did everything electronically these days, which cut paperwork in half and quadrupled computer time.
“Hey, Morg.”
“Vic. What are the girls doing this weekend?”
“Shopping for prom dresses.”
“All three of them?”
“All three of them.”
“Give my condolences to Dwight. He’s a better man than me. Three teenaged daughters.” He gave a shudder just to see Vicki laugh. Redheaded, freckle-faced and as plain as a mud fence, she seemed to have been born good-natured and laughing, as well as efficient and organized. Her husband and astonishingly beautiful daughters adored her. “Speaking of Dwight,” he said, “I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
Dwight Marble worked in the provost’s office, handling admissions. Morgan explained what he needed then went into his office, closed the door and sat down at his desktop computer. Quickly, he brought up Simone’s complete file.
She was older than he’d assumed—twenty-six as of the twentieth of this past August. She had completed her undergraduate work—all but his class—in Colorado and via remote study in Baton Rouge. Her next of kin was listed as Laverne Davenport Worth, whose address was in Fort Worth. The name Worth struck a chord with him, given that Hilda and Chester Worth comprised two-thirds of the staff at Chatam House. The name was fairly common in the area, however, and he’d never heard any mention of a Laverne, so he discounted any connection, especially when he read that the Guilland family, of Baton Rouge, had paid Simone’s tuition in full, for the entire course of her graduate degree, via an unusual trust account.
Morgan sat back in his chair with a thump. He had seen scholarships and endowments of every variety, but he’d never seen anything like this. What on earth was going on here? He decided that he’d be eating breakfast at the Campus Gate Coffee House, where Simone worked, bright and early the next morning, and at some point he was going to have a frank discussion with Simone Guilland.
How much he looked forward to that breakfast at the Campus Gate Coffee House troubled Morgan all that evening. He told himself that he was just doing his duty by pigeonholing Simone Guilland, but he couldn’t quite convince himself. He’d gone to greater lengths for other students. Why, he’d driven one young man all the way to California and enjoyed a delightful summer respite with his aunt Dorinda Latimer and her family while he was at it. Still, he’d never lain awake in the night picturing another student’s face or remembering how his heart had quivered with the flutter of her eyelashes as she’d regained consciousness after he’d carried her limp body in his arms.
He was quite put out with himself by the time he tucked his newspaper under his arm and slid into the Beemer around nine the next morning. He’d meant to be up and about earlier, but his restlessness had made for a late night. Besides, by his estimation, the coffee shop shouldn’t be too busy on a Saturday morning.
Wrong. The place was popping when he arrived, so much so that he had to park around the corner and walk nearly a block. All of the al fresco tables were taken, he noted as he pushed his way inside and caught the eye of the owner and manager, Frank Upton. He’d hoped to have a quiet word with the fellow. Instead, he got a nod and a point in the direction of a tiny table at the end of the bakery counter where Frank usually did his paperwork.
“Be glad to visit if you have a minute.”
“Sure. If I have a minute.”
Shaking his head, Morgan walked over to the table. A cup of steaming-hot black coffee and a small cruet of cold cream laced with cinnamon appeared almost as soon as he sat down. He smiled at the waitress, Frank’s wife, Loretta.
“Simone will be over to take your order in a moment.”
“She’s here, then?”
“Simone? Yes. You know her?”
“She’s one of my students. Tell me, is she all right?”
Loretta shrugged her ample shoulders. “I assume so. She’s a quiet one, never complains. Gets right to work. Stays busy. She’s awfully tired at the end of her shift, but that’s not surprising, a little thing like her.”
“I hope that’s all it is,” Morgan muttered, opening his newspaper.
Loretta went off to manage the coffee counter, and presently Simone showed up, clad in blue jeans, a bright orange T-shirt and a yellow apron.
“Professor Chatam.” She produced an order pad from an apron pocket. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have one of those crusty cinnamon muffins and a couple hard-boiled eggs.”
“Coming right up.”
She swept off, returning moments later with a gargantuan muffin and two peeled eggs in a bowl.
“Loretta says the coffee is on the house,” she said, slapping down the ticket.
“It always is,” he told her with a smile, hoping to engage her in a moment’s conversation, but she was off again before he could explain that he and Frank had been friends since high school.
He drank his cup down and signaled for a refill, which she promptly delivered, then she was off again, her slender arms laden with trays bearing plates filled with food. Morgan tried to read his newspaper, but he couldn’t help being aware of her as she zipped around the room, which became even more crowded as the hour wore on. Morgan ate his eggs and his muffin and read his newspaper, but Frank didn’t find a moment to leave the till or Simone a minute to chat.
Just at the point of giving up, Morgan folded his paper and drained his cup for the final time when he heard a crash and an exclamation. His heart leaping, he somehow knew what had happened. He didn’t remember getting to his feet or crossing the room; he would never understand how he knew where to look for her among all the tables and people, but suddenly he knelt beside Simone’s crumpled form. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, she lay sprawled and bent, her joints at odd angles. Her dark, chestnut-brown eyelashes curled thick and long against the pale orbs of her cheeks. She had a delicate, wounded look, her short hair wisping about her face.
“Simone,” Morgan whispered, his heart in his throat, but she didn’t so much as flutter an eyelid. “Call an ambulance,” he instructed in a loud voice. Then he pulled out his own phone and dialed Brooks Leland, his best friend and the finest physician he knew.
As the phone rang, he prayed. Let her be okay. Please, Lord, let her be okay.
After insisting that the good doctor leave a patient to speak to him, Morgan filled Brooks in on what he knew of Simone’s physical situation, which wasn’t much. Then he badgered Brooks into meeting him at the emergency room. By the time he’d convinced the doctor to abandon the patients waiting to keep their appointments and walk across the street to the hospital, the ambulance had arrived and Simone was rousing. Morgan forbade her from so much as sitting up then waved over the emergency medical personnel.
It seemed to him that they took their precious time getting the story, checking her vitals and loading her into the ambulance, but eventually Morgan found himself following the ambulance to the hospital in his car. No sooner did they arrive, however, than Brooks Leland threw Morgan out of the examining room. Not only that, he refused to discuss the first thing about
