Mean Sisters: A sassy, hilariously funny murder mystery. Lindsay Emory

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.

      ‘Lieutenant Hatfield,’ he corrected me.

      ‘This is a minor. You can’t question a minor without a guardian or parent.’ I’d read that somewhere in a manual. It seemed legit.

      ‘She’s not under suspicion, Miss …’

      ‘Blythe,’ I provided my name with all the authority I could muster. I was the chapter’s assigned Sisterhood Mentor, after all. ‘Margot Blythe.’

      Hatfield’s head jerked back then. When I got authoritarian, I noticed that respect changed people. ‘Ms Blythe,’ he started to say again, ‘I’m just talking to witnesses. This is a friendly conversation. Nobody’s under any suspicion.’

      ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘But I’m staying right here.’ I wrapped an arm around the girl’s shoulder so she knew I was there for her, for support or for protection – whatever she needed.

      Hatfield didn’t seem to love that idea, but he couldn’t do much about it. He looked back at his notes and then started again with the questions.

      ‘You said you were wrapping up the chapter meeting and the girls started to recite something …’

      ‘Objection,’ I said.

      Hatfield raised his eyebrows at me. ‘What did you say?’

      ‘Objection,’ I repeated. He obviously only watched the ‘law’ part of Law & Order. The ‘order’ part was always the more dramatic stuff. I looked at the girl. ‘Don’t answer that.’

      Hatfield looked between me and the girl and instead of respecting my objection, he went ahead and repeated the question. ‘What were y’all reciting?’

      ‘Objection!’ I glared at him.

      Hatfield looked stunned. ‘What in the world are you objecting to?’

      ‘You’re asking about privileged information!’

      ‘Was a lawyer there? A doctor? A priest?’

      Now he was talking crazy. ‘Of course not,’ I said, ‘you’re asking about secret sorority rituals. We can’t share those with anyone who has not been initiated and that includes the police.’

      Hatfield lowered his pad and pen and stared at me, like I was some kind of tropical bird he’d never seen before. ‘Who are you again?’

      ‘Margot Blythe,’ I repeated hotly.

      ‘Got that,’ he said. ‘I meant, why are you here?’

      ‘I’m the designated Sisterhood Mentor to the Sutton chapter for the next six weeks in the unfortunate absence of the chapter advisor. It’s my duty, as the representative of Delta Beta Executive Council, to advise these young ladies accordingly.’

      His posture and expression remained hostile, like my explanation hadn’t been convincing enough. ‘You can’t object to these questions,’ he ground out.

      ‘Do you see this badge?’ I asked him, hooking a thumb into my suit lapel, where a small gold pin in the shape of a delta and a beta was prominently displayed. ‘This badge says I can object.’

      Hatfield looked resigned. I was relieved that he understood my position and was going to be reasonable. Then he took something out of his pants pocket: a gold shield. ‘Do you see this badge?’

      And that was when I was arrested in front of an entire sorority chapter. It was just heartless, in my opinion, to add to the ladies’ grief that way and take away two of their sisters in the same night.

       CHAPTER THREE

      It turned out that I wasn’t officially ‘arrested.’ Hatfield escorted me to his police car with a firm grip on my elbow while I said some not very nice things under my breath that neither Mary Gerald Callahan or Leticia Baumgardner would have thought befitting a Delta Beta lady. Hatfield told me to sit in the back seat and slammed the door, which was really uncalled for.

      Did you know that the back seat doors of police cars have kiddy locks on them? Who locks children in the back of a police car? I tried for nearly thirty minutes to get out of the car until the second police officer at the scene, who was both less attractive than Hatfield (unfortunately) and less personable (hard to believe, I know), got in the front seat and drove off, completely ignoring my protests and the not-so-nice things I was yelling in the back seat.

      The second police officer’s name tag, which I saw once he let me out of the back of the car and escorted me to the cell, identified him as ‘Malouf.’ The Sutton police station had one large holding cell that was surprisingly grim. I was all alone in the cell, which was just a square, blank room with benches. I passed the time redecorating the cell in my mind until Hatfield reappeared.

      I really wanted to be cool and ignore the man, but I also wanted to bust out of here and return to the chapter. I had to put my best Deb face on and charm him out of keeping me locked up.

      Hatfield stood at the door silently while I pretended not to notice him. ‘This is really unnecessary,’ I finally said, once I decided that I’m not cut out to be that cool. ‘You probably traumatised those poor girls back there when you hauled me off without probable cause, you know.’

      He chewed the inside of his jaw. I couldn’t tell if he was sorry or just embarrassed for what he’d done.

      ‘Aren’t you going to say anything? Don’t I get a phone call or something?’

      When he still didn’t answer, that ticked me off. ‘I know people! You do