“Laura, honey, can you hear me?” While I spoke to her, Diesel kept licking her face. I didn’t try to stop him, because I thought any kind of sensory stimulation was good.
Laura’s phone started ringing again, and I could sense the woman hovering behind me. “We need to call 911.”
“I’m doing it now.” I glanced back, and the woman had the office phone in her hand and was punching in numbers.
For the moment I ignored Laura’s still-ringing phone, though I knew Sean was probably even more worried by now. I’d call him as soon as I could.
Laura moaned, a low sound that tore at my heart. She blinked several times, then her eyes opened and tried to focus on me. Diesel stopped licking her face but kept talking to her, as I called it.
“My head,” Laura whispered. Her face contorted in a grimace of pain. “Hurts. What happened?”
“I don’t know, honey,” I said. “We’ve called 911, and they’re on the way. You lie still.”
Laura frowned. “Where am I?”
“In your office.” I stroked her hands, still trying to warm them up. Diesel moved to stand beside me, his eyes intent on Laura’s face.
She blinked, then a tremulous smile flashed briefly. “Sweet kitty,” she whispered.
“They’re on the way,” the woman announced behind me.
I turned to nod at her, and with a small shock I realized I knew her. Magda Johnston, Ralph’s wife. She looked far different today from the woman I’d seen at the party a week or so ago. For one thing, she appeared to be stone-cold sober, and she was dressed more conservatively, in a gray skirt, purple blouse, and black jacket. Nothing like the garish, blowsy woman from the party.
Laura whispered, “Water. Please. Bottle in desk.”
I gazed down at her and nodded. “Don’t move,” I told her again. I shifted position so I could open the desk drawers. I found the water on the first try. I turned back to Laura and frowned. I didn’t think she should move her head until the paramedics arrived and examined her. So how was I going to give her water without choking her?
Laura moved, and I knew she was going to try to sit up. “No,” I said. “Stay still. I’m going to dribble some water in your mouth from the side, okay?” That should work, as long as I could hold my hand steady.
“Okay,” she said. She opened her mouth as I twisted the cap off the bottle. I knelt over her and held the bottle to the side of her mouth. I tilted it until a tiny trickle of water flowed. Laura swallowed, and I stopped the flow.
We went through this procedure four more times, until Laura said, “That’s good.”
I capped the bottle and sat back on my heels, regarding my daughter with concern. Where were the EMTs? Surely they would arrive soon.
“They’re coming down the hall.” Magda Johnston spoke from the doorway. She appeared to be waving at them.
“Thank goodness,” I said. I glanced at the desk. The EMTs would need more room to work, so I stood and pushed the desk toward the opposite wall. Magda saw what I was doing and stepped forward to help. Between us we managed to get the desk as far out of the way as possible. I was gently moving Diesel away from Laura as the first member of the team entered the office.
I pulled Diesel to the corner and watched as the other emergency personnel came in. They went to work quickly and efficiently, and one of them asked Laura several questions, such as “What day is it? Who is the president?” Her responses were evidently satisfactory.
Diesel, made nervous by all the strangers in the small office, crawled underneath the desk and watched everything from there. I called Sean to apprise him of the situation but kept the conversation brief. I asked him to come in his car to pick me and Diesel up. He would need to take me to the hospital and then take Diesel home. The emergency room was no place for a feline, even one as well mannered as mine.
One of the EMTs, a woman not much older than Laura, knelt by my daughter and with gloved hands probed her head. I missed what happened next because members of the team kept shifting positions. I heard Laura moan, then the EMT said, “Got a little blood here and a small wound.”
“Did you fall and hit your head?” An older member of the team, a man in his late thirties or early forties, posed the question.
“I’m not sure.” Laura paused, her tone uncertain. “I don’t really remember much. I remember coming into my office early this morning and working, but after that, nothing.”
The man turned to me. “Who are you, sir? Any relation?”
“Yes, I’m her father.” I introduced myself. “I work here at the college. I became concerned earlier when my daughter didn’t answer her cell phone. When I arrived, I found Mrs. Johnston with her.”
Magda Johnston hovered in the doorway, and hearing her name, stepped forward. “I stopped by to see Laura, and her door was slightly open. When I stepped inside, I saw her on the floor. I was just checking her out when Mr. Harris arrived.”
A campus police officer showed up then, and he took charge of the questioning. Magda Johnston and I repeated our stories. The EMTs placed Laura on a gurney for transport to the hospital, and as they rolled her out of the office I called out that I would be right behind her.
I turned to the campus officer and said, “Someone struck my daughter on the head and knocked her out. I don’t know why, but I suspect it has something to do with the death yesterday of her colleague, Connor Lawton. You might want to notify the sheriff’s department about this, in case there is a connection.”
When I mentioned the dead playwright’s name, I heard Magda Johnston whimper. I shot her a quick glance, but her face was averted. Was she upset over what happened to Laura, or was it Lawton’s name that elicited a response?
She had been very interested in the playwright at the party, I recalled. At the time I had put it down to her inebriated state, but what if there was more to it?
An even uglier thought came to me then. Was Magda Johnston Laura’s assailant?
SEVENTEEN
By the time Sean dropped me off at the hospital, a nurse and an ER physician were examining Laura. The nurse appeared to be cleaning the wound while the doctor watched. The doc, an attractive woman in her forties, asked who I was, and before I could reply, Laura said, “My father.” I spotted the doc’s name embroidered on her lab coat: LEANN FINCH.
The nurse, a chunky, short man of about thirty, didn’t stop what he was doing, but the doc nodded in acknowledgment before she resumed watching the nurse work.
When the nurse finished, the doc bent over Laura. Her gloved fingers probed the back of Laura’s head. Laura, on her side facing me, winced.
I stood at the side of the small room and observed the rest of the examination.
After some minutes the doc said, “Your hair is very thick and seems to have cushioned the blow. You don’t even need stitches.” She nodded at the nurse who took over and finished treating the wound while the doc continued to talk.
“Her reflexes are good, although she’s complained of a little dizziness and nausea. She lost consciousness, she told me. Any idea how long she was out?”
“No.” I glanced over at Laura, who now appeared to be asleep. I explained what I knew of the situation.
Dr. Finch nodded. “She doesn’t have any memory of what happened in the moments leading up to the blow on the head. Not unusual in the circumstances. I want a CT scan to see whether there’s any kind of internal trauma.” She laid a hand on my arm, evidently having noticed my alarmed expression. “I don’t think there will be any. As I said, her hair is very thick, but the blow did break the skin enough for her to bleed. Just a mild concussion probably. The CT scan is a necessary precaution.”