She tried to breathe through her mouth, but couldn’t completely avoid it. Brian Hopkins noted her discomfort and laughed, “My grandfather always said, ‘That’s the smell of money, son.’ You’re lucky I don’t have a hundred hogs, too. That’d be worse. I grew up here, so I don’t even notice. My wife Janey is from Denver though, and she gets that same look on her face that you have.” He smiled again, unfazed.
Fischer and Zimmerman were turned the other way, wandering over to the tractors and equipment, not paying full attention to their conversation.
Brian’s charm was infectious. She felt comfortable around him. “I’m grateful for the opportunity to see your operation in person. Helps me understand the relationship between you and Morton much better.”
His tanned face had a boyish quality to it when he smiled, showing off straight white teeth and deep dimples. He was an advertisement for clean, outdoor living. “Dr. Nielson went to high school with my father so I’ve known him since I was a boy. I jumped at the idea of joining the protein additive trials; the pilot project provides me free feed which lets me sell the meat back to the college for a fair price. Plus, I think the meat tastes more lean and tender. After these experiments are done, I’m going to buy the feed myself and use it to market my beef to specialty stores and restaurants.”
She had a hard time picturing Nielson as a high school kid. “How long does it take to get FDA approval?”
“Our feed mixture contains corn byproducts, grains or other minerals and vitamins—but not medicines—so it doesn’t go through special FDA approval.”
Ignorance might be the better option when it came to byproducts added into her food. She remembered Austin’s test results. “Do you know if an overdose of the research enzyme could cause someone to get sick?”
“I know more about the feed side of the equation than Morton’s research. The average American consumes 2 ounces of beef per day—not enough to make you ill from your hamburger. Nebraskans are proud of their ‘corn-fed beef.’ The feed mix affects the meat’s taste and since this is a business, we do everything possible to make it taste great.”
Like tender Kobe beef from Japan that was popular in steakhouses back home. “I had no idea it was legal to add things to the animal feed.”
“Most consumers don’t know much about how their food is made.”
Both fascinated and somewhat alarmed, Cassandra slowly stepped towards the fence. “How many cows are in the pilot project?”
“In this area here we have 40—Wait! Don’t go any closer, it’s wet over the—” Brian stopped mid-sentence and lunged for her. Too late.
She’d been looking out at the cattle instead of down at the soft mud. Her pointy heels sank down and one came loose from her foot. Cartwheeling her arms, she wobbled a couple of times but caught herself by her hands on the wooden fence.
Cassandra had it under control. She smiled and adjusted her feet back into the shoes. Fischer covered the space in a few large steps, took her elbow, and thanked Brian. “I don’t have any more questions. The contract renewal should go smoothly. You’ll get the paperwork in the mail in a couple of weeks. We’d better head back to town.”
After shaking hands, they walked towards the car. Cassandra nodded at Fischer and pulled her arm away from his grasp. Her skin tingled where his hand had touched her elbow. “I’m good now, thanks.”
She didn’t need a man’s help covering a short distance. She waited for them to get ahead of her and followed. Head down, she gingerly stepped across the drive, avoiding muddy spots and what looked like round, dried chunks of sawdust. Feeling more confident, she looked back again and waved at Brian. The toe of her shoe caught on a rock. She slid sideways on a large wet cow-pie partially covered by gravel, going down in a flurry of flailing arms and legs like a scene straight out of a cartoon strip.
Brian had helped her stand up and half carried her to the car. He was genuinely concerned that she was unhurt and didn’t even smirk at her dishevelment. Must be the city wife that’d made him so chivalrous.
She’d given Fischer the narrow-eyed ‘don’t say a word’ look. He shrugged and opened the trunk, pulling out an old dusty fleece blanket that he laid across the back seat for her. Wouldn’t want to ruin the college’s car, eh? Not exactly Sir Lancelot.
She had to give Fischer credit though. He didn’t say one word the whole ride back. Just cranked the radio up loud and ignored the funky smell. Her eyes watered from the sand and grit that had been blown into them. At least that was her story for the moisture on her cheeks if anyone dared ask. The non-stop sneezing fit also had her fuming. Allergies and clumsiness were unwelcome lifestyle changes. She pouted. Why do I keep getting stuck in these ridiculous situations?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Cassandra opened the fridge and surveyed the contents. A red-lidded Rubbermaid contained a few cups of leftover rice, the crisper drawers were full of fresh fruits and veggies. Sipping sparkling water, she thought stir fry sounded good for dinner when she was interrupted by two sharp knocks on the back door. Cassandra peeked out the kitchen window into the empty driveway. Confused, she walked down the steps and saw Meg’s hair through the window. She unlocked the door and Meg came in, already talking. “You forgot we were supposed to meet for supper, didn’t you?”
Cassandra squinted, “Why aren’t you already home? Supper . . . We just had lunch. And then I had a detour—” Cassandra stopped her excuse mid-sentence because she noticed Meg was staring at the top of her head.
Meg slowly reached up and removed a stiff clump of dried mud from Cassandra’s ponytail. “Tonight’s the Obstacle Course on the Quad. I work late, because some of the deaf students and staff are on teams. You promised we’d eat together before it starts. I stopped by the office, and you weren’t there so I came here. Why aren’t you ready . . . You’re not wearing that are you?”
Cassandra yanked the mud clot from Meg’s hand and stomped up to the kitchen where she threw it in the trash. Meg followed, clearly amused at this rare glimpse of Cassandra not perfectly dressed, made up, and put together. “I wasted my afternoon doing a stupid PR run to a smelly cattle farm because Dr. Nielson was gone. I totally embarrassed myself by falling into a puddle of a substance I couldn’t identify. But since there were giant cows all around, I can guess what it was.” Cassandra sniffed her shirt. “I desperately need a shower, but I’m hungry.”
“But—”
Cassandra’s hands went up to ward off whatever Meg said next. She whined, “I’m pau. Don’t want to go back over da kine. I ruined a suit, trashed a good pair of work heels, and my hip . . .”
She reached around her right hip and hiked up the bottom of her shorts revealing a red scratch larger than her palm and a light bruise. She gasped, “I thought it hurt! I don’t have time for this.” Her eyes went full-on stink eye. “Stop laughing.”
Meg couldn’t hold it in. She laughed out loud and protested, “I’m laughing WITH you. What’s your beef? It’s funny . . . Ok, the part where you ruined the clothes and got hurt isn’t funny. But the vision of you slipping into a muddy cow-pie part is hysterical.”
She growled. “Not laughing. Not funny. Not going.”
Meg countered. “Embarrassed, hungry, dirty and GOING. Look, it starts at seven. I have to get back over there for the opening rules and introductions.”
Meg pulled the fridge open and grabbed a bottle of Chardonnay out of the door. Stepping over to the cupboard, she found a wine glass and poured a generous measure into the glass. “Take this.”
Cassandra accepted the glass. Meg turned Cassandra around by her shoulders and gently nudged her towards the master bedroom. “Have a warm shower, drink some wine, change into clean comfy clothes, and come back to the Quad to watch the races. I’ll order you a sub sandwich to eat when you get there. C’mon, it’ll be fun.”
Cassandra’s instinct was to argue, but she paused to take a long drink of wine. Inhaling a deep breath, she closed her eyes. �
��No-Nonsense Nielson had better appreciate all the extra stuff I’m doing while he’s gallivanting through China.”
Forty-five minutes later, Cassandra was thankful for another warm evening. She only needed a light jacket in the 65-degree balmy air. She heard thumping bass and laughter before she rounded the student center’s corner. Several food tents and tables were set up along the field’s edges. Brightly costumed students gathered in teams preparing for competitions. The near end of the quad was the start line. Various obstacles were laid out on the football field sized grass. Contestants jumped through tires or hoops, caught water balloons in buckets, and completed other skills before reaching the finish line. Cassandra lingered on the sidelines trying to guess the costume themes for the team competition.
A large, homemade wooden scoreboard on the far end of the field listed six team names with a grid scoring the race standings. Logan’s superhero team had jumped into an early lead while they zoomed around wearing colored tights under running shorts with headgear that included taped on lightning bolts, American flags, or robotic looking components made of cardboard. One guy wearing a black mask with antennae stuck to the front stopped on top of a wooden stand with his chest stuck out and his biceps flexed while his teammates screamed at him to stop posing and keep running. He leapt off the stand athletically and darted toward the finish line but his detour had cost him the lead in his leg of the race. Other students lined the sides of the field, many of them also wearing costumes, cheering and taking photos of his antics.
When the next heat began, a couple of students dressed in a beach theme competed against others wearing full choir robes, carrying broom handles and waving wands. One tall girl tripped over her flip flop and went down in the tire agility skill just as a guy wearing thick, dark-rimmed glasses with a red scar drawn on his forehead pointed his wand at her Hawaiian skirted teammate. “Stupefy!!” he yelled. But his spell had no effect, and she returned to help her friend stand. Removing her sandals, she carried them and continued barefoot instead. Harry Potter chased them shouting, “Expecto patronum! Impervius!” Together the girls sprinted over the finish line, plastic flower leis floating behind them like capes. Their teammates celebrated by throwing inflatable colored beach balls into the crowd.
Cassandra spotted Meg and Cinda standing by the food tents and walked around the field. Cassandra marveled, “This is so creative! I can’t believe how seriously they took this whole thing.”
Meg handed over a paper wrapped sandwich she’d held for Cassandra. “I love watching them. The grand prize is $500 for the team and a traveling trophy. The Superheroes won the first two years I worked here, but so far it looks like the Zombies and the Sandlot guys could catch up. Five hundred bucks would buy a pretty fun after-party.”
Lance jogged over to the women. His AOO t-shirt was saturated with sweat, and he wore a baseball hat, shorts and Chuck Taylor high tops.
Meg complimented his outfit in sign and spoken English, “Looking good, Benny.”
Lance beamed. “We suck, but whatever.”
He shifted his body to the left and signed low and in front of his chest, “Hey this is off the wall,” he glanced over his shoulder, “do you know that tall guy over by the green tent?”
Meg looked to her right and moved her hands to reply to Lance unseen from the tent’s direction. “What’s he wearing?”
Lance replied, “The guy by the corner with the white polo shirt and straw golf hat over by the professors.”
Near the finish line, a small group of mostly younger professors and their families watched the races and ate ice cream. Next to them another cluster of several older guys with gray hair, dress slacks and polo shirts stood chatting and smiling, hands in pockets. Definitely classier than students or professors.
Meg signed and spoke. “The one with the white polo? That’s Dr. Schneider. He’s one of the big college leader guys. Looks like some fancy donor folks with him. Why do you ask?”
Lance signed, “He looked familiar but I couldn’t think of why. I assumed he was a professor. I could swear I saw him a few weeks ago. I walked into our bedroom and Austin was signing on the video phone with someone who looked just like him.”
Meg clarified, “Your fraternity house? On the VP—not through the interpreter relay service?”
“Yeah. The reason I remembered him was because he looked mad at Austin. You wanted us to tell you anything unusual that happened lately. Maybe I’m wrong, but . . .” He finished with a shrug. “I feel like when he looks at me signing, he’s not just staring. Know what I mean? Like he understands me.”
Meg shook her head and raised her palms up. “How’s that possible? You must have him mixed up with someone else.”
“That’s right. Maybe he has a twin or something.” Lance chuckled, then bounded down the field towards his team.
Cassandra turned to Meg and raised an eyebrow. “I understood about half of what you two were saying. What the heck?”
Meg explained, “He said he saw Austin talking to a man on the video phone in their fraternity room. Remember that monitor?” When Cassandra nodded, Meg continued, “But Lance must’ve seen him for only a few seconds and . . . got the wrong person.”
Cassandra understood the video monitor part, but not the signing parts. Cinda had the same question. “What did Lance mean about staring at him while he’s signing?”
Meg held up a thumb and two fingers and ticked them off. “Basically, there’s three kinds of stares. First, you have the curious people who notice us signing and stare for a few moments in a, ‘Gee, that’s kind of neat,’ way.”
She tapped her second finger. “Next, there’s the rude ones who openly stare longer than 10 seconds during restaurant meals or in public. They annoy me.”
Tapping her third finger, “Then, there’s strangers who stare like they’re eavesdropping. You gotta remember, sign is different than overhearing a conversation. You can see signs from far away. Like me, for example. I can look across the field and eavesdrop on what Lance and his friend are saying.”
Cassandra put her hand up to shield her eyes from the bright lights and looked down the sideline where Lance was animatedly signing to a shorter kid. “Isn’t that rude, too?”
Meg shook her head, “Not really. If someone wants to sign a private conversation, they do it low or kind of hidden. If you’re out in public, it’s fair game.”
Cassandra gave up guessing what Lance and his friend were talking about. She really needed to take an ASL class.
Meg added with a slight shrug. “I don’t do it often anyway. But I know what Lance meant. I can usually tell when someone is watching me sign and they understand me. I can’t explain it to you, but I know the feeling when it happens.”
Cassandra filed away that tidbit. Meg was full of interesting Deaf culture facts.
An hour later the Obstacle competition was winding down with only the championship heat remaining. Cassandra commented, “I don’t think it’s fair that SpongeBob got disqualified for running out on the field to help Squidward when his mask slipped down over his face.”
Cinda yelled encouragement to the Zombies who hadn’t been trying very hard to complete the obstacles. Several of them worked in her counseling office, and she’d helped them apply makeup and rip their thrift store costumes to the proper amount of dishevelment.
Their main goal seemed to be aimlessly bumping into the other teams and trying to knock them off course. Cinda stopped yelling and stared at Cassandra in amazement. “The lofty Dr. Cassandra Sato is a SpongeBob fan? I never would’ve guessed.”
Cassandra held up her hands by her sides. “Who could watch the ‘I’m a Goofy Goober’ rock video and NOT become a fan?”
Their debate was cut short by the crowd noise as the last race began. Cassandra overheard one guy wearing a baseball shirt waiting at the starting line tell the kid next to him, “If my dog was as ugly as you, I’d shave his butt and tell him to walk backwards.”
The black robed guy wore a wig of flowing gray hair and flipped Baseball Shirt off. When the starting flag dropped, Gray Wig raced towards the wooden wall alongside a curly haired girl who didn’t need any makeup to resemble Hermione Granger. Dumbledore took a running leap and wedged one leg over the top. Hermione tried the same maneuver, but being a full foot shorter, even her decent jump couldn’t get her close to the top. Backing up, she tried again while Dumbledore lay face down atop the wall holding an arm down to her. Her third attempt was better. She locked arms with him and scrambled up and over.
In the meantime, Lance’s fraternity team used a different technique where the first guy ran up to the wall and leaned over so the second runner could use his knee and back as steps vaulting over the 9-foot-tall wall. The first guy smoothly jumped up and grabbed the top then did a pull up to join his buddy over the wall. They were already at the water balloon toss before the wizards had cleared the wall obstacle.
Cassandra tried to decode their costume mix of baseball hats, gloves, and mismatched shirts. “What team is that?”
“Sandlot. Only the best movie ever,” answered Cinda. She poked a finger at Cassandra’s head and taunted, “You bob for apples in the toilet! And you like it!”
Cassandra shot her an incredulous look. “Excuse me?? Oh, wait . . . Movie line, huh?”
Cinda’s eyes rolled way back. “Did you really have to think about that one? Gee.”
Cassandra rose on her tiptoes leaning between the people in front of her to see the finish line. The Sandlot guys had a five second lead going into the last obstacle: throwing three footballs into a target 20 feet away. One guy hit his first two shots, but missed his third. The duo couldn’t cross the finish line separately.
Death by Dissertation (A Cassandra Sato Mystery Book 1) Page 14