Using her professional voice, she assured him, “No, it’s not too early. Is something wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Just wanted to let you know the sheriff’s office is certifying Austin’s death as violent. It could be anything from accidental causes to homicide. Probably hit his head when he fell.”
“Homicide? . . . You mean he was pushed?”
“Violent means unnatural causes. There’s any number of ways he could have gotten there. Pushed, tripped . . . suicidal. Now they’ll focus on finding out how by tracing his actions from the lab to the stairs.” Cassandra thanked him and numbly ended the call.
Back in the steamy shower, Cassandra briskly massaged coconut scented shampoo into her scalp. Nothing erased the mental image of Austin’s lifeless body yesterday afternoon. She struggled to wrap her brain around the H-word. If it wasn’t a “natural” incident—medical or otherwise—what made him tumble down those stairs into a broken heap? There were many more questions to answer and it was time to head to campus. If she wanted to fix this during Nielson’s absence, she’d need to be completely prepared and in charge.
Chapter Nine
Cassandra carefully placed a bottle of Chateau Ste. Michelle Merlot into a pretty blue paper wine bag with a twine handle. She wrapped matching ribbon around a small box of chocolate covered macadamia nuts that her mother had included in the last care package to thank Meg for inviting her to Saturday dinner.
She plugged Meg’s address into the Honda’s map program, and crossed her fingers that Google knew more than she did about rural Eastern Nebraska. Probably she didn’t deserve a night off, but a girl had to eat, right? Luckily, dinner at the O’Brien’s required nothing more fancy than black ankle length pants and a casual tropical patterned fitted tunic that she’d purchased at Macy’s in July.
Meg had been after her to buy jeans and more casual shirts lately. “Midwesterners don’t dress as formally as people on the coasts,” she’d reminded. “Besides, you have a great tiny body underneath those loose pants and shirts. Show off your shape a little bit!”
Cassandra owned one pair of jeans that had probably been her mother’s. She wore them when working on a flower garden or cleaning house. Even she knew that mom jeans wouldn’t be right for dinner.
Thirty-two minutes later, Cassandra pulled into the long, gravel driveway lined by an evergreen wind break to the O’Briens’ acreage off Highway 31. Their large house sat on a spacious yard where their son Tony could run around with the dog and practice throwing a baseball to his dad. Homes and property values in Nebraska were significantly cheaper than in Hawai’i where it wasn’t unusual to pay $600,000 for a 1,200-square foot townhouse. Often a young couple lived with their parents during the early years of their marriage to save for a house’s down payment.
Cassandra climbed the front porch steps to the open screen door, inhaling the backyard fire pit’s burning wood and savory grill scents. The domestic, appealing scene made Cassandra pause a moment to gather herself. She had once dreamed of marrying, buying a home, and filling it with keiki, flowers, and pets. The barking dog startled her out of her reverie. Burt, their 75-pound German shorthair, danced on the other side of the door in guest welcoming glee.
“C’mon inside, Cass!” Meg greeted moving towards her from the kitchen. “Burt, SIT,” she commanded, snapping her fingers. And Burt sat by her leg, his whole backside wiggling, while Cassandra removed her shoes by the welcome mat and entered the house. She handed the treats to Meg who admired the pretty wrapping. “I hope that rattling noise is macadamia nuts. God, I miss those.”
Connor came forward seconds later holding a beer bottle and smelling of outdoors and charcoal. He set his beer on the entry table, wrapped Cassandra into a big hug, and kissed her cheek. “Aloha! Haven’t seen you in more than a month! Glad you could make it tonight.”
The dog paced around them bumping her leg for attention. She squatted down and pet his silvery black head, scratching under his ears. “Burt, you good boy. I wouldn’t ignore you.”
Connor adjusted the red Huskers ball cap on his closely trimmed blond head. “Maybe you should get a guard dog for your house. For company, too.”
Connor’s solid, muscular build suggested he lifted a lot of weights or did hard labor for his job. In fact, he worked in an office in Ashland at the Nebraska National Guard, but spent a good amount of time keeping in fit military shape should his unit deploy. “My house is plenty safe,” Cassandra assured him. “Besides, I barely have time to water my plant, let alone walk a dog every day.”
Behind them loud footsteps thundered down the stairs. Connor warned, “Look out! He’s coming in hot!”
There was only one person in the house who could make that kind of an entrance. Tony burst into the hall and slid to a stop on the wood floor. “Move it, Patrick, I’m claustrophobic.”
Cassandra recognized the line immediately and answered, “What does claustrophobic mean?”
Tony used his best SpongeBob imitation voice. “It means he’s afraid of Santa Claus!”
She raised her hands up by her ears, her voice low in her throat. “Ho, ho, ho!”
Tony copied her and flailed his hands, “Stop it, Patrick, you’re scaring him!”
They looked at each other for a beat, then burst into giggles.
He said in amazement, “Wow, you said that just like Patrick! Auntie Cass is awesome, Mom!” Then he darted off down the hall.
Who knew her SpongeBob obsession would come in so handy? Cassandra kept smiling. Kids were so much more fun than adulting.
Meg shook her head. “Tony’s right—you do sound just like Patrick . . . However odd that is for a thirty-something woman.”
Cassandra did palms up by her hips. “Brain breaks in between all of those grad classes. A couple SpongeBob episodes and you forget every stress. I miss those carefree days.”
* * *
After burgers with all the toppings and salads, Connor and Tony went upstairs to do the nighttime bath, story, and bed routine while Meg poured Cassandra a second glass of wine and they curled up on opposite ends of the leather couch. Their family room was dark, cozy and comfortable and decorated in the latest casual farmhouse style with gray sectional furniture. Photos and vintage John Wayne movie posters covered the Western themed walls. A leather bridle and horsewhip were tacked above the couch, and locally brewed beer bottles hugged a narrow shelf on the corner wall over the snack area. Burt sat near Meg and leaned his head by her hand.
Cassandra noted that the liquid inside Meg’s glass wasn’t wine-colored. She frowned. “Water?”
Meg shrugged casually. “Just not in the mood tonight.” Cassandra raised an eyebrow, but gave it a pass.
Cassandra sank into the couch. “My mother and I Skyped this morning and she wanted me to tell you ‘Aloha.’ I feel guilty because I didn’t tell them about Austin.”
Meg absently scratched behind Burt’s ears. “Why not?”
“I didn’t want to worry them unnecessarily.”
Meg said, “Yeah. I feel guilty, too, like we should have prevented it. It’s Catholic guilt. I don’t even know exactly what happened yet, but I feel responsible anyway.”
“Catholic guilt is nothing compared to the Japanese mother guilt I’m going to get when Mom figures out I knew about this, and didn’t tell her right away.” Cassandra sipped some wine.
“Are you in touch with Paul’s family still?” Meg asked. “Your moms were friends, right?”
“They still treat me like family. And I feel bad for moving away from them, too.” She sighed. Even though Meg really understood her well, Cassandra still had trouble talking about Paul with her. “All moms either worry too much, or give us guilt. Not that you’ll ever make your kids feel guilty for something they didn’t do.”
Meg’s face clouded. “Sometimes I wonder if we’ll actually have more than one kid. I’ve had two miscarriages the last couple of years.” She drank some water and hesitated
. “Last time was in May. Before you moved.”
Cassandra’s emotions were already raw from the day before and her eyes teared up. “Oh, Meg! I’m so sorry.”
Meg resumed scratching the dog. “I was maybe 10 or 12 weeks along, but we’d already talked about converting the office into a nursery and debated name ideas. The morning sickness was pretty bad, but I was excited because of the little life growing inside me. Once I started spotting, the whole thing ended a few days later. There was nothing the doctor could do. Connor was away on National Guard drill that weekend. The poor man came home on Sunday night to a crying wreck and our confused son. Tony was sweet though. He offered me his favorite stuffed SpongeBob to cheer me up.”
Cassandra had wondered why they were waiting so long. “Your family is huge and you’ve always talked about having lots of keiki. I’m such a dunce not to realize you were having trouble.”
Meg shrugged. “They happened before you moved here, and I didn’t exactly tell the world. Both times it was before I started showing, so no one really knows.”
Cassandra couldn’t imagine how hard that would be. She yawned and stretched her arms out. Her full belly and the wine made her sleepy.
Meg hugged a throw pillow, then bluntly asked, “You seem kinda tired.”
She’d stayed in the office until almost 9:00 Friday night. Most days started at 6:30, before the phones’ ringing and the students’ arrival. Cassandra’s shoulders sagged. “The hours don’t sound too bad until you add them up.” Her hand massaged her temple. “I am kinda tired.”
“You’re running on what . . . 5 hours of sleep a night?” Meg held up her palm. “I did that quite a few months after Tony was born. Wait ‘til the weather turns colder, and we’re all stuck inside. The students’ germs and yours get all mixed up. You’ll get sick if you don’t take care of yourself.”
“Yes, Mother . . .” She’d love to speed past these awkward months of acclimation. “Between office politics and state history, I spend time studying every day. I’ve been learning the map so I have an idea of distance and size of the students’ hometowns.”
“People here aren’t raised with the Aloha spirit, but they’re friendly. You’ll feel more settled by the end of the semester.”
She hadn’t told Meg about the anonymous texts telling her to go home or calling her derogatory names. She wasn’t naïve. She knew the middle of the mainland wasn’t as diverse as the coasts. Cassandra hesitated, finding a way to describe her feelings. “Everyone here is so . . . white. It’s strange going to the market or big meetings where nearly every face I see is European Caucasian. I’ve never considered myself racist or privileged, but I never realized how most faces at home looked like mine.”
Cassandra tucked her legs underneath herself and let her head fall against the back cushion. “I completely underestimated what an impact it’d be to move here. My whole life, when I walked out my door the first thing I did was orient myself to the ocean and the mountains. I took blue skies and salty ocean breezes for granted. Now when I get in my car and drive out of town, all I see for miles and miles is land. Mostly flat, green-turning-brown land. There’s no water. It makes me claustrophobic.”
Meg sat up straight and smacked the back of the couch with her hand. “HA! That’s exactly how I felt living in Hawai’i! Except I’d look at the blue ocean stretching to the horizon and think, ‘I’m on a little teeny island in the middle of this humongous ocean. Forty-four miles in diameter, and I’m floating here in the middle. Funny how something so opposite makes you feel the same way I did.”
Cassandra met Meg’s deep stare for a few beats. Meg said quietly, “I missed you even though we didn’t talk as often after I left. It’s not many times in your life you find one of those friends where you can—”
“—pick up the conversation where you left off,” Cassandra finished for her. They clinked their glasses together in a toast. Connor joined them, settling into the sectional couch near Meg. He casually reached an arm around her back and drew her closer to him.
Meg had found the right guy for her at such a young age. They’d been newlyweds when he was stationed at Ft. Bellows, and they still seemed to get along well even after 10 years of marriage.
Connor put his feet on the ottoman. “Hey, Cass, I met a guy at the National Guard camp last weekend who said he works with you? Marcus Fischer. Morton housing department?”
Cassandra couldn’t stop the little flush that crept up her neck at the mention of Fischer’s name. Just like being 14 again with a crush on the cutest boy in the 8th grade. Mental eye roll. Luckily the lighting in the family room was pretty low, so she hoped no one noticed. She should’ve known better.
Meg teased, “Oh, you mean the Fabulous Mr. Fischer? Yes, we know him. Cass is technically his boss; he’s in charge of the on-campus student housing. He and his dreamy eyes report to her.”
Connor tickled her side. “Dreamy eyes, eh? Are you the only one who’s noticed him, or does Cass think he’s dreamy, too?”
Totally middle school again. Cassandra sipped some wine, working for a blank, nonchalant expression. “Yes, of course I know who he is. We’ve attended weekly staff meetings since August. He does a good job with housing. Seems very organized. Neat. He’s got that whole military precision thing happening. Like in meetings, he carefully lines up his papers, notepad and pen in front of him on the table and sits as though he’s at attention. His clothes are always neatly pressed. He’s quiet but seems to take in every detail around him.”
Connor’s eyebrows went up a bit. “Well, well . . . you have been watching him, haven’t you?”
She lifted a palm up defensively. “You can’t help noticing things like that.”
His Cheshire cat grin reminded her of her big brother. “Maybe you’d also like to know, that in our Leadership class last weekend I found out quite a bit about your Mr. Fischer. Lieutenant Fischer grew up in Denver, but moved to Nebraska for college because that’s where his mother is from. He deployed to Iraq during the second Gulf War as a mechanic, then came home and finished college. He’s been at Morton since January.”
This was embarrassing. She pointed at the couple. “What’d you do? Waterboard the guy to get all that intel out of him? This is not a good time for me. Do not go there.”
“Where?” asked Connor innocently. “Where don’t you want to go? Kansas City?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You know what I mean.”
He goaded just like Keoni would’ve done over Saturday night drinks at home. “Yes, I do, but I want you to say it out loud.”
“Do not set me up with Marcus Fischer.”
“Yep, we went there!” Connor crowed.
“C’mon guys, just let me learn how to do my job . . . and teach a class . . . and lead some grad students . . . and figure out what happened to Austin Price before you match me up with every eligible guy within a 30-mile radius.”
Connor held out his right hand as if to shake on a deal, “Done! So, that oughta take what—a couple more weeks? Then we can invite you guys out on a double date?”
Cassandra’s brown eyes glared and her mouth tightened into a line. Failing to hold a convincing Stink Eye at his smiling face, she gave her head a little shake and stuck with silence as her best response.
* * *
Cassandra arrived home around 11:30 to a dark street and house. The college kids who lived on her street were probably still partying, and the retired couples next door and across the street had long since gone to sleep so they could be up at 5:30 a.m. Cassandra often saw them outside watering the yard or walking on weekday mornings.
Once she parked in the narrow, single-car detached garage set back fifteen feet from the house, she let herself into the bungalow’s side entrance. The postage stamp sized landing led either straight down the stairs to the basement or left to the kitchen. She hung her black leather jacket on a coat hook behind the door and took the two steps up into the kitchen using the ambient l
ight that shone through the door’s top window to guide her way. Another window on the same wall in the kitchen between the pantry and the stove allowed her to see her pathway through the galley kitchen. She moved deeper into the house towards her bedroom, the only one on the main floor. Upstairs were two more bedrooms she planned to use for guests and extra storage.
Something odd in the living room made her detour that way instead, trying to make out a dark shape on the floor. Slowly she crept up closer, light and shadows from the windows revealing a pattern to the mottled shape on the floor. It didn’t move. Her heart pounded, and she reached into her pants pocket for her phone. She had to get up very close to realize the shape was nothing; it was just a lighting trick. Still, the shadow shapes looked strange, so she turned right towards the living room’s fireplace wall. In a window beside the fireplace, she saw the slimy mass of a pumpkin’s insides still clinging to the window. A startled gasp escaped her lips.
That’s what had made the strange pattern on her floor! Her heart and her head both pulsed, though obviously pumpkins weren’t dangerous. She turned on an end table lamp and moved to the window for a closer look. Large chunks of orange pumpkin stuck to the window, stringy tendrils and seeds hung further down. Note to self: next time turn on the kitchen light when you come home late at night.
She flipped the overhead entryway light and moved to the front door, hitting the porch lights on as she stepped outside. Around the side of the house, a broken pumpkin half lay beneath the azalea hedge under the window. Light spilled into the small side yard that separated her home from the older couple, the Gills, who lived next door. She kept walking around the corner to the back of the house, checking the other windows for more vandalism. Seeing nothing, she returned to the front, her head swiveling up and down the quiet street.
Death by Dissertation (A Cassandra Sato Mystery Book 1) Page 6
