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

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       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 not want to mess with me!’

      Hatfield held up his hands in surrender. ‘Oooh, I’m scared of the official sorority representative.’

      I stood up, putting my hands on my hips. ‘Yes, yes, you’ve made your point. Your badge is more important than mine. I still think you have your priorities out of whack.’

      Hatfield’s eyes widened before he quickly (and dramatically, I might add) squeezed them shut. ‘I have my priorities out of whack? You put your stupid poems before a police investigation!’

      ‘A poem? This is way more than a poem! You’re just putting your ego before the proper oversight of young college women who need someone responsible and caring in their lives tonight!’

      Blowing out a rough sigh, he reached for the cell door and unlocked it.

      ‘A rug would be a nice touch,’ I said, as I walked by him.

      ‘In there?’ he asked. ‘Do you know what people do on that floor?’

      I looked at the drain in the middle of the holding cell. Hatfield finally had a decent point.

      Safely out of the cell, I turned and looked around the town’s police offices, disappointed by the lack of activity on a Monday night. No detectives were hustling perps out of interview rooms, no skankily dressed undercover cops drank bad coffee out of paper cups. Nope, it was just me and Hatfield, a few desks, some computers and a half-filled water cooler.

      It was clear that life as a Sutton police officer was boring as heck. No wonder Hatfield didn’t know what to do with me tonight. I was so outside his comfort zone.

      ‘Can I make my phone call now?’

      Hatfield rolled his eyes. ‘You don’t get a phone call.’

      ‘I know my rights.’

      ‘You’re not under arrest.’ He paused, seeming a little uncomfortable. ‘You were accidentally transported here.’

      For as long as I can remember, I have never been really, truly speechless. Accidentally transported to a holding cell? Of all the inept, low-rent, unprofessional, amateur-hour moves … I wanted to rail and rip this guy a new one. And remind him again that yes, I knew people and, yes, those people knew people that could maybe, potentially get him fired. But there had been a tragedy tonight and I needed information from Deputy Do-Right.

      ‘What comes next?’ I asked, ‘For Liza?’

      ‘Who?’ The exasperation on my face made him self-correct. ‘Oh, Liza. Liza McCarthy. Yes, she’ll be checked out and released to her family.’

      ‘Checked out?’

      ‘For cause of death.’

      ‘I’d like to be there.’

      ‘For an autopsy?’ Hatfield asked, like no one had ever asked that before.

      But that wasn’t what I was asking. ‘No. To talk to her family.’

      Hatfield frowned, deeply. ‘Who are you? Are you family?’

      In a sense, yes. ‘She’s my sister,’ I said simply. ‘Delta Betas are there for each other.’

      Hatfield rubbed a hand over his face like he was super tired. It sounded like he mumbled something like, ‘mother of God,’ but that didn’t really make sense.

      I decided to spell it out for him. ‘Look, I know you don’t get it. But like I said, there are a bunch of traumatised young women back at the chapter house. With Liza gone, I’m going to have to take responsibility for the chapter and I’d appreciate you respecting that.’

      ‘Right,’ he bit out. ‘And I’d appreciate you respecting the legal authority of this police department as we investigate this matter.’

      Okay, fine. He had another decent point. I saw where he was going with that. A Delta Beta woman always respected the law. But as Hatfield drove me back to the Deb house, I wondered why he seemed to think there would be an ongoing investigation of Liza McCarthy’s sudden stroke or heart attack.