Cassandra said, “I wouldn’t interfere with police business. You saw Lance. He was pretty uncooperative.”
Meg was in protective mama bear mode. “He just found out his roommate died. I hope he doesn’t get himself arrested. I get the feeling that without his scholarship he wouldn’t be able to afford Morton; he comes from a large family with some deaf people and some that can hear. Lance is a good kid.”
Since there were less than 20 deaf students at Morton, Meg knew them pretty well. “What else should I know about Austin?”
Meg thought for a bit. “Austin must’ve been a good student to get that biology lab job. Those only go to top Biology 2 students who survive a competitive interview process. I’ve told you this before, but honestly all the deaf kids who succeed in college are smart, determined hard workers.”
This was one of Meg’s pet topics: advocating for deaf students. “Imagine yourself as a student paying attention to an interpreter signing, the teacher speaking, and his PowerPoint presentation all at once. Plus, there’s a worksheet in front of you to fill out during the lecture. Part of your grade is based on participation points. You hope your interpreter is good enough to get all the important keywords and the main point of the lesson into the interpretation. You hope she can keep up with the class discussion so you know what the other kids in class are saying too. If the teacher has a foreign accent or uses lots of jokes and sarcasm, it’s easy to confuse which part is the lesson and which part is the joke.”
Way more work than she’d had in undergrad. Cassandra hadn’t stopped to think about how deaf students learned compared to other students.
They arrived back in the empty Osborne building after 6:30 p.m. Cassandra’s head still throbbed. “I’d better check messages. Still need to send few emails before I can go home.”
Meg retrieved her lunch bag and purse from a chair in Cassandra’s office. “Connor knows I’m running late, but I want to hurry home and hug my son.”
Meg and Connor’s nine-year-old son, Tony, and their Brittany Spaniel, Burt, had quickly become Cassandra’s adopted ohana away from home. Cassandra hugged Meg. “Give them both hugs from me, too. Finding you again has been a gift.”
Chapter Seven
Cassandra’s brain refused to relax even though she’d been sipping hot chamomile tea in bed. Her nightly professional reading ritual normally grounded and relaxed her within minutes. Tonight she stared at a Higher Education Administration community engagement article until the words blurred into a surreal watercolor of print. Visions of Austin and pressure to fill Nielson’s shoes—even temporarily—made her wonder if taking this job had been the right move.
President Nielson’s call brought her to full attention a little after 10:00 p.m. “What the Hell is going on? I told you to keep this out of the news!”
At what point had the friendly, charming gentleman she’d met during the hiring process evaporated, leaving No-Nonsense Nielson, the scathing critic, behind? She held her phone gingerly, away from her ear.
He said, “I just turned on the Omaha evening news. Not only did they report about our student’s death, they invited people to join the Morton community for a candlelight vigil Sunday evening! How is that keeping this quiet and contained?”
She’d learned from her previous photo faux pas that it’s better to put the facts out first instead of letting others control the message. Cassandra scowled at Nielson’s haole brusqueness. “Some students requested a candlelight vigil outside the chapel.” Austin’s funeral services would be far away and most wouldn’t be able to attend. “Cinda texted me a couple of hours ago asking permission. I didn’t see any harm in allowing it.”
His voice lowered a notch. “Don’t give out details to the media. Stick to the basic facts: student’s name, year in school and hometown. ‘Our thoughts and prayers are with the family. The police investigation is ongoing.’ This is not the kind of publicity we need right now. Didn’t I make that clear to you?”
So much for bringing her to Morton for her expertise on gender and leadership style. The proposed visiting professor program for mentoring female grad students and faculty would never happen if he thought she couldn’t handle simple press releases. She said, “We’ve given few details. This is student driven. Austin Price was a fraternity member. His friends and classmates want to gather and honor his memory. Don’t we want to encourage their feelings of connection and community? To help them begin the healing process.”
Nielson was silent a few seconds, and she realized it had been a long day for him, too. Although he could be a touchy jerk sometimes, he usually made intelligent decisions. Cassandra suspected that’s how he’d risen up through the faculty ranks from professor, to department chair, then Dean and now President for the past six years. He warned, “You’d better keep a tight lid on this gathering so it doesn’t get bigger than you expect. I’ll be traveling all day tomorrow and won’t be available to advise you.”
When Cassandra pictured a kindly mentor, it was her first boss, Ralph Masato’s face who came to mind over Nielson’s. As effective with business leaders and state senators as he was with young staff, Ralph never forgot the human side of the academic machine. He found time to sit with struggling students, chat about their Aunties and Grannies, and today’s surf on the North Shore. In contrast, this conversation only added to her anxiety.
Nielson’s last words were so quiet she had to strain to hear them. “Look, I’m sorry I yelled. I’m worried about our lab’s grant funding. I need your help.” The phone clicked off as he disconnected without waiting for her reply.
Cassandra felt a jarring uncertainty at his motives for calling her out. The vague reference to the lab’s funding and plea for help made it seem like he hoped Austin’s death was just an accident. First the police, and now the president had doubts. If it wasn’t an accident, how did it happen?
Chapter Eight
Early Saturday morning Cassandra padded into the small, outdated kitchen wearing a richly woven, purple silk kimono loosely tied over her pajamas: men’s large boxer shorts and a baggy Honolulu Symphony fun run t-shirt. A white headband and high ponytail kept stray pieces of black hair from falling into her eyes. Pressing the brew button on her Keurig, she watched as fragrant Kona dark roast coffee dripped into a delicate china cup that had belonged to her Gran before a series of strokes forced her move to a nursing home in Honolulu. The move had been much harder on the family than on Gran, who had lost a little more of herself with each mini-stroke. No one had expected her to hang on more than a decade, but she was a stubborn old Japanese woman who wasn’t going to be told when to die.
Gran would have approved of Cassandra’s sparkling clean kitchen, whose cabinets had been painted bright white sometime last century. The vintage 80s appliances were ugly, but functional. At least there was a dishwasher. Though she rarely had time to cook, the stainless-steel sink gleamed without one drop of dried water on its surface. A dishcloth and dry towel were draped over the side to wipe up any spills.
Taking the cup over to the gate leg wooden table, she sat in one of her two chairs and sipped contentedly. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine herself back home in the house her grandfather had built, and where she’d lived after undergrad. Her grandfather’s house sat abreast a hill with a panoramic view of Oahu’s leeward side. Grandpa’s pride were the lush tangerine and banana trees, while Gran cultivated colorful orchids. Truthfully, Cassandra’s Mom and Dad had taken over watering the garden, house plants, and trimming the small patch of grass for at least five years. Mom stopped by several times a week to work in the garden and leave meals in the fridge for her daughter. Since the Nebraska move, her Mom still made sure everything was cleaned and watered. One simply didn’t sell a house that’d been in the family for three generations.
A quick browse online showed no news on the Austin Price investigation. Cinda Weller emailed her about the walk-in counselors’ coverage for the day. And Nielson had been distracted en
ough by his travels to leave her alone. She released a big breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She’d be able to do some housework this morning instead of rushing over to campus.
First on her agenda was a 30-minute Yoga with Rodney Yee DVD. She rolled out the green yoga mat onto the middle of the wood floor. If she pushed the coffee table to the side, she could reach around doing the Warrior series and Sun Salutations movements without hitting any walls or furniture. Listening to the ocean surf in the video’s background helped focus her mind, while moving through the poses warmed up her muscles and worked out her body’s kinks.
Cassandra’s grumbling stomach interrupted her Corpse Pose interlude. She rolled up the mat, refilled her coffee, and surveyed the refrigerator contents: wilted bagged salad greens in the crisper drawer, a couple of apples, French vanilla coffee creamer, two eggs and a large container of leftover rice. Reaching into the upper cupboard she found one can of Spam next to a box of raisin bran cereal. She had two go-to breakfasts: mainland or Hawaiian. Which one she ate usually depended on how rushed she felt that morning, and how homesick. She opened the Spam, chopped a third of it into bite sized chunks, and lightly browned them in the pan with the eggs. The familiar aroma grounded her senses. Ahh . . . the breakfast meat of Hawai’i! She reheated the rice, refilled her coffee and cleaned up. Sitting down she forked in a mouthful of Spam, eggs, and rice just like she would have eaten at home with her family.
Usually Cassandra talked to her mom every Saturday, but factoring the time difference, she decided to run to the grocery store first. It wouldn’t take long to browse every item on the tiny store’s one half-aisle where the Asian food shared space with the Mexican food. Dressing in loose fitting “Saturday” tan cotton ankle pants and a flowing dark blue top with lotus flowers embroidered down the front buttonholes, she checked her phone’s weather app while shrugging on a thick navy cardigan, warm socks and slip-on blue Toms. Meg teased her about the fall and winter temperatures, but even 60 degrees felt frigid to her thin skin. She’d visited the mainland often enough at various times of the year that she owned a puffy winter coat and hat, gloves, and a scarf. Meg had promised to take her shopping in Lincoln soon to prepare for winter. Part of her was excited to experience snowstorms and curl up under a blanket with a cup of hot cocoa like those people on TV and movies. The cold feet and dry skin, she was not looking forward to. She’d purchased a used Honda Accord when she moved to Nebraska, but she lived only two blocks from campus and four blocks from the grocery store. Most days she got around on foot.
* * *
An hour later, Cassandra juggled keys and two large cloth bags as she stepped into the bungalow’s vestibule and heard the laptop noise alerting her to an inbound Skype call in the dining room. Cassandra had eschewed a dining table for an antique wooden library desk with a lamp and printer shelf. Leaving the front door open, she rushed towards the desk and tapped the keyboard to open the call. “Hi Mom!” she yelled, “I’m just back from the market. Let me put away the food.”
Michiko Sato’s diminutive torso filled Cassandra’s laptop screen. She yelled as though she was shouting from 3500 miles away. “Aloha, Cassandra! How are you? Good ting you wen to da market; you don’t eat enough. You look thin.”
Her mom always said that. Cassandra put away the groceries and spoke into the direction of the laptop moved to her kitchen table. “The market owner remembered me from last time I was there. Said I needed to eat more, too. Sounded like a haole version of you.”
The woman’s motherly scolding had given Cassandra a homesick longing. She didn’t mention the cold stare from the balding old man in the produce aisle while she chose ripe oranges, or that the grizzled deli guy ignored her until everyone else in line had gone first. Cassandra said, “How’s dad? And Gran? You’re up early, Mom.”
“Oh, I woke up at 4:00 and couldn’t go back to sleep so I did some laundry and cleaned the house. Your brother’s family is coming over this afternoon for Leilani’s birthday party, and your father’s outside working in the garden. I started roasting the pork this morning so it’ll be ready in time for the party. I still need to make da kine, birthday cake. I visited Gran yesterday; she’s the same. She knew who I was, but she thought it was 1995.” Her mom’s head tilted, and her lips met in a silent grimace.
Amazing that the powerful little woman who had ruled their family with an iron fist for 60 years now had the mind of a three-year-old child. Cassandra had helped care for Gran in their home for several years before Michiko finally admitted it was time to move her to a professional nursing home. Her mother asked, “How’s your job? Have you seen Meg?”
Cassandra didn’t mention Austin’s death. Mom would worry. She crossed her fingers that it hadn’t made the national news. Her mom wasn’t too savvy with the Google searches. She could find MSN headline news but hadn’t figured out yet how to access the campus newspaper online. Cassandra hoped she wouldn’t find out until next week. Maybe by then she’d have better information. “Yes, Mom. I saw her yesterday. She sends her love. Tony’s getting so big. He’s in 4th grade this year, and his hair is getting darker. He played flag football but I haven’t seen a game yet.”
“You need to stop workin all da time. Go enjoy yourself.”
If only it were that simple. Cassandra said, “I’ve a lot to learn still, Mom. I’ll watch Tony play soon. If you send me some Japanese candy, he can share it with his football teammates.” Mainland kids rarely got to experience the chewy taffy-like candy that came in an edible wrapper. It would be an exotic treat for them.
“Your sister brought home a nice young man for dinner on Sunday. His name is Rick Tanaka and she met him at the self-defense class she’s taking on Tuesday nights. His father passed away, but his mother lives in Hawai’i Kai, and he’s a nice Punahou boy. He’s quiet, but handsome and he drives an Audi. He let the nephews practice their judo moves on him. You know dey can be a bit . . . da kine . . . rambunctious.”
Her 8 and 6-year-old nephews were known to drop to the floor anywhere, even the supermarket checkout line and wrestle like Labrador puppies. Her younger sister Kathy was 27 and had a Master’s in social work. She’d dated a guy for four years in college and everyone had thought he was “the One”—except Kathy who had broken up with him last year. The unspoken worry was that Kathy would end up like Cassandra—34 and still alone. Mom thought getting married to your high school or college sweetheart was an item you checked off the list in your early 20s. Then you moved directly on to motherhood, just like she’d done.
The plan allowed no space for unexpected tragedies or boyfriends that didn’t live up to husband standards. Try explaining that to a woman who had been happily married for 37 years to the best man/husband/dad ever. On cue, her father appeared on the screen behind her mother. “Hi! Precious.” He grinned widely, happy to see his eldest daughter. “It’s good to see you. Why you didn’t sleep well last night?”
For one thing, she couldn’t shake memories of Austin alive and smiling in her office. Mixed with Nielson’s marching orders, her legs would not relax. “Just a late night at work, Dad. I’ll go to sleep earlier tonight, I promise.” Cassandra crossed her heart, but knew it was a fib.
Michiko said, “Helen from my Wednesday Mah Jong group announced that her daughter, Lori, is engaged. Some lawyer from the mainland. He’s a haole guy who has no respect for local culture. They’re getting married in Santa Monica in May! A mainland wedding . . . pfff. I told’em you goin teach that leadership class for da new job.”
Her mom’s Mah Jong group was not just for playing games. Michiko Sato got as much mileage out of her daughter’s considerable achievements as her peers would tolerate. The other ladies shared photos and stories of their successful families, too. Cassandra knew the new job would only temporarily postpone the inevitable insinuation. She should find a nice guy from the mainland like her high school friend, Lori. This was the same Lori who stole Frank Silva, her first crush back in Mrs. Yamamoto�
�s sixth grade. Maybe that mainland lawyer wanted to marry Lori because she let him copy her homework, too.
* * *
Hauling a cleaning carryall from kitchen to bedroom to living room while Cassandra methodically dusted and vacuumed spaces that would already look clean to a casual observer, she stewed over the call with her parents.
Her 1920’s bungalow in Carson was far removed from home in many ways. Cassandra had moved her quilted bedding, artwork and a few trinkets to remind her of the islands. In the short time she’d lived there, Meg had been the only visitor. Cassandra was often gone by 6:30 in the morning and didn’t return until almost dark. Some nights she attended special events and dinners or sporting contests. She barely had time to water the one special Plumeria plant she’d taken great pains to bring to Nebraska. The cutting had been packed, sealed, stamped and certified by an agriculture inspector before she could board the plane. She hadn’t moved thousands of miles and given up her home, her job, and her family, to fail.
Saving the bathroom for last, she cleaned every fixture and gathered the dirty clothes for laundry. The house came with a small stacking washer and dryer in the basement near the furnace. Having never lived in a home with a basement, Cassandra was amazed by how many storage boxes she could keep down there.
Sweat dampened her face and neck like a gym workout, while the cleaning routine had settled her mind. A walk around the neighborhood would’ve been more pleasant, but when faced with a choice, she’d always choose a sparkling house over exercise. Tepid water sprayed from the recently installed ultra-rain showerhead while she shivered outside the antique clawfoot bathtub waiting for the home’s plumbing to catch up to Hawai’i water temperature standards. Her phone chirped and the screen indicated a local call. She missed the caller’s first words while she stepped into her bedroom to escape the loud noise in the bathroom. “ . . . not too early to call, I hope?” She recognized Andy Summer’s voice while she held the phone an arm’s length away and sat on the bed comforter, drawing it around her chilled skin.
Death by Dissertation (A Cassandra Sato Mystery Book 1) Page 5
