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