The Movie Town Theater had died around the same time: A brand-new multiplex had opened up on the highway. Eight screens meant eight different choices versus the Movie Town 's solitary offering. Like a lot of businesses on Cranberry Street, it appeared to have outlived its era.

But Brainert disagreed vehemently with that mind-set. Retro was in. The nearby seaside resort town of Newport had been restoring like crazy, and he became obsessed with returning Quindicott's own dark theater to its art deco glory.

"It's remarkable, isn't it?" Brainert said as we took our seats within a roped-off section. "Everything old is new again."

"Yeah, for a price," piped up the voice of Seymour Tarnish.

The fortysomething bachelor and avid pulp collector was sitting one row behind us. For tonight's big event, he'd exchanged his mailman's federal blues for khaki slacks, a loose cotton button-down, and an untucked avocado green shirt-the perfect camouflage for his daily indulgences at the Cooper Family Bakery.

"Oh, it's you." Brainert sniffed. "Haven't gone postal yet, I see."

"I'm waiting for you to go first, Parker. Everyone knows academics are high-strung."

Seymour was as famous in Quindicott for his lack of tact as his big win on Jeopardy! a few years back, but I'd learned to live with it. He was not only a reliable book-buying customer, he'd been surprisingly helpful to me in my nascent sleuthing.

"So Seymour," I said, half turning in my seat, "what do you think of the restoration?"

"Not bad." He tossed a fistful of popcorn into his mouth and began crunching away. "I remember seeing Jaws here in the seventies. What a wreck! You couldn't find two seats together that weren't broken. The floor was sticky-and I'm not talking SweeTarts sticky; I'm talking toxically gross upchuck sticky. And the columns were brown, weren't they?"