That would have to be enough.
Casey motioned Eric back to his office and stayed out of Willems’ sightline as Yvonne knocked, opened the door, and entered, closing the door with a soft click. Kathy pointed out Ellen’s desk and Casey raced to it, immediately turning on the computer. While it booted up she opened the drawers, beginning with the top middle and moving methodically down each side.
There was nothing there. No folders, no memos, not even a stray Post-It note. Quietly she slid each drawer out of its slot, looking under and over it, feeling into the space. Nothing.
She turned to the computer, searching for anything remotely personal. Again, nothing. The hard drive had been wiped clean of everything but boilerplate forms, the word processor, and the company logo. She glanced at the clock. Five minutes had already elapsed. The doorknob to Willems’ office turned, and she ducked behind the desk.
“He’ll be busy a few more minutes,” Yvonne said quietly, once the door was closed. “That’s all I can promise.”
Casey sprang back into the seat and went to the search engine’s history. Cleared. The bookmark column— empty.
Growling under her breath she flicked the computer off, slid the chair in place, and went to Eric’s office door. “Thank you,” she mouthed to the women.
They acknowledged her gratitude with obvious relief.
Eric looked up as she entered his office and closed the door behind her. “Anything?”
“Zip.”
His shoulders sagged. “Nothing here, either. At least, that I know of. This stuff isn’t exactly… I mean, I’m an actor.”
Casey swiveled, leaning her hip on the desk. “It’s too much to ask for it to be that easy. Is there any point in your looking further?”
Eric rested his elbows on his desk, his fingers twisting his hair until he looked like a mad scientist. He flicked a thumb toward the two secretaries. “If they knew something that would save their jobs they would have told somebody. Right?”
Casey rubbed her eyes with one hand, the other hand keeping her balanced on the desk. “Probably.”
Eric sat back, checking his watch. “We need to go. Loretta and Johnny will be waiting.” He stood up and pushed in his chair. “There’s nothing here.” His hands gripped the back of his chair. “Nothing but the livelihoods of hundreds of people in this town.”
He looked at her bleakly, and Casey felt the sudden urge to smooth his hair and take him in her arms, comforting him. “Come on,” she said, instead. “Let’s go do the little we’re able to. Thanks to you they’ll at least have full bellies tonight.”
He stood for a moment, head bowed, knuckles white on the chair. Finally he looked up, gave a ghost of a smile, and held out a hand. “Shall we?”
As they left he turned to look at his office once more, as if seeing what it could have been, before turning off the light.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Eric was right. The people really did seem to enjoy the dinner. Somehow just the sight of pizza rounds on the table made the room more festive. Not laugh-out-loud, party favor kind of festive, but a more subdued hum of contentment. Children took huge, sticky bites, cheese stringing from their mouths, while adults wandered from pizza to pizza, trying out varieties of Veggie Special. A few of the pies even featured pepperoni, that coveted pizza foundation.
To complement the main course, Loretta had tossed up a salad of slightly wilted greens, garnered from neighboring grocery stores for cheap, and the diners had their choice of several kinds of generic soft drinks. All the room needed, Casey thought, was a clown to pop out of the kitchen and perform bad party tricks.
“Nice,” she told Eric at the kitchen door.
He didn’t say, “I told you so.”
The cheery atmosphere lasted until the pizza was gone—except for one forlorn piece missing half of its cheese—and the two-liter bottles were empty. Napkins lay strewn on the tables, and tomato sauce dotted the floors and the children.
But then reality came crashing down, and the look of quiet desperation began to leach back into the adults’ eyes. The children, oblivious to the changing emotions, continued to skip or run around the room until their parents snagged them and pulled them, protesting, out of the building.
Eric closed the door behind the last of the diners, sagging against it. “At least,” he said, picking up on their last conversation, “it was nice while it lasted.”
Casey stooped to pick up a ragged piece of pepperoni, flattened to the floor. “You gave them a respite. You always do. It’s important.”
He didn’t look at her, but shoved himself from the door, calling toward the kitchen. “Loretta! Is there enough left for supper tomorrow?”
“Praise God, there’s plenty!” Her face, shiny with perspiration, appeared in the opening to the kitchen. “There’s even enough for us each to have a couple of pieces tonight. Hallelujah! ”
Eric waved her off. “I don’t need any.”
Loretta gasped, a hand to her chest. “I believe you do, young man, thank you, Jesus! You will sit down and eat the pizza our good Lord has provided for you. Amen! ”
When Eric seemed ready to argue, Casey sat down across the table. “You’re no good to anybody if you faint from hunger.”
“But this pizza is for—”
“It’s ready now, and she said there’s enough for tomorrow.” She tipped her head toward the front door. “They aren’t hungry now.”
Eric looked at the ceiling, took a breath, and let it out. “Fine. But I’m not going to enjoy it.”
Casey blurted out a laugh, and though he fought it, Eric had to smile.
“Eric got us pizza!” Johnny bustled out from the kitchen and shoved Eric into his seat. “Pizza and the nice lady!” He beamed at Casey before dropping onto a folding chair.
Loretta brought out part of a Veggie Special, and the four of them made quick work of it, along with bowls of the wilted lettuce. Casey wouldn’t have said she actually enjoyed it, but it was pretty good.
They cleaned up as much as they could before heading out for rehearsal, Eric quiet as they scrubbed tables and mopped the floor. Johnny and Loretta did their part in the kitchen, Loretta singing gospel songs, Johnny talking in streams about silverware, tomato sauce, and nice ladies, their dual monologues punctuated with the sounds of clanking dishes.
Casey worked with Eric, filling trash bags and brushing crumbs from the table. The sounds from the kitchen served as a comforting background, and she wasn’t aware she was listening to the words until she heard Ellen’s name.
“She was a nice lady, too,” Johnny said.
“Umm-hmmm, Praise God,” Loretta sang, right in rhythm with her present melody.
“But I didn’t like that man. He didn’t look at my silverware.”
“Praise Jesus.”
“I’m glad he doesn’t come here anymore.”
“Thank the good Lord.”
Casey jerked upward, listening, the trash bag held out in front of her. What man? She looked at Eric, but he either didn’t hear the conversation, or was pretending not to.
“Why did he stop coming?” Johnny’s voice was high with question.
“Don’t know, baby. Maybe Eric knows, thank you, Jesus.”
Maybe Eric did know, but he wasn’t saying.
