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Mean Sisters: A sassy, hilariously funny murder mystery
Lindsay Emory
*‘Well written and Legally Blonde funny!’ Reader review*Perfect for fans of Sophie Kinsella, Lindsey Kelk and Mean Girls.Margot Blythe: 20-something, sharp, friendly and totally incapable of letting her college glory days go.When she returns to her old college as an advisor, she can’t wait to be reunited with her sorority sisters. But her homecoming reception isn’t exactly what she expected. Tragedy strikes, sending shock waves down sorority row, and Margot is forced to step up.She’s determined to save her fifty frazzled sisters, keep the suspicious (but dangerously cute) police officer at bay and find out the real truth – could a sister have committed such an unimaginable sin as murder?A sassy, hilariously funny murder mystery where the closest bonds of friendship might just kill you …
LINDSAY EMORY
Mean Sisters
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Published by Avon
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www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2016
Copyright © Lindsay Emory 2016
Paige Nick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, 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 hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © March 2016 ISBN: 9780008173562
Version: 2016-02-15
To J.A.K.
In the U.K., a book dedication is actually more valuable than Premier League tickets. This is how much I love you.
Table of Contents
Cover (#uab729003-6fc0-54f1-a4c4-5ed6a0d82979)
Title Page (#u5eaf3c95-d955-540a-8cbb-387a562fc4b1)
Copyright (#ub8fa6b4a-cb45-5637-b330-d7a2651cc45a)
Dedication (#ub730a101-1d76-5678-b1ea-7eecd3c1a6ad)
A Note From the Editor (#u2771ab80-c310-5058-ba25-b004a24c511a)
Chapter One (#ub686d710-ed8b-5863-b00b-07237abc09f7)
Chapter Two (#u900d259e-7820-5bc8-b088-ac8e794f501a)
Chapter Three (#u0dc35f5c-8eb7-550c-8d51-9ebc15094f53)
Chapter Four (#udad5a3de-26dc-5e3a-a1bd-5eb35c3cebc8)
Chapter Five (#u4910c242-a3c2-5d61-8a9e-f4d00080e25b)
Chapter Six (#u2f959953-d801-5b79-8059-194f7286e3d7)
Chapter Seven (#uc6d772eb-0ebb-5d43-8b0f-07392cb3f552)
Chapter Eight (#u72a14239-4e64-5967-a4dd-e8e92cca50d1)
Chapter Nine (#ub10b0f22-94a4-5ee2-99d8-c8d98f21c34b)
Chapter Ten (#u79471a2c-2312-5d1b-9e41-e638ee5960fe)
Chapter Eleven (#ua3780ca6-1850-5748-9c6e-ef2efe702c08)
Chapter Twelve (#u975a7cc9-aa05-5c73-a3d4-7d557addb090)
Chapter Thirteen (#u9d55aa5c-c94f-58aa-9ced-ebe3eb3cf303)
Chapter Fourteen (#uc5a04430-1914-52ba-ac62-f966879f4e71)
Chapter Fifteen (#u31025bdb-bc65-5215-ba1e-d13f6b4dd79e)
Chapter Sixteen (#u28714074-a24c-5b78-9157-507a03721b70)
Chapter Seventeen (#u1990f8b4-f5ba-57f8-8ab5-2f7e69fc905d)
Chapter Eighteen (#ueea5ea82-f3df-51b8-866b-f368ab8fce0c)
Chapter Nineteen (#ufd7ce265-295c-5be0-a96d-aab40b5b5b1d)
Chapter Twenty (#u14ee4d6e-4dd7-5341-90b2-93a83b12c326)
Chapter Twenty-One (#u709227f4-8c5e-50f0-9820-8adae85d869e)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#u4a4f3a08-ec2b-581c-8877-e865af0d6f12)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#ud82f43f0-0a1f-53aa-b083-886ead6c42d7)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#u92fee646-502e-50e0-a8d7-eb437fd44b42)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#ud08908a8-8f27-563b-a7ab-2eeede6e0097)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#u9a2e77be-689e-56c3-8c0f-bc885d202fb2)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#u6ad361d9-55cb-5156-ad64-ecd63248b44c)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#u4ee52911-e511-5a4c-b4bf-1602f13dcf01)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#u39f89042-863a-5ea1-94cf-2c300a7115b3)
Chapter Thirty (#u663e417a-01d0-5ed1-99ec-96f0c6696cbc)
Chapter Thirty-One (#u3b9cecb7-5de6-5b4a-b099-0eb058f6d6ee)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#u1ad5f8df-5d30-591c-9440-e31dcfab0bdf)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#u0fe70600-ee50-53cd-8330-6e36f2dac204)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#u577c5cf6-a5e3-5cd9-9603-a196331d6266)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#ube43e1da-0fd9-59b3-83c8-51bc816d826a)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#u7bf7bfb4-4a9c-54b4-9df5-7afb8cd2d264)
Chapter Thirty-Seven (#u89c5b3af-7be1-54a9-8902-f087f6e3a2db)
Chapter Thirty-Eight (#u07ac2f31-b58f-55f5-a088-32f5b5992eee)
Chapter Thirty-Nine (#u3545d4ec-c28f-5da8-a149-146166b8b751)
Chapter Forty (#u76f0b2cb-2ed1-5864-980e-39a7824c95df)
Chapter Forty-One (#u07720f45-a900-5801-a53b-4bf0aef4f8bf)
Glossary (#uddf1a613-fd48-5d7e-864f-1e359a0afcfb)
Acknowledgments (#uc711dfa1-a6dd-56c2-8a75-bf3ef48aff0b)
Keep Reading ... (#u3f7cfbbb-70aa-5cc0-9504-1b0915b0bdb0)
About the Publisher (#u02e04d03-89e0-53e9-986c-86bd4c7f3f89)
A Note from the editor (#u6b5af61d-2c06-51be-aa2e-0dd33a93dba3)
The lovely, witty Lindsay Emory has provided you lucky Mean Sisters readers with a terribly funny glossary of all the US terms us non-Americans may find challenging. So, if at any point you feel you need more humour, just flick to the back of your ebook for more Margot LOLs.
CHAPTER ONE (#u6b5af61d-2c06-51be-aa2e-0dd33a93dba3)
Sisterhood is powerful.
I have a pillow with that saying embroidered on it. My big sister Amanda gave it to me for my twenty-first birthday, along with a bottle of tequila and a shot glass with the Delta Beta sorority crest enameled on it.
We weren’t blood sisters. Amanda was my sorority big sis, a pledge year ahead of me, and she and the rest of the Delta Betas (or Debs, as we’re known) taught me everything about true sisterhood. Things like loyalty, pride and always being there to hold your sister’s hair back when she’s puking tequila on her twenty-first birthday.
The words on Amanda’s pillow came back to me as I stood in the chapter room of the Delta Beta house at Sutton College. I didn’t know anyone’s name, but I marveled at the strength of our sisterhood as I held hands with the active sisters and recited the words to our sorority creed, which is similar to the Apostle’s Creed, only a little more inspiring. There were no strangers here tonight. We were all sisters, bound by our oaths to one another.
Every chapter I visited, the rituals of Delta Beta were the same. The same lit XXXXX, the same book of XXXXX, the same song lyrics espousing XXXXX and XXXXX. (Details redacted to protect the sanctity of Delta Beta rites.) Here at Sutton College, it was no different. I was proud to call this small chapter of fifty young women my sisters. The rituals were even more meaningful here because Sutton College was my alma mater. This was the house where I was initiated and became a Delta Beta woman. I lived and laughed in these walls, called them home for four years.
That was the beauty of the Delta Beta sorority. Everywhere I went, anywhere in the world, I had a sister, which was nice for an only child like me. Maybe that’s why I took to sorority life so well in undergrad and why, after graduation, I applied to be a Sisterhood Mentor. Nearly all of the national sororities have some programme like Sisterhood Mentors. Young alumnae travel to different chapters to advise and assist the collegiate members on all sorts of very important sorority issues. Don’t laugh. There are lots of important sorority issues. Generally, the programmes last for two years and then the Consultants, Advisors and Mentors move on to real careers. Me? I’m on my sixth year.
I’m not an idiot. The Delta Beta executive council has hinted a few times that maybe I should step down. They even offered me a permanent position at headquarters, something to do with accounting or rush consulting or something. But I always talk them out of firing me. With a few choice quotes from our founders, Leticia Baumgardner and Mary Gerald Callahan, the executive council is putty in my hands. They love Delta Beta as much as I do. They can’t resist the wisdom of Leticia and Mary Gerald.
I’m Margot Blythe, professional sorority girl.
I was a philosophy major. What do you expect?
After the opening ritual was completed, the Chapter President began conducting business and I was lured into the familiar rhythms and subjects. From my corner, I listened carefully, taking detailed notes. In six years, I had learned that the key to successfully mentoring sisters was often found in the minutiae of these chapter meetings. How they talked to each other, what problems the chapter was facing and which fraternities they mixed with all provided clues about the state of the chapter. Sometimes it took an alumna to see what was really going on between the Tory Burch flats and the Lilly Pulitzer prints.
After a full hour of debates on t-shirt designs, scholarship awards and the next date party theme, the closing ritual began. We joined hands again – always a beautiful gesture of trust and strength. With one voice, we chanted the words to our motto (in Greek, of course, like all serious sororities) and lifted our hands in our secret sign.
It was precisely because we were all doing the exact same thing that I noticed something was wrong. One of us did not form a circle with her forefinger and thumb. One of us did not place the circle over her heart.
One of us fell to the floor, lifeless, before the meeting was officially closed.
CHAPTER TWO (#u6b5af61d-2c06-51be-aa2e-0dd33a93dba3)
Ten years as a Delta Beta had prepared me for dealing with hysterical young women. Of course, I’d never dealt with the aftermath of a Chapter Advisor dropping dead in a chapter meeting. My closest experience with this level of tragedy was when the Western University chapter failed to win the Epsilon Eta Chi sorority’s Sing-a-thon. Total and complete heartbreak.
I’d just met Liza McCarthy, the now shrouded young woman currently being wheeled out by the Sutton medical examiner. I crossed myself like the Real Housewives of New Jersey did as I saw the ambulance doors close behind her. She had been a sociology graduate student at Sutton and was by all accounts a smart, beautiful woman who truly personified the Delta Beta ideal. Our sisterhood had lost a star. And one so young! Liza McCarthy must have been around my age, too young to be felled by a heart attack or stroke or whatever silent killer had the gall to interrupt our sorority’s most sacred rites.
With the Chapter Advisor rolling away to the morgue, I was left as the responsible adult on the scene. I herded the pledges into the dining room, the initiated members into the TV room and called for volunteers to distribute lemonade and whatever snacks could be rounded up in the kitchen, hoping to distract the young women until the police had finished.
The Delta Beta sorority house was not overly large at three stories tall. The first floor had a dining room, TV room and chapter room directly off an impressive two-story foyer with a curved stairwell. Through the dining room was the kitchen and a small office. Off the TV room was a dark hall leading to a laundry room, a half bath and a studio apartment. The second and third floors had bedrooms for about thirty initiated members. Essentially, a sorority house was a dormitory, but it felt more like a gracious, large home. I felt the warmth and comfort of the house envelop all the hyperventilating, confused young women grieving the sudden death that had occurred in their midst.
Even though I knew Sutton, North Carolina, was a small town, I was highly unimpressed with the police force that had shown up at the house. TV made police work look far more intense than it was. After the paramedics and medical examiner left, only two police officers strolled around, taking notes and photographing ‘the scene.’ I guessed they had nothing better to do on a Monday night except make a big production out of an unavoidable tragedy.
I was busy consoling several girls when I overheard one of the policemen. ‘Tell me what happened next,’ he said to one of the chapter officers.
Heck, no. That was not happening on Margot Blythe’s watch. I marched right over to the policeman to put a stop to that – but not before I noticed that this was one extremely good-looking man. Several inches over six feet tall with wavy, dark blond hair, of course I noticed. At a different time, I probably would have approached him differently. Maybe I would have smiled charmingly, batted my eyelashes and placed a hand on that very firm looking bicep of his. But people were grieving and I couldn’t let him take advantage of our pain.
‘Don’t say another word,’ I said to the young woman being questioned. Her nose was red and puffy, her cheeks tear-stained, her chapter-worthy shift dress wrinkled and tired looking.
‘We were in the middle of something,’ said the police officer. I turned to him, my hands on my hips. He wasn’t in uniform, but he wore a navy polo embroidered with the police insignia. A name tag identified him as ‘Hatfield’.
‘Mr Hatfield,’ I addressed him.
