Both men turned to her hopefully. “I talked to Derek Swanson on Monday. His investigation into Dr. Schneider’s background, finances, and professional relationships started over a month ago. He has copies of our contract, the farmer’s records, and even statistics about the number of students who donated plasma to ABG. When the whole truth comes out, it will show that Morton is serving healthy beef to our students and contributing to medical research.”
No-Nonsense Nielson wasn’t big on affectionate displays at work, but the fatherly look of pride on his face made her know she’d made the right move by working with the reporter.
* * *
Cassandra marched into the Student Affairs office, greeting Rachel and Devon with the confident smile of a newly permanent employee. Opening her office door, she heard voices chattering and laughing. Meg, Cinda and Fischer were seated on the couch and chairs around the low table where frosted mini cupcakes with sprinkles waited in a small plastic container.
She laughed, “Making yourselves at home, I see? Don’t you all have work to do?”
Grinning, Fischer handed her a white business envelope. “Actually, I’m delivering my resignation.”
Cassandra’s smile faltered, and she tilted her head. Today’s emotional roller coaster ride was getting old. She wanted off. None of these twists and turns were part of her plan. And she strongly disliked twists and turns. Her eyebrow raised. “Excuse me . . . you’re leaving?” Wasn’t this a back-to-work celebration?
“Dave Gonzales over at Facilities and Maintenance is retiring, and they’ve asked me to take over.”
Her hand slowly reached out for the envelope. “Oh . . . ok then . . . I will accept this. Congratulations.” A few seconds later, the implication hit her . . . that would make him an administrator too, and no longer her employee!
Meg leaned over and chose a chocolate frosted mini cupcake. She held it up like a champagne glass. “I have an announcement, too.”
Cassandra went in for the other chocolate cupcake, Cinda chose a red velvet, and Fischer took a vanilla.
“Connor and I are going to have another baby!”
“Oh wow, that’s wonderful!” said Cinda with red frosting on her teeth and lips.
“Congratulations!” said Fischer.
Cassandra’s eyes dropped to Meg’s flat stomach. “When are you due?”
Meg’s smile animated her whole face. “In March. Cheers!” She raised her cupcake and took a big bite.
The others followed suit. Cinda pulled Meg into a hug. “One more thing. I saw an email announcement that Lance is running for student government next month. How cool would that be?” She stood up and stepped towards the door. “Congrats again to y’all. I gotta get back to work. Thanks for the cupcake break.”
“I have class across campus soon.” Meg scooped up the plastic tray and closed the lid. “But I’m taking the leftovers. If I’m going to gain 25 pounds, some of it may as well be cupcakes.”
Suddenly uncomfortable alone with Fischer, Cassandra brushed the crumbs from the table top into her hand and reached over to shake them into the trash. She was eager to get back to work now that she didn’t have to worry about backstabbing donors or stalkers following her home. Fischer reached under his chair and pulled out a twelve-inch wide white ceramic pot with a painted yellow flower on the side. Nestled in loose dirt and potting soil was an eight-inch grayish green stick with little knots spaced inches apart along the sides and one green pointed leaf on top.
Despite recognizing the type of plant, Cassandra was confused and frowned slightly.
Fischer set the pot in front of her on the table. “After that night at your house, I asked Andy Summers if the deputies still had your Plumeria plant in evidence. They did, and I got it back. The campus greenhouse staff helped me re-pot what was left. It’s pretty small, but hopefully you can make it grow again.”
They had carefully placed new gravel around the edges. Her eyes welled up with tears and she whispered in awe. “This . . . is the sweetest thing you could have done.”
She was leaking. He grabbed a couple tissues from the box on her desk and moved to sit beside her on the couch. “I didn’t want you to lose this, too.”
Cassandra wiped her eyes and hugged him. “Thank you. Just . . . Thank you.”
When he left a few minutes later, she stood sniffling in her office and admired her artwork and mementos. The window behind her desk revealed vibrant orange and yellow leaves covering the trees surrounding the quad. The little survivor plant glowed in the warm sunlight. Carson was nothing like Hawai’i, but for the first time she felt at home.
NEXT IN THE CASSANDRA SATO MYSTERY SERIES
Dead Week, Book 2 Coming Soon!
Keep scrolling to read the first chapter!
Reach Kelly at her website at kellybrakenhoff.com
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Dear reader, thank you for making it to the end with me! I hope we get to ride many more book adventures together.
So many people have helped me during the past four years: I’m grateful to the NaNoWriMo community for believing that stories matter and in the power of creativity to transform people’s lives. Without their roadmap, my childhood dream of becoming an author would never have happened. Thanks to the Book Doctors, David Sterry and Arielle Eckstut, for the coaching opportunity I won after being voted the 2016 Pitchapalooza Fan Favorite. You helped shape my first NaNoWriMo project into something readable.
Thanks to Sione Aeschliman for her insightful guidance, her love of good stories, and her willingness to teach me, all with a smile. Michelle Argyle, thanks for the stunning cover that fits this story so well.
Tammy Gries and Scott Mueller, thanks for your willingness to explain complex biology and farming concepts to me again (and again). Roxanne Styskal from Nebraska Wesleyan University, for campus security expertise. Any technical errors are entirely mine.
Lori Ideta, who sends me beach photos when it’s snowing here, thanks for showing me the meaning of Aloha and ohana.
Thank you to Abbey Buettgenbach, Peggy Scherling, Dave Balcom, Chris Timm, and Jean Hinton for reading early versions of this book. I know there were others I’m forgetting to name, but it’s been four years and we all know my memory isn’t getting any better. Mom and Dad for reading multiple drafts and your superior spellchecking.
This journey has introduced me to many new writing friends, both online and in person like Macie, Mandy, Patty, Shane, Susan, and Fr. Winter, and especially Laura Chapman for her patient publishing advice and spoiling us with delicious food. Gotham Writers teacher Greg Fallis and the mystery class, thanks for your honest criticism and advice. Jessica Sinsheimer and Julie Falatko at the Manuscript Academy for giving so generously of their time and talents to bring good books into the world. Shoutout to the FB Pitch Wars YA group for your encouragement, advice, and holding me accountable. (Looking at you, Morgan Hazelwood.) Tim Collins and Rusty Marcum who keep us all laughing.
My Book Club, which began as an excuse to leave our babies for a night out and a glass of wine. Thanks for the past 19 years and counting; you have become my closest friends and cheerleaders.
Speaking of cheerleaders, thanks to my PPH sisters and their husbands, Diane & Doug, Tammy & Brian, Sheri & John, Gail & Blaine, Donna & Mike, Jodi & Shawn, Laura & Jesus, Peggy & Ken. I’m so grateful to know you all. Jodi, thanks for our long Saturday runs together through rain, snow, and sweat.
Thanks to Joe, Jon, Kate, James, Claire, and Colton for putting up with my running, healthy cooking phases, and five years of Novembers with infrequent hot meals and clean clothes. They say having a weird mom (and mother-in-law) builds character, so you all should be set for a while.
Dave, thanks for giving me quiet time to follow my dreams while you mowed grass, washed cars, did laundry, shoveled snow, walked the dog, cooked dinner, and a million other things to show us how much you love us. Our thirty(!) years together have been one long exercise in willing the
good of the other. I love you.
Thanks to Kirstin, Nathan, Duane, Tim, Terri, Mary Jane, and everyone in heaven who has lifted me up and pointed the way when I asked. I’m most grateful to God for his loving mercy. Every life is a worthy story.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KELLY BRAKENHOFF is an American Sign Language Interpreter whose motivation for learning ASL began in high school when she wanted to converse with her deaf friends. Her children’s picture book series featuring Duke the deaf dog is coming later in 2019, beginning with Never Mind. She serves on the Board of Editors for the Registry of Interpreters for the Deaf publication, VIEWs. The mother of four young adults, a cranky old dog, and a rambunctious puppy, Kelly and her husband call Nebraska home.
DEAD WEEK: CHAPTER ONE
There wasn’t anything particularly wrong with the stretch of sidewalk where Cassandra Sato stumbled en route to her office in the Osborne Administration Building at Morton College. Her commuting shoes of choice—sensible Rothy’s flats—weren’t the problem either.
Living two short blocks from campus, she’d left home when it was barely light enough to see the mailbox at the end of her driveway. With a satisfied smile on her lips, she’d looked back at her house. In Hawai’i she’d be fifty years old before she could afford to buy a two-story, three-bedroom 1940s bungalow this nice.
Growing up in Waipahu, Hawai’i, sunrise varied only an hour or so all year long, so Cassandra wasn’t used to walking to work in the dark. She’d quickly learned that everything about weather was different in Carson, Nebraska. As in, two hours less daylight in November different.
The final uphill stretch before she turned onto campus near the football field brought her alongside a beautiful old craftsman style cottage double the size of her own. For weeks, a metal “for sale” sign had been mounted on a large berm of half-dead weeds and untended flowers. But who was she to judge? She was no midwestern gardening authority. Her newly purchased home’s landscaping consisted of evergreen shrubs and a postage-stamp sized front lawn that she paid a high school boy to mow. Still, she appreciated the well-manicured, homey spaces along her daily route even as she shivered from the brisk forty-five-degree air chilling her bare legs to a raw pink.
Cassandra’s mother would shake a wrinkled finger at her if she could see her now. “Eh, it’s too cold to walk to work. You betta drive your da kine fancy car with a heater,” she imagined Mom scolding. “You get sick, who’s gonna cook for you and do your laundry?” Mom’s number-one worry was that Cassandra would die of starvation. That was fine, because it left Cassandra to worry about the more important things in life. Like finally leading the inaugural Diversity Council meeting since beginning her dream job 3,500 miles from home. She was eager to move on from the first few challenging months and make a better impression on the Morton community.
Maybe she’d been too focused on rehearsing the agenda and remembering the council members’ names to watch where she was going, or maybe the bold red “sold” sign in the home’s front yard took her attention from an uneven edge of the sidewalk, but when a close, sharp, “Woof,” came from a large bush along the driveway, Cassandra’s heart skipped, her toe caught something hard, and her knee buckled. Her overstuffed Kate Spade tote slipped off her shoulder and threatened to pull her off balance into the dewy grass near the street. A furry white dog launched out of the bush toward Cassandra’s shins. Swinging the tote around in a wide arc, she successfully planted it on the sidewalk between her and the snarling, yipping dog with tiny bared teeth.
“Back off, you mangy . . .” Cassandra grumbled, squaring up against the dog and standing feet wide apart with hands on her hips. The morning light had brightened enough that she could see the terrier weighed little more than a bag of rice.
A door slammed in the shadowed front porch of the craftsman cottage and a petite woman wearing slippers and a thick fleece bathrobe hurried toward them. “Murphy . . . Mur-phy! Murph–! Stop barking.” She held out a small rubber toy and squeaked it a few times to distract the dog. Finally it heard her, turned, and trotted away.
The light-haired woman leaned over and scooped up the dog, holding it like a toddler.
“Murphy’s bark is worse than his bite,” she said, petting his head and straightening the black and white plaid bow tie fixed to his collar. Cassandra was pretty sure the stinging scratch on her leg was from a long doggie toenail and not teeth, but she wasn’t convinced the creature was exactly safe.
Managing a weak smile, Cassandra said, “He just, uh . . . surprised me.”
She picked up her tote bag and Murphy growled again. Despite the frumpy bathrobe, the woman’s fluffy layered gray hair was styled and sprayed. Carefully penciled-in eyebrows met in a deep frown. “I saw from my porch. Did you hit my dog with your bag?”
Excuse me? Cassandra was the victim here. She replayed the whole scene quickly in her head. She’d swung the bag around to catch her balance and defend herself, but she hadn’t even touched the animal. Cassandra deliberately disengaged, keeping a neutral expression on her face. “No, ma’am. I was walking past, and he jumped out at me.” Her eyes quickly swept up and down the street. Were any neighbors outside witnessing this silly exchange? “I didn't know anyone lived here.”
“Moved back yesterday,” said the woman. “You must have looked suspicious to him.” She gave Cassandra the once over from head to toe, as though agreeing with her dog. “I’ll try to keep him in the back yard.” Turning abruptly, she stepped back into the shadows.
“That would be great, thanks. I walk by here every day . . .” Cassandra’s voice trailed off when they reached the porch and could no longer hear her. She adjusted the bag over her shoulder and resumed walking, and prayed Buddha or karma or Someone was paying attention and would reverse the inauspicious beginning of her important day.
* * *
The fulfilled, complacent feeling of knowing she was in the right place at the right time doing a job she loved stuck with Cassandra for, oh . . . maybe fifteen minutes. Long enough to take a deep pull of Kona coffee from her Morton College travel mug and smile expansively at the folks seated around the scarred oak boardroom table in the executive administration suite. Then reality hit her.
Without overstating the importance of the Diversity Council meeting, she knew it was her chance to hit the reset button on her tenure at Morton.
Dr. Shannon Bryant, chair of the Deaf Studies department, raised his hands and signed in ASL. Cassandra’s best friend, Meg O’Brien, worked the meeting as his interpreter. “I'd like to see a small group discussion forum where students learn how it feels to be a person of color or a person with a disability at Morton. Their issues are ignored.”
Cassandra wrote his idea on the large whiteboard that filled one wall of the conference room. They’d been brainstorming ideas for their first campus-wide diversity day.
Her former boss, President Nielson, had hand-picked these council members, thinking they were the institution’s most progressive representatives. His retirement announcement only a few weeks earlier had been unexpected, and Cassandra suspected she’d have to dig to find the real reason he’d left. She planned to move forward quickly and have a draft proposal in place when Nielson’s replacement was named.
Gia Torres, a Latina Spanish professor, suggested, “A Poetry Slam would be a great opportunity for diverse voices to be heard. Set up a small stage and microphone at the Student Center’s coffee shop where it would attract the most attention.” Sadly, Cassandra’s friend Cinda Weller, the career center director, Dr. Torres, and Cassandra herself were the group’s only women.
Cassandra nodded encouragingly at the fifteen faces turned her direction, seeking more ideas.
One British professor, one assistant admissions director she’d never met who looked Korean, and two African-American men also sat at the table. Ben Dawes she recognized from the housing department. The second gentleman, Cassandra knew worked in the athletic department, but she’d never
spoken to him before. Shawn Armstrong was printed on the cardboard name tent in front of him. Everyone else in the meeting was as white as the majority of the student body.
Dawes and the admissions director reread the long list they’d generated. This process was going well! Cassandra thought as she prepared to transition to the next planning phase, choosing one or two priorities for the council to focus on during the spring.
“Depending which weekend we choose, I could check with the guys in my band and see if we’re available to perform,” offered Dr. Simon Harris. It didn’t surprise Cassandra that the leather-jacket wearing, Indiana Jones look-a-like teacher moonlighted in a band.
Dr. Bryant made a derisive snort and signed vigorously. Cassandra thought his body language was aggressive even without understanding what he said in ASL. Meg’s voice could hardly keep up with his fast-moving hands. “Once again, Morton chooses to be diverse in name only and provide the same tired activities for those who can hear while excluding the Deaf Community. You people have no imagination.”
Bryant stood up so quickly his chair rolled against the wall as he walked out. In the momentary silence following his departure, Cassandra’s stomach dropped like an elevator skipping several floors at once. She fought to keep her astonishment hidden during the last few minutes of chaotic discussion, and only Meg hung back after everyone else had left the board room.
“That could have gone better,” said her friend, looking at Cassandra. She was the master of understatement.
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