The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,321

stop outside Astaire’s theatre. I swallow the burn of bile rising up the back of my throat. I’m not even sure if I can bring myself to read the other hundreds of pages worth of text messages, but something tells me they’re all the same.

It’s impossible to know how long he’d been grooming her.

“We’re here, Mr. Schoenbach.” George shifts into park.

Astaire waves to me from the sidewalk, bundled in her snow-colored scarf and gloves, bouncing on the balls of her sneakers like she’s about to give me a private tour of her own personal Disneyland.

I slide my phone away—for now, and then I force the dirty, disgusting messages to the back of my mind.

I’m going to enjoy my time with her.

And when I’m done, I’m going to ruin that fucking bastard.

Thirty-Five

Astaire

* * *

“Hey!” I throw my arms around him, and he greets me with a distracted peck on the cheek. “You ready?”

I jangle the keys and take him by the hand, leading him through the main doors and stopping at the mahogany ticket booth.

“That’s the original ticket booth from 1921.” I point. He nods. He’s only here to humor me, I know, but I’m going to try to keep things light and interesting. Sometimes I have to remind myself that not everyone is a theatre junkie …

“This carpet.” I point to the floor. “Not original, but it is a replica. We have it professionally steam-cleaned once a month but it’s getting to the point where it probably can’t handle more than a few more cleanings …”

Next, I take him to the bar—an Art Deco-style number straight out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.

“The bar itself is original, as you can see from all the nicks and scratches that have been filled in over the years, but the black marble top was added a few years ago for durability purposes and the stools are new as well.”

Again he nods. Feigns interest.

“I’m sorry. This must be extremely boring for you.” I wince. “We don’t have to keep going. You want to grab a bite somewhere?”

“No, no.” He squeeze my hand. “It’s not boring.”

“You’re not into this at all. I can tell. And that’s okay.”

“Astaire, please. Keep going. Continue the tour,” he gives me another kiss—an equally distracted peck, only this one lands on my lips.

Is he trying to make me feel better?

I lead him through the lobby. “The wallpaper there? Hand-painted by a local Chicago artist from the twenties—Geraldine Halliday. She was huge back then. Known for using real gold leaf and spending hours upon hours obsessively mixing the perfect ‘deco’ green. Anyway, as you can see, it’s pretty faded and it’s certainly seen better days, but owners can’t bring themselves to tear it down because it’s practically a priceless work of art. Plus, you know, it’d take away from the whole preservation thing they have going on here. They only like to replace things when absolutely necessary. If something can be restored, they restore it.”

His gaze drips down the geometric wallpaper, lingers on the patterned replica carpet, and scans the empty space.

“Oh, I have to show you the famous chairs …” I pull him down a different hallway, to a glass lit display showcasing two ordinary-looking theatre chairs. “When this theatre opened in 1921, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford happened to be in town. At the time, they were the biggest Hollywood power couple of the age. Think Brad and Angelina but in the Roaring Twenties. Anyway, they came here opening night to catch the premier of Charlie Chaplin’s The Idle Class, found a couple of seats in the back, and tried to enjoy the show unnoticed. But word got out and people definitely noticed. They didn’t get to finish the show, but the owners managed to reach out to them the next day. Invited them back for a private screening. They had the whole place to themselves. Afterwards, the owners took the chairs out of the general seating area and essentially had them enshrined. As far as anyone knows, not a soul has sat in either of those chairs since that day.”

He drags his hand along his chin. “I don’t know who any of those people are, but that sounds fascinating.”

“Psh.” I elbow his side. “You don’t know them yet … but stick with me long enough and you will.”

Most people who arrange private tours of the Elmhurst usually geek out over the Fairbanks-Pickford display—and it’s usually our piece de la resistance, best saved for last.

“Okay, so now we’ve got