore the negative and focus on the positive. “The fraternity parties will still be there next weekend!” I said cheerily.

I tapped on the whiteboard and circled the number one on the list. “Speaking of, the most important Panhellenic rule is, of course, that no men will be involved in—­”

Ginnifer cleared her throat obviously.

I'd give her this one. We were talking about rules and all. “No men will be involved in
recruitment
,” I said, with a nod in her direction. She looked satisfied, and I was glad to appease her. I paused and looked out over the room, waiting for the inevitable sarcastic comment. When it didn't come, I had to ask. “No one has something to say about that one?”

The women looked around, and some of them shrugged. Callie half laughed, and said, “I don't think most of them want to be involved in rus—­I mean, recruitment.”

Asha nodded in agreement, as did several other women. “What would we even have them
do
?” Giggles at the absurd idea of having boys involved in rush spread throughout the room, and I breathed a sigh of relief. It was refreshing to finally have a group of women who weren't obsessed with the idea of men being included in every activity. Maybe the ideal of true sisterhood had finally become reality here at the Deb house.

Ginnifer turned down the lights and switched the TV on, and soon, the chapter settled into an enjoyable communal television experience. Thirty minutes into the show, a doctor was yelling at another doctor about another doctor (I wasn't quite sure, I wasn't a medical-­drama-­type girl, myself) when I first noticed the movements. There, in the back row, then, two on the side of the room. Then the whole front row moved to check their phones. Stifled gasps and giggles circled the room first, then whispers, then murmurs. I checked my cell, just in case there was some sort of national emergency in the making, but my phone was silent. I saw a few ladies' faces and the decision that had been made there. Just as I expected, the girls stretched their legs nonchalantly and moved as if they were taking a break. They got up as one, and the entire chapter watched them, waiting for something.

I threw my arm across the chapter-­room door. “Where are you three going?”

They exchanged a nervous glance before Sarah Plaisance spoke. “We're just going to the bathroom.”

Given the way half of the chapter were muttering over something on their phones, and the other half was watching the door, I doubted that everyone had suddenly received a helpful text reminding them their bladders were full.

“What's up?” I asked, no-­nonsense style.

Apparently, the Gineral was a huge
Grey's
fan. She was glued to the television. “Shh!”

Sarah Plaisance couldn't stand it anymore. She leaned in and showed me her phone screen and the tweet she'd been looking at. “We have to go.”

I clasped my hand over my mouth in horror, and Sarah, Kennedi, and Blair burst out of the room. The rest of the room jumped to their feet and stampeded out, and after I debated for a millisecond, I followed. This, I couldn't miss.

Most of the girls went straight for the front door, but not me. I stormed up the stairs, bypassed the second floor, and sprinted to the third floor. A few footsteps followed me, but I wasn't stopping to explain. The best view was going to be from the third-­floor storage room. From this window, I could see the entire span of Greek Row to the west, and had the perfect vantage to look into the Epsilon Chi backyard and the drama unfurling there.

The tweets had come fast and furious, first from the Epsilon Chi sisters, then from the rest of the Greek system—­about the real African lion that had somehow been released into their yard. And the cage of live chickens that the lion was trying to access.

“Carnage at the EX house!” the tweet had joyfully proclaimed. Even from the third floor next door, we could hear the screams of horror from the Epsilon Chi sisters as the lion successfully smashed through the lock on the chicken carrier, selected a victim, and settled down for an afternoon snack.

It was gruesome. And strangely satisfying. I hit a number on my cell phone.

“Nine-­one-­one, what's your emergency?”

“Yes, my name is Margot Blythe, and I'm calling to report a wild animal.” I gave the address of the Epsilon Chi house.

“We're aware of it, and we'll have a crew there shortly.” The operator seemed less than impressed.

But I wasn't done yet. “It's the Epsilon Chi house,” I said.

“We have that information.”

“Not the Delta Beta house.”

The operator was silent. “Does this screw up the pool?” I asked.

“Let me check.” I heard a flip of paper. “Actually, since you called, looks like Bob from animal control is going to get twenty bucks.”

I gritted my teeth. “Really? The pool is whether
I'M
going to call 9–1–1? I thought it was just about an emergency at the Delta Beta house.”

“Eh. More ­people wanted in, so we expanded the criteria.”

It was kind of a compliment, in a way. I was almost a celebrity in Sutton emergency ser­vices.

“It's a lion,” I said, watching the majestic king of the animals snack on a domestic fryer. “There's a lot of blood.”

“Gross.”

“Yeah, you should probably dispatch Bob from animal control.”

The operator chuckled, and said, “Good idea” and I hung up. It wasn't the greatest revenge, but it was something.

The group around the window had grown, and we alternatively gasped and laughed at a team of frantic Epsilon Chis sneaking around the backyard to open the gate and let the lion out. We watched, riveted, as, finished with the available prey, the lion noticed the opening and stalked out, headed toward the Tri Mu house. I looked behind me, and the rest of the women in the room all had their heads over their phones, tweeting and texting. I caught Callie's eye. “Let me guess. Are there chickens behind the Tri Mu house?”

Callie's beautiful blue eyes widened in innocence. “What if they're in their tent?”

I held up a hand. I didn't need to know the details. Then, as we watched the emergency vehicles descending on other sorority houses, I realized what time it was and picked up my phone to make yet another call to Sutton emergency ser­vices.

“You're late,” growled the answering voice. Ty could be so testy when I didn't do what I'd agreed to do.

“I guess you haven't heard. The whole street is on lockdown.”

“What did you do?”

I could honestly answer, “Nothing.” And I resolved to keep it that way all throughout rush week.

 

Chapter Nine

T
HE
D
ELTA
B
ETA
chapter awoke bright and early the next morning and caravanned to the Sutton police station. Normally, I would have expected sullen attitudes and furtively muttered curses, but the events of the night before had made everyone superalert. Or maybe they were just terrified of Ginnifer Martinelli, who was marching around the station like she was about to throw a sorority sister or two into a cell. I knew what the cells were like here. They were not homey at all.

Our most recent pledge class was responsible for picking up breakfast, and they came through the double glass doors bearing a dozen boxes of the finest donuts the town of Sutton had to offer. Yeasty, warm, and sugary, their scent filled the air, and for the first time in days, I was hungry. I helped myself to a glazed and watched Ty Hatfield enter the waiting area, turning nearly every female head in the room. Tall, good-­looking, in a uniform; Ty was pretty easy on the eyes if he wasn't questioning you in a holding cell.

He crossed immediately to me and lowered his head. “You brought
all
of them?” he asked, glancing around the waiting room filled with sorority women. I tried seeing what he saw. Maybe he was intimidated by their beauty, poise, and professionally styled hair at 8
A.M.
on a Sunday.

“I wanted to get it all out of the way before rush. Which starts tomorrow,” I added.

Ty snatched the warm glazed donut out of my hand and speared me with that hard, no-­nonsense, police-­detective look. “I've heard.”

I might not have liked being back in the police station, but that was my donut he had just illegally stolen. I plucked it out of his hand. “So let's get started.”

Ty closed his eyes briefly. “I can't have sixty ­people strolling through the morgue identifying a dead body.” He helped himself to my donut again and took a bite.

“It's almost like you've never seen one of those,” I muttered.

“Cop donut joke. Almost like you've never heard one of those.”

“Coals to Newcastle, I guess.” I crossed my arms. Fine. I didn't want the donut now. It had cop cooties on it. “You could spread photos out on the conference table, and we could enter in groups of ten, to make it easier.”

He stopped chewing. “That's a good idea.”

A semicompliment from Ty Hatfield made my mouth drop open in a very unladylike way. Just went to show that chapter advisors had some very valuable and marketable skills that even police departments could learn from. I began to say just that when Ty pushed the remainder of the donut in my mouth. “Thanks,” he said as he turned and got the attention of the room, leaving me with a bite of sugar-­glazed heaven.

Fifteen minutes later, the room was set up, but thirty minutes later, it was clear that this educational excursion was going to be a bust. No one recognized the dead blond woman in the Delta Beta T-­shirt. We had organized the chapter from newest pledge class to oldest, and as they filed through the room, I stayed in the back, ready to offer comfort, emotional support, or quasi-­legal advice, but the women didn't seem too traumatized looking at pictures of a lifeless, bloody body. I didn't know whether to be proud of their poise or horrified that at the tender age of twentyish, they were immune to the violence that Delta Beta life had exposed them to.

Our seniors came in last, and I could see that they were trying to be strong leaders for the chapter. Callie, Cheyenne, Aubrey, Asha, Zoe, and the rest were taking this seriously. Another woman murdered in our yard was bad enough; if she was a Delta Beta, who in her right mind would pledge us?

The women looked closely at the photos, one by one. Sweet Asha's lip trembled. Cheyenne put a hand on her stomach, as if she were going to be sick. Each of them tried their hardest, then looked at Ty and gave the same answer. “I don't know who she is.”

As the line dwindled, Ty grew tenser, his jaw clenching, his words growlier. I hoped no one took it personally. He was just kind of obsessed with solving crimes.

This last group of ladies were almost out the door when Zoe paused and put her hand on the table, staring at the two plastic bags of evidence that Ty had put out, almost as an afterthought.

She looked up at Ty, and asked hesitantly, “Can I see those?” She pointed to the plastic baggie with the glasses.

“Don't take them out of the bag, please.”

I quickly looked around the room and saw the rest of the faces were almost as blank as mine. Zoe held the bag up closer to her face and nodded. Ty nearly jumped at the first affirmative sign of . . . something.

But Zoe looked more nervous after she put the bag down, and said, “Those are Witness glasses. Model XV-­99. Top-­of-­the-­line.”

I was certainly proud of a Deb's knowing the obscure details of such an important fashion accessory, but I wasn't sure this information was something the Sutton Police Department needed to be concerned with. And neither, it seemed, was Lieutenant Hatfield.

With effort, he patiently asked, “Does that help us identify her?”

Once again, Zoe looked around the room nervously. “Maybe.” She reached for the bag again. “These aren't sold everywhere. So I guess you might be able to track down who bought them. But . . .” She bit her lip before continuing. “Most ­people buy them anonymously.”

I guessed that made sense; most ­people didn't brag about their glasses. Unless they were personally designed by Karl Lagerfeld or something.

Ty had picked up his pad of paper. “Model XV-­99 . . .” he mumbled to himself.

Zoe tapped the plastic covering the lenses. “There could be something on the card, too.”

Ty's head snapped up. “Card?”

“The card, in the earpiece. Here.” Zoe put her finger over the long black part of the frame. “It's all integrated. That's why these are top-­of-­the-­line.”

My stomach rumbled as if it was still hungry after eating half a donut. But it was churning because I suddenly knew what Zoe was talking about. And why she looked so nervous.

Now attentive, Ty stared hard at the plastic bag in Zoe's hand, and she misinterpreted his silence for continued cluelessness. “They're spy-­glasses.” Her voice was a little shaky, and I wanted to give her a hug. She wasn't doing anything illegal, just something a little shady. “The camera is integrated into the frame and records when someone presses . . .” She paused and looked through the baggie. “It's probably . . . okay. The button's here.” She had her finger on the end of the earpiece, then she lifted her hand and tucked her hair behind her ear, demonstrating how a hypothetical spy would be able to turn the video-­recording glasses on surreptitiously.

“Unless you're really familiar with the Witness series, it's hard to know what they are,” Zoe explained, then paled a little under Ty's intense scrutiny.

I knew why Ty was pissed. Men are generally insecure when their lack of expertise is exposed. ”It's okay,” I said. “I wouldn't have been able to tell, either.”

I could tell from his glare that didn't make him feel any better.

“The rest of you are excused. While Miss . . .” He consulted his notes again. “Witherspoon answers a few questions for me.”

I raised my hand, and Ty didn't even look at me when he said, “Yes. You can stay. And no. I don't give a damn about rush.”

Well. You win some, you lose some. At least my average was improving.

Ginnifer led the chapter out while I stayed behind with Zoe. At least he questioned her in his office, marginally better than the bare, imposing gray walls of the interrogation room. With a two-­way mirror and everything, it was just like a real life
Law & Order
set.

Unfortunately, Lieutenant Hatfield's office had no mirrors at all. What if a visitor needed to check for donut crumbs around her mouth, or whether her hair was as greasy as it felt like? There was just a desk, piled high with reports and files and manuals. The computer looked outdated and grimy, and the bookcases held assorted police memorabilia, like nunchucks and what looked like an actual ball and chain. In a way, it wasn't so different from my chapter advisor's office; except my office had a Fresh-­Linen-­scented oil diffuser.

Because I didn't care what Ty Hatfield thought, I gave Zoe a big, squeezy hug and moved our chairs closer to hold her hand or comfort her as needed. Ty went through the basics with her. Her name, her address, did she recognize the woman in the pictures? (No.) How was she familiar with the Witness spy-­glasses?

Zoe looked over at me with fear in her eyes for the first time. I put an arm around her shoulders as if I, just by my sheer presence, could give her courage. “It's okay. You can tell him.”

Zoe nodded, and her chin wobbled at bit as she began to tell her story.

Thirty seconds later, Ty stopped taking notes. Thirty seconds after that, he leaned back in his chair as if he could no longer hold his spine at a perpendicular angle. A full two minutes into Zoe's tale, both hands went over his eyes as he scrubbed his forehead vigorously.

When she was finally done, red-­faced and tired out from her dramatics, she leaned into my arms.

“Do you have what you needed?” I asked him, trying to keep a neutral face.

Ty set his jaw and tapped his pen against the desk. “I'll call you if I have any more questions.”