"Oh, my god… that's right… "

I'd almost forgotten my older brother's obsession with Luke Skywalker, lightsabers, and space travel. Shortly thereafter, Pete's passion had fallen from the fantastical heavens to more earthly pursuits: hot rods and a hot girl, to be exact, both of which had led him to showing off on a dark road, where a tragic accident had taken him to an early grave.

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?"

"They were absolutely disgusting is what they were," Brainert said. "There was some sort of a… a crust on them."

"Whatever," said Seymour, stuffing more popcorn into his mouth. "They look pretty good now."

"Pretty good?" Brainert spun and glared. "I'll have you know we're going to get landmark status from the local historical society! And be careful with that popcorn. You're spilling it."

"It's the movies, Parker. Haven't you heard the term popcorn flick?"

"Theater should be where literature goes at night." Brainert snapped his fingers. "Comprende?"

Seymour squinted. "English, please."

"There are enough movie screens in this state devoted to comic-book heroes and computer-animated kiddy schlock," Brainert replied. "Quindicott's Movie Town Theater has a higher purpose: to uphold the light of the modern cinema. We are a regional art house! We do not show popcorn flicks!" He lowered his voice. "Frankly, I'm perturbed that my partners outvoted me on even selling popcorn."

"You shouldn't be. When it comes to the movie theater business, concessions are where the cash cow moos." With a loud slurp, Seymour sucked on the straw of his extra-large soda. "And correct me if I'm wrong, but your little redecorating job here"-he waved his giant, plastic cup toward the restored art deco columns and shimmering chandeliers-"I'm guessing it all cost a tad more than an associate English professor carries around in mad money."

With a huff, Brainert turned to face front again.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I hate it when he's right," Brainert muttered. "And I wish that hot buttered popcorn didn't smell so good. I was so nervous about a crowd showing, I didn't eat a thing at dinner."

"Well, you shouldn't be nervous anymore." I patted the arm of his blue blazer. "This place is jammed."

"Ladies and gentlemen, good evening! If you'll all take your seats and quiet down, we'll get started…"

"Who's that?" I whispered, gesturing to the man who'd just climbed the stairs to the stage.

"That's Wendell," Brainert informed me. "Dr. Wendell Pepper, dean of St. Francis's School of Communications."

"Oh, right," I said. "You've mentioned him before. He's one of your fellow investors in the theater, isn't he?"

"He was also instrumental in getting Hedda Geist to become a partner."

"Hedda Geist? You mean the famous film noir actress? The one who stars in tonight's movie?"

"The same. One of the woman's grandchildren was in Pepper's Media Matters class, and he used that connection to meet Hedda and secure her investment." Brainert lowered his voice again. "That's the reason we selected film noir as the theme for our very first festival. The woman insisted we showcase her movies this weekend."

I raised an eyebrow at that. "Once a diva, always a diva, huh?"

"Indeed."

"Well…" I shrugged. "It's a small price to pay for her contribution. Besides, her movies are good."

"Yes, I know." Brainert shook his head. I only wish her funds had been enough to complete the project. Dean Pepper and I had to go to the college to pony up the final bit of cash. And Pepper didn't much like the idea, I can tell you. It took some real teeth pulling to get him to go out on a limb with me, but look at him tonight! The man's as jolly as the proverbial green giant!"

Brainert was right. The dean was an attractive, broad-shouldered man in his early sixties with a sturdy profile and salt-and-pepper hair. His attire, pressed chocolate brown slacks and a tweed jacket, was as somber as Brainert's, but his ruddy face was displaying the grin of a grade-school boy on a carnival ride. He looked practically giddy.

Brainert shook his head. "I still can't get over Dean Pepper's transformation! That man's been an anxiety-ridden wreck for the past year, convinced the restoration would never end. Until a few weeks ago, he was skeptical we could get ten seats sold for the opening-night screening. Just one mention of this theater and he'd give me a look like he was ready to kill."

"So what changed his mind?"

"Not what," Brainert told me with a roll of his eyes. "Who." Seymour suddenly leaned forward to interrupt. "Did you say that guy's name is Dr. Wendell Pepper?" "Yes," said Brainert.

"You're kidding," said Seymour. "Dr. Pepper? Like the soft drink with that old dopey song-and-dance-man commercial?"

"Don't even go there," Brainert warned.

"You mean he's not"- Seymour cleared his throat and sang, "the most original teacher in the whole wide world?"

Brainert rolled his eyes. "Real mature, Tarnish."

As Dean Pepper waited for the crowd to settle down, he checked his watch and directed a little wave toward a seat in the reserved section, two rows in front of us.

An attractive woman waved back. From her youthful hairstyle of bouncy, shoulder-length cocoa-brown curls with scarlet highlights, and trendy red-framed glasses, I would have put her age at around forty, but when she turned, the wrinkles betrayed her. She was obviously much older-in her late fifties, maybe, or even a well-preserved sixty. Between plastic surgery, laser treatments, and Botox, who knew what age people were anymore?

"Is that the dean's wife?" I asked Brainert, pointing to the woman.

"No," he said flatly. "The dean just got divorced." Then he turned toward the aisle to speak with an usher who'd approached him.

"Welcome! Welcome, one and all, to the new Movie Town Theater!" Dr. Pepper was now speaking into a standing microphone, which projected his voice through a large, black amplifier, hanging high above him. "What a turnout for the very first film of what I'm sure will be an annual Film Noir Festival! Give yourselves a hand!"