Hell Week
Many people believed Nicole Pearsall was an overachiever. Her academic record throughout twelve years of schooling was stellar, and she earned a perfect score on the SAT. Although she did not have the physical beauty to become homecoming or prom queen, she was not only class president but also valedictorian and the girl voted most likely to succeed. Hardworking and intelligent, the ambitious senior had many achievements to add to her college application, including editing the school's yearbook, volunteering at the local hospital, participating in community service projects and competing on the school's soccer, track and swim teams. Given her impressive resume, it was not surprising that she was given a full scholarship to her college of choice: Whitewood, a private, exclusive, all-girl institution in New England.
Although not nearly as well-known as the Ivy League schools, Whitewood had an excellent reputation. Its alumni included distinguished politicians, esteemed judges and lawyers, renowned physicians and scientists and Pulitzer Prize-winning journalists. The fact that attendance was restricted to young women did not bother Nicole in the least. On the contrary, she considered the opposite sex an unwanted distraction. She was going to school to learn, not to socialize. There would be plenty of time for dating after she earned her degree."
Once in college, she was determined to concentrate on her studies and forego extracurricular activities. Unlike in high school, she would limit her involvement in sports and clubs. When approached by recruiters from sororities, she declined their offers to pledge.
"I don't want to spread myself too thin," she told them. "In my junior year, I plan on pursuing an internship with The New York Times. I'll need to keep my grades up if I want to be accepted."
However, when Chantal Edington approached her about joining the Elizabethan Sisterhood, a secret society on campus that invited only those students with the greatest potential to apply for membership, her determination wavered. Three long-serving U.S. senators, two state governors and a vice presidential candidate were members of the organization.
"Being an Elizabethan will open doors for you that no internship ever will," the society's vice president declared. "As a member of our organization, you'll be guaranteed a high-paying job upon graduation."
"How is that possible?" Nicole asked.
"The majority of the top female CEOs in America attended Whitewood and were members of the Sisterhood. And as I hope you'll find out for yourself, once an Elizabethan, always an Elizabethan."
"I really appreciate your interest in me, but I'm taking a lot of classes this semester. I have to keep up my grades."
"Oh, come on. You can do it. I've seen your academic records going all the way back to kindergarten. You never got anything but A's."
"I don't know," Nicole replied, her voice showing signs of hesitancy.
"Well, I don't want to pressure you," Chantal said and turned to leave. She stopped in the doorway and added with a smile, "Oh, did I forget to tell you that one of our former sisters is on the board of directions of The New York Times?"
"If I joined your society, do you think she might put in a good word for me when I apply for my internship?"
"As I said before, once an Elizabethan, always an Elizabethan."
The following evening Nicole attended a meeting in which eight students—the cream of the freshman class—were invited to pledge the Elizabethan Sisterhood. All eight young women met at the society's house, a grand Civil War-era mansion, sitting on ten acres of landscaped property, to officially make their pledge and meet the members of the organization. At the end of the evening, Maleia Novick, the Sisterhood's current president, gave a lengthy speech, extolling the society's history and praising its past members.
"Once the initiation period is over and you become full-fledged sisters, you will become privy to our most secret ceremonies. Your indoctrination will include learning not just our rules but also the myriad benefits being an Elizabethan will bestow. Finally, let me wish you all good luck in the weeks ahead. I'm sure each and every one of you will come through your initiation with flying colors."
When Maleia took her seat, Chantal stood up and approached the podium.
Oh, no, Nicole thought with a glance at her watch. Not another long speech! I have to get to bed. I have an early class tomorrow.
"I know it's late," the vice president began, "but I promise to be brief. Whitewood—like institutions of learning across the country—has a no-tolerance policy toward hazing. That means secret societies as well as sororities are no longer able to conduct potentially dangerous or degrading initiation rites. Let me assure you that we agree with and adhere to this policy. The safety and well-being of our sisters is of paramount importance to our organization. As you leave, I'm going to hand out these pamphlets to you, outlining what actions constitute hazing and enumerating the rules and regulations concerning Hell Week."
"Hell Week?" Nicole whispered to Stacy Teller, one of her fellow pledges. "I thought that was a thing of the past."
"So did I. But I doubt we have anything to worry about, not in this day and age. The school would never risk a lawsuit and potential criminal prosecution if one of us got hurt."
* * *
Although it was forbidden to discuss the Elizabethan Sisterhood with "outsiders," Nicole saw no reason why she should not discuss it with Stacy. Not only did the girls have two classes together, but they also lived in rooms on the same floor of the dorm. One day after their shared psychology class, they stopped at the college coffee shop for a latte. Since the place was nearly empty, they could talk freely and not be overheard.
"When I walked into the society's house," Nicole said in a voice just above a whisper, "I expected to see a portrait of Shakespeare or some other Tudor-era art."
"Why?" Stacy asked with an amused laugh.
"Well, it is the Elizabethan Sisterhood."
"The name has nothing to do with Queen Elizabeth or the time in which she reigned. It's in honor of Elizabeth Weldon, one of the founding members. I did some research."
"Really? I'm surprised Maleia didn't tell us that when she gave us the speech about the history of the Sisterhood."
"She couldn't very well tell us everything. Good God! The speech was long enough as it was!"
"That's for sure. I didn't think that meeting would ever end. I nearly fell asleep in my first class the next day."
"So what do you imagine Hell Week is going to be like? Do you think it will be as bad as it is in the movies?"
"I don't know." Nicole answered. "I hope they aren't going to spank our naked butts with wooden paddles or get us drunk, drive us twenty miles away and make us find our way back on foot."
When Hell Week finally arrived, all pledges—to both the secret societies and the sororities—braced themselves to face the unknown, for despite Whitewood's strict anti-hazing policy, initiation rites were a tradition that had been carried on since the school's inception. It was the most effective way of weeding out the unsatisfactory candidates for membership.
Fighting her mounting trepidation, Nicole stood with Stacy on the veranda of the society's house on the first evening of Hell Week.
"This is it," she announced.
Equally apprehensive, Stacy reached for the other girl's hand and squeezed it.
"I haven't been this scared since I took the test for my driver's license."
"We're both being silly," Nicole insisted. "After all, what's the worst that could happen? We don't get into the society. Big deal! It's not as though we're going to be expelled from school."
"You're right. Let's go."
Holding hands and offering each other moral support, the two pledges bravely crossed the threshold and stepped into the unknown. What they found inside surprised them.
"This looks like my thirteenth birthday party!" Stacy exclaimed.
Elizabethans and pledges alike were dressed in pajamas and generally behaving as though they were attending an adolescent slumber party. The girls were sitting in groups on sleeping bags laid out on the floor. Some were playing Monopoly while others were trying on different shades of makeup. Chantal Edington, wearing a pair of hot pink boxers and an oversized T-shirt, was acting out a movie title in a lively game of charades, and Maleia Novick was weaving one of the pledge's long brown hair into braids.
"Here you go, girls," Carly Hoban, the society's secretary, called to the newcomers as she tossed two packaged sets of pajamas in their direction. "Put on your PJs. You can change in the bathroom."
When they came out in their nightwear, they were told that there were refreshments in the kitchen.
"Wow!" Nicole exclaimed when she saw the spread laid out on the table. "I never saw so much junk food in my life. Potato chips and dips, pretzels, popcorn. And look at all the cupcakes and candy!"
"Pizza, nachos, hot dogs, burgers, French fries," Stacy said, looking at the trays of food on the kitchen island. "What's there to drink?"
Nicole opened the large cooler on the counter, expecting it to be filled with beer or other alcoholic drinks.
"Coke. Sprite. No bottled water, just soda."
Chantal Edington walked into the kitchen to get a frosted fudge brownie.
"I didn't see you two come in," she said. "Are you having a good time?"
"We just got here," Stacy answered.
"To be honest," Nicole added, "I don't think either of us thought Hell Week would be like this."
"What were you expecting?" Chantal asked, licking the chocolate frosting from her fingertips. "That we would all get drunk and don togas? This isn't Animal House. This is just good, old-fashioned fun—not to mention the only night of the year we get to indulge in comfort foods. Oh, there's ice cream in the freezer, by the way, and whipped cream in the fridge."
Nicole helped herself to a slice of pepperoni pizza and a chocolate chip cookie. Meanwhile, Stacy put barbecued wings on her plate and doused them with hot sauce and blue cheese dressing from the refrigerator. Food in hand, they joined the other girls in the common room.
"Everyone gather round," Maleia called. "It's time for truth or dare."
There were the usual questions. What was the worst date you ever went on? Who was the best kisser? The worst? Did you ever have a crush on a teacher? When did you lose your virginity? Few girls chose a dare. As usual, there was a good deal of laughter as the participants revealed the most embarrassing moments of their young lives. Then it was Nicole's turn to ask a question.
Hoping to be original, and at the same time wanting to impress the members of the society, she asked, "Who was Elizabeth Weldon?"
The Elizabethans immediately fell silent. It was as though ice water had been thrown in their faces. The pledges, with the exception of Nicole and Stacy, were unfamiliar with the name and looked at each other with confusion.
"Elizabeth Weldon was a student here at Whitewood back in 1865," Maleia explained, her face stonily unexpressive. "It was the year the school opened. She and eleven other students wanted to start an organization that would foster a close, trusting bond between its members. Sadly, Elizabeth died in her freshman year, and the eleven remaining students named the club after her."
Before anyone could ask for more information on Miss Weldon, Chantal suggested they bring out the chips and popcorn from the kitchen and watch a movie on the large-screen television.
"What will it be, ladies?" she asked, holding up a selection of DVDs. "Rosemary's Baby? The Devil's Advocate? The Omen?"
"Do I detect a certain theme here?" Maleia laughed.
"This is Hell Week," the vice president replied. "I thought we'd all enjoy a devilishly good movie. Wait. Here's an oldie but goodie: Satan's School for Girls. Isn't that appropriate!"
* * *
"All that needless worrying about Hell Week!" Stacy exclaimed as she and Nicole walked from the dorm to their psychology class on Friday morning. "And it amounted to nothing but a sleepover, a bonfire, a scavenger hunt and an obstacle course."
"All the same, I'm glad it's almost over," Nicole admitted. "Once we get through the masquerade ball tonight, we should both be full-fledged members of the Elizabethan Sisterhood."
"You don't think they will turn any of us down, do you?"
"I don't see why they would."
Later that evening, after finishing a paper on Christopher Marlowe for her Brit lit class, Nicole donned her costume: a silver-sequined black leotard and a glittery silver tutu. She glanced at her reflection in her roommate's full-length mirror, disappointed to notice that the glitzy outfit did little to change the Ugly Duckling into the Black Swan. As Nicole laced up the ebony satin ballerina slippers, Stacy arrived in her older sister's wedding gown and veil. Beautiful in even the simplest outfits, the blond-haired, blue-eyed young woman looked absolutely radiant in the full white dress decorated with yards of lace and hundreds of tiny seed pearls.
When the ballerina and bride entered the society's house, they were dazzled by the decorations. Gold, green and purple bunting, streamers and balloons were everywhere as were elegant Venetian masks in the same colors. Jazz music and strands of cheap beads enhanced the Mardi Gras theme.
"This reminds me of New Orleans," Stacy said nostalgically. "Although I always preferred the Carnival of Venice to Mardi Gras."
Nicole smiled wanly. Her father was a bus driver, and her mother worked for Walmart. Their idea of a family vacation was a camping trip where they would sleep in a tent and cook hot dogs and s'mores over an open fire pit.
Unlike the society's slumber party held four days earlier, no junk food was laid out in the kitchen. Instead, a three-course dinner was served to the eight pledges in the dining room.
"Although the school administrators discourage the serving of alcoholic beverages to underage students," Maleia announced, "you can each have one glass of wine with your meal."
The wine, like the catered food, was worthy of a five-star restaurant.
"This is nothing like the meals they serve in the cafeteria," Stacy said, enjoying a mouth-watering bite of filet mignon.
At the conclusion of the meal, the eight girls were taken down a flight of stairs to the basement. Chantal Edington unlocked a door at the bottom of the steps and invited the pledges into a cold, damp vault-like chamber that was probably once a wine cellar. Nicole shivered in her skimpy ballerina outfit. Given the size of the room, besides the eight pledges, the society president and vice president, only two other members, the secretary and treasurer, could fit. Once everyone was inside, Chantal shut and locked the door.
"It was in this very room back in the autumn of 1865," Maleia announced reverently glancing at the portraits of the society's founders that hung on the walls, "that twelve girls met to form what we call today the Elizabethan Sisterhood. The first initiation took place right here, and in one hundred and fifty-two years it hasn't changed. You eight pledges will take part in the same rite that the twelve founders did. When you walk out of this room tonight, you will be Elizabethans."
"And once an Elizabethan," Chantal announced with a typical cheerleader's enthusiasm, "always an Elizabethan."
"However," Maleia continued, "you must first prove yourselves worthy. Miss Secretary, if you will?"
Carly Hoban took down the portrait of the society's first president, revealing a wall safe behind it. She knew the combination by heart and opened the lock with ease. There was only one thing inside: an intricately carved mahogany box that she then placed on the table in the center of the room. When she opened the box, a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the cellar went down Nicole's spine.
That can't be a real gun, she thought.
Carly ceremoniously removed the pistol from the box and handed it to Maleia. The president took a bullet out of pocket and inserted it in the gun.
"As you can see, there are six chambers, only one of which contains ammunition."
"I get it," Marita, the only foreign-born pledge, declared. "It's like Russian roulette. You point the gun at a target and have a one out of six chance of shooting it."
"That's right," Maleia confirmed. "In this way, you will prove your loyalty and worth to the society. Only there is no target. You each have to point the gun at your head and pull the trigger."
"How morbid!" Stacy whispered to Nicole. "It seems more appropriate for a Halloween party than an initiation ceremony."
"But there are eight of us ...," Marita argued.
"Don't worry. We'll spin the chamber after each attempt. All of you will have the same odds of success. Now, which of you will go first?"
Nicole, believing the bullet was a blank, immediately volunteered. Never having held a gun, she was surprised by its weight. She lifted it with her right hand and held the muzzle to her temple. By instinct, she closed her eyes as she squeezed the trigger.
Click.
It was a welcome sound. It meant she had passed the test. Marita was next, followed by four more pledges. All six young women joined the ranks of full-fledged Elizabethans. Stacy and the remaining pledge were reluctant to touch the gun.
"Go ahead," Nicole urged. "There's nothing to worry about."
"I always hated guns," Stacy confessed but found the courage to pick up the pistol.
Expecting to hear the familiar click signifying an empty chamber, the seven other pledges were horrified beyond words by the deafening, explosive sound of the live round.
* * *
Justine Bayer, a former Boston prosecutor and victims' rights advocate, had achieved national fame as a commentator on Court TV. With a face and figure that rivaled those of Sports Illustrated's swimsuit models, she was soon given her own television show. Although she gained a few pounds over the years, the added weight did little to dampen her popularity. Her venomous attacks of such high profile murder suspects as Scott Peterson, Casey Anthony, Jodi Arias and Amanda Knox endeared her to television viewers if not to police investigators and the legal community.
Nicole sat in Justine's outer office waiting to meet with the celebrity.
After briefly speaking with her well-known boss on the intercom, the secretary announced, "You can go in now."
"Thank you for agreeing to see me, Ms. Bayer," the nervous young woman began.
"Let's dispense with the bullshit," the television star said with her usual lack of delicacy. "I know you've come to talk to me about the student who died at Whitewood College. She was your friend, right?"
"Yes."
"My sympathy, then. But I spoke to the dean and the president of the sorority. This girl,"—she referred to typed notes on her desk—"Stacy Teller, committed suicide."
"No, she didn't," Nicole argued. "She died during a twisted, dangerous initiation rite that was a version of Russian roulette. And it's not a sorority; it's a secret society."
"Excuse me, but I fail to see the difference. Anyway, Whitewood, like every other respectable institution of higher learning, has a strict no-hazing policy."
"In theory, yes, but not in practice.
"Are you implying that the school administration is covering up for this ... what is it called?"
"The Elizabethan Sisterhood."
"That's it. You're telling me that everyone from the dean on down is covering up what might be considered reckless endangerment, if not negligent homicide."
"I am."
"I assume there was a police investigation. Did they question you?"
"Yes, but they didn't believe me when I told them what happened," Nicole replied despondently.
"Then why should I?"
"Because I was there, standing less than a foot away from her when she shot herself. Her blood and brains were splattered on my ballerina costume."
"Correct me if I'm wrong," Justine said, again referring to her notes. "There were twelve girls in a locked basement room—including the dead girl. Ten of them claimed that after she was told she had been rejected for membership, Stacy Teller took a gun out of her purse and shot herself in the head."
"The gun came from a safe in that room."
"That's not what the other witnesses said."
"They're lying. Think about it: why would she bring a gun to the society's house? She had every reason to believe she would be accepted. The initiation rite was the final test. It was only a matter of bad luck that she failed."
"So, by your own admission, the girl's death was an accident."
"No!" Nicole screamed with frustration. "The Elizabethan Sisterhood killed her!"
Justine silently tapped a pencil on her desk as she mulled the situation over in her mind.
"A pretty young girl," she mused aloud. "An old, exclusive, all-girls school. Students from wealthy, socially prominent parents."
"Not everyone at Whitewood comes from money."
"Let me guess. You were a scholarship student."
Nicole nodded her head.
"And Stacy Teller?"
"Her father was the CEO of an electronics company."
"A pretty girl from a privileged background. Too bad there's no sex angle. But my viewers might like the story anyway."
"Does that mean you'll investigate Stacy's death?" Nicole asked excitedly.
"Barring the advent of another school shooting, a terrorist attack or a serial killer, I'll give it my undivided attention."
* * *
On November 24 the students of Whitewood were eager for their Thanksgiving break to begin. Of those who did not have a class scheduled that day, many left campus the previous afternoon; the remainder headed home for the holidays that morning. Nicole was one of the less fortune students who had a class to attend. Since Stacy Teller's death, she dreaded going to psychology and had even given consideration to dropping the class altogether.
That chilly autumn morning she walked into the classroom and tried to avoid looking at the empty desk beside her own, a painful reminder of the unnecessary death of her friend. It was a monumental task to keep her mind on the professor's lecture, but with determination and self-discipline she was able to listen and take notes. Twenty minutes into the class, however, her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. It was a text message from her academic advisor, requesting a meeting.
At the conclusion of the lecture, Nicole did not hang around class to wish her fellow students a good holiday. Instead, she gathered her belongings and headed directly to her advisor's office.
"You wanted to see me?" she asked.
"Yes," the older woman replied. "Please sit down. I've been looking at your grades. It appears that they've recently fallen. Of the three papers you handed in this week, you got one B and two C's. Granted that for most of your classmates that would be the norm, but you're a straight-A student."
"I promise I'll do better. Those C's were in two different subjects, so they won't affect my grades for the semester. I've been ...."
"And there's your scholarship to think of," the advisor said, cutting off her explanation. "I've discussed your situation with your professors and with the dean. We all feel it might be better if you were to take a semester off."
"What?"
"Given the unfortunate incident that occurred during Hell Week, it's only natural for you to be ... upset. After a few months of rest ...."
"I don't want to take a few months off. What I need now is to buckle down and concentrate on my studies."
"We believe otherwise."
Those three words were spoken with finality. The administration had made up its mind without even discussing the matter with Nicole.
"You are officially excused from attending classes for the remainder of this semester and all of the next. You have until the end of the month to pack up and remove your belongings. You will be assigned a new dorm room when you return for the start of the summer semester or, if you prefer, you can wait until September."
"So I'm definitely allowed to come back?"
There was a moment of hesitation before the advisor replied.
"Y-yes. Of course."
Nicole knew otherwise. At some point during the spring semester she would receive a letter rescinding her scholarship. The action was unjustified, but the school would find some excuse to do so. The unfairness of the situation only intensified the anger she already felt toward the perceived injustice of Stacy Teller's death, and she exploded.
"This has nothing to do with my goddamned two C's and a B!" she screamed, "and everything to do with my refusing to lie about what you call the 'unfortunate incident' that happened during Hell Week. A young girl blew her brains out in front of me during some asinine initiation rite, and I'm supposed to cover it up for the good of the school and the Sisterhood! Well, I won't do it."
Having vented her wrath, Nicole broke down in tears, sobbing hysterically. The sight of her anguish did not move the stony-faced advisor.
"As I said, you need to take some time off."
* * *
Nicole sat quietly in the television studio, watching Justine Bayer at her broadcast desk, looking like a network news anchor, but sounding more like a Boston fishwife.
"People!" she yelled in the direction of the camera. "This man lied to police about his whereabouts. He may have claimed he was working late, but—let me tell you!—he was at home murdering his pregnant wife."
Traditionally, journalists were supposed to be detached. Their job was to impartially report the facts. Justine Bayer, however, reached her pinnacle of popularity by passionately and shamelessly berating the suspected killers on air to the point where her detractors accused her of being downright rabid.
"What do I care what my critics say?" she responded to her loyal viewers. "I'm no bleeding heart liberal calling for an end to the death penalty on the odd chance that an innocent person is wrongly executed. Hell, no! I say kill them all, and let the good lord sort them out!"
Whether she truly believed her own tirades is another matter, but her television audience did. Her persona of a zealous, outspoken supporter of victims' rights equated to big money for the show's star, the network and her sponsors.
"And you mark my words," Justine prophesied as the taping of the episode came to an end. "If he gets away with his wife's murder, his bimbo of a mistress might be his next victim."
"That's a wrap," the director shouted.
Justine removed her microphone, got up from the desk and headed toward her dressing room. Nicole followed close behind.
"Miss Bayer?"
When the crime journalist turned, she immediately recognized the student who had come to see her in connection with the death of the Elizabethan Sisterhood pledge.
"Ah, Miss Pearsall. I've been working on the investigation, but I haven't made much progress. You're going to have to give me more time."
"I've come here to offer whatever help I can."
"Don't think I don't appreciate it, but ...."
"I've been kicked out of school," Nicole blurted out.
"You were expelled?"
"Not exactly. My advisor told me to take a semester or two off, but I know the school won't take me back."
"So, you've got plenty of time on your hands then?"
"Yes. Please let me help you."
"I suppose I can fit an intern's salary into the show's budget."
"That won't be necessary," Nicole objected. "I'm willing to work for free."
"Honey," Justine said, linking her arm with the student's in a gesture of camaraderie, "if you learn just one thing from working with me, it's never, never work for free. Leave the concept of pro bono to high-paid lawyers."
* * *
Since that tragic Friday night of Hell Week, Nicole often woke in the middle of the night after disturbing nightmares. Usually, she saw the dead girl dressed in her blood-soaked wedding gown with what was left of her face pale from loss of blood. One night in mid-December, though, her dream took her into the vault-like cellar where twelve girls stood expectantly around a table. Her body distorted and elongated by the dream, Maleia Novick, the president of the Elizabethan Sisterhood, seemed to tower over the other young women.
"It was in this very room," the misshapen, giant-like woman intoned, her voice echoing eerily in the cavernous chamber, "back in the autumn of 1865 that twelve girls met ...."
Nicole stared at the portraits of the founding members that adorned the walls. Only one did not seem to stare back at her. In fact, the red-haired young woman's green eyes did not appear to focus on anything. It was as though she was in a trance—either that or she was dead.
Meanwhile, the Sisterhood's president looked down from her lofty height and droned on.
"The first initiation took place right here, and in one hundred and fifty-two years it hasn't changed. You eight pledges will take part in the same rite that the twelve founders did."
Nicole woke with a start. When her head cleared, the full implication of Maleia's words struck her.
The same initiation rite was performed for more than one hundred and fifty years! she thought. Surely in all that time, Stacy wasn't the only fatality. Other girls pledging the Elizabethan Sist—
The memory of the portrait of the red-haired young woman with the unseeing green eyes flashed through her brain.
Elizabeth Weldon!
Despite the lateness of the hour, Nicole got out of bed and booted up her laptop. However, a Google search of the student's name yielded no results. Neither did a search of the Elizabethan Sisterhood.
"When they say it's a secret society, they're not kidding."
She did not get discouraged easily, though.
"The information I want is out there. It's just a matter of discovering the right search criteria."
Finally, a combination of words (Whitewood, suicide, shooting) unlocked one of the secrets of the Sisterhood.
The following morning Nicole was at the television studio, waiting outside Justine Bayer's combination office/dressing room, when the celebrity journalist reported for work.
"Aren't you the early bird?" her employer laughed, glancing at her watch.
"I had to see you right away. I found something."
Justine looked over her shoulder as if she was worried a rival journalist was about to get the scoop.
"Come inside," she said, after unlocking her door.
"Stacy wasn't the only one," Nicole cried excitedly. "There have been a number of other shooting deaths, going all the way back to 1865. Elizabeth Weldon, one of the founding members of the Sisterhood and after whom the society was named, was the first."
"She committed suicide, too?"
"I keep telling you: it wasn't suicide. These girls didn't want to kill themselves. Elizabeth Weldon put a pistol to her head to prove her worth and loyalty to the society. Six chambers, one bullet. That's greater than an eighty percent probability that she would survive. Yet even though the odds were on her side, the chamber had a live round, just like Stacy's."
"Was anyone charged with her death? Was either the college or the society held responsible?"
"No. The death was deemed an accident. And there have been at least a dozen other women, all freshmen at Whitewood, all dead of gunshot wounds to the head."
"And all considered accidents or suicides?" Justine asked, apparently finally taking serious interest in the story.
"Yes. Wouldn't you think either the police or the school would find those statistics disturbing? Shouldn't someone have questioned all these deaths?"
"You would think so," Justine replied, taking her phone out of her bag and sending someone a text message. "Let's see if we can't connect the dots for them. But first, let's have some coffee. I don't function well without my caffeine fix."
Coffee cup in hand, Justine stood looking over Nicole's shoulder as the young woman went through the information in the documents she had saved on her laptop.
"In addition to these students known to have died, there were five who simply disappeared. Since all of them were freshmen and vanished at the start of the school year about the same time as Hell Week is traditionally held, I can't help wondering if they shared Elizabeth's and Stacy's fate."
"And you did all this work in one night? You certainly are thorough. No wonder you got straight A's."
The crime journalist's remark set off a warning bell in Nicole's mind.
"How do you know about my grades? I never discussed my academic record with you."
"I looked over your application when I hired you," Justine lied.
"But all I wrote under education was currently pursuing a degree in communications."
"Well, it's obvious you got good grades. Otherwise the Elizabethan Sisterhood would not have wanted to recruit you in the first place."
Another warning bell. How did she know the Sisterhood had pursued her and not the other way around?
"Have you been investigating me?" Nicole asked.
Justine was spared having to answer the question by the arrival of a delegation from Whitewood College. Nicole's face took on an unhealthy pallor when saw the college dean, her former academic advisor, Maleia Novick and Chantal Edington.
"What are they doing here?"
"I invited them to meet with us so that we can get to the bottom of Stacy Teller's suicide."
"So you agree that the poor girl died by her own hand?" the dean asked the TV journalist.
Then, as though she were being taped for an episode of her show, Justine Bayer assumed her fanatical, crime-crusader and victims' advocate persona.
"Suicide?" she shouted in the grating voice she usually reserved from her television audience. "Hell, no! Come on! Does anyone believe for one moment that that poor, sweet, innocent child put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger? Or that a venerated college, one of the oldest in New England, would condone such dangerous and outlandish behavior as Russian roulette by any of its students, even if those students were the daughters of some of the wealthiest and most powerful families in the country? The idea is ludicrous!"
Nicole saw the smiles on her sisters' faces and suspected something had gone terribly wrong.
"This wasn't suicide or even a tragic accident," Justine continued her rant. "It was a clear-cut case of murder. Here was an intelligent, accomplished girl, with the face of an angel, about to be accepted into the Elizabethan Sisterhood, a great honor that would benefit her for the rest of her life. And then," she said, turning in Nicole Pearsall's direction, "she befriends a scholarship student. A plain-looking young woman from a lower-middle-class family who was desperate to get ahead. Oh, she had good grades in high school, graduated at the top of her class and was even elected class president. But at that time she was a big mouse on a very small piece of cheese. College proved to be quite different. After only a few weeks at Whitewood, her grades started to slip, going from A's to B's and then to C's."
"But that was only after Stacy's ...," Nicole objected, but Justine paid no attention to her.
"For the first time in her life, she faced real competition. Stacy Teller got good grades, too. Furthermore, she was popular and very attractive. And she didn't have to rely on a scholarship to stay in school. Her parents had plenty of money, not just for her expensive tuition but for designer clothes, trips to Europe, a new car. Is it any wonder Miss Pearsall was envious of her new friend? But when both girls pledged the Elizabethan Sisterhood, that envy got the better of her."
"What are you implying?" Nicole screamed.
"That you brought a gun with you to the society's house. That during the harmless swearing in ceremony held in the basement, you took out that gun and shot and killed Stacy Teller."
"That's absurd! No one is ever going to believe you."
"You got that wrong, dear," the academic advisor said. "No one believed you."
"There were ten other girls in that room who witnessed Stacy Teller's death," Justine reminded her. "Would it be so implausible that at the urging of the dean as well as their own consciences, they broke their vow of secrecy to the Sisterhood and confessed to seeing you murder another pledge?"
"That doesn't explain the other deaths going back to Elizabeth Weldon."
"Oh, for goodness sake!" the dean exclaimed, anxious to be done with the whole sordid affair. "You're a smart girl; use your head. The current governor graduated from Whitewood, as did the state district attorney and many of our judges. Do you think such important people will want the name of their alma mater dragged through the mud? Stacy Teller is dead. It is a tragedy, but there's nothing any of us can do to bring her back. You have to put it behind you and get on with your life."
"And how am I supposed to do that?"
"By keeping your eyes on the prize. You've got a great future ahead of you. Stop this useless quest for what you call justice. Come back to school next semester and get your degree."
"You've already been accepted into the Sisterhood," Maleia Novick said. "When you come back you'll be a full-fledged member."
"Do you honestly believe I would have anything to do with your organization now? You're responsible for Stacy's death, and I won't rest until I expose the truth."
"Since she obviously won't listen to reason," the dean said with a heavy sigh, "we'll have to do it your way, Justine."
The journalist picked up her phone to call the police.
"Why are you helping them?" Nicole demanded to know. "Are the ratings on your show slipping and now you need to accuse an innocent person of murder?"
"Unlike you, I know the meaning of loyalty," the television star said.
The truth suddenly dawned on Nicole.
"You're one of them!" she cried.
"Yes, I attended Whitewood, and I was a member of the Sisterhood."
"And it's like I told you again and again," Chantal Edington said. "Once an Elizabethan, always an Elizabethan."
* * *
Despite her protestations of innocence, Nicole Pearsall was arrested for the murder of Stacy Teller. The court-appointed psychiatrist, herself a Whitewood graduate, examined the young woman and pronounced her unfit to stand trial. The gifted student was taken to a secure hospital for the criminally insane where for the remainder of her life she endured nightmares of a pretty blonde in a blood-stained wedding dress.
Never mind Hell Week. Every day with Salem is hell!
