Free Midsummer Murder by Shelley Freydont

films that were housed at the Library of Performing Arts.
    Robert glanced at her and broke into a smile, a lovely smile that washed away all the tension and nervousness from his face. “I get the same reaction. Every time.” He stood up and moved closer to the dancers. Soon he was moving among the group as they went through their steps and formations, correcting, counting out sloppy passages, moving them bodily to the correct positions.
    In rehearsal, Robert Stokes blossomed. His energy was directed and persuasive. He even seemed to grow larger in Lindy’s eyes. She wrote everything he said, every physical correction he made, as quickly as she could, using her own adapted shorthand, writing with one hand, and flipping pages with the other. By the end of the first section she was sweating as much as the dancers.
    As the notes of the next section began, Robert walked past her, eyes on the dancer who had taken his place upstage right. “Larry’s understudy,”
    he said under his breath and continued to walk in an arch around the front of the studio.
    The boy began the series of steps, mechanically, each one executed separately without the flow that should drive them across the floor.
    Lindy glanced at Robert. He stood watching the dancer, head tilted to one side. His shoulder pulsed forward with the music, a nonverbal prodding movement, that said “more, more.”
    The boy faltered on the next phrase and shot an apologetic look toward Robert.
    “We’ll fix it later,” said Robert, just loud enough to be heard over the music. Just loud enough to be heard by the boy and not the other dancers who were waiting at the edges of the studio for their next entrance.
    Lindy wrenched her eyes from the soloist and took a quick look around. Every eye was trained on the dancer on the floor, the energy intense and expectant. Lindy felt her own nervousness increase. It was 47

    Shelley Freydont
    a typical kinesthetic reaction to watching a less-than-prepared dancer. If you didn’t command the stage, the whole audience became uncomfortable.
    He continued to struggle through the phrases of movement. It was obvious that he wasn’t sure of the music, much less the steps. With each mistake be became less sure, more nervous, and consequently made more mistakes.
    “Come on, come on,” Robert said though he was only talking to himself.
    Finally, he waved his hand in the air without taking his eyes off the dancer. The music stopped, and Lindy looked up to see one of the other teachers remove his hand from the tape player, then shake his head.
    The room dropped into total silence. The boy halted midphrase and stood looking at the ground, biting one side of his lip, as he waited for Robert to approach him.
    “Dylan, do you know the steps?” His voice was quiet and soft like a massage.
    “I thought I did.” Dylan’s voice quavered. He rubbed his arm across his eyes. He was sweating profusely. Rings of moisture soaked his tee shirt beneath his armpits and spread in a diamond shape across his chest.
    “Try it again. Just clear your mind of everything but movement and music.” Robert held up his hand. The teacher recued the tape.
    Dylan listened for a second, found his cue, and began again. He had everyone’s full attention. No one marked steps in the corner. No one reached for a water bottle or a towel. There were not the usual whispered conversations on the side lines. Every dancer in the room was focused on Dylan. Lindy was sure he could feel their attention, and it only made it more difficult to carry on. This was not the opportunity that understudies dreamed of. No dancer wanted a part because of someone else’s injury, and especially not because of a death.
    Her heart went out to this boy, who not only struggled with the steps of the dance, but also with the ghost of Larry Cleveland.
    Again Robert motioned to stop the tape. The dancers who were watching lowered their eyes, or turned and began stretching on the bar, or leaned over to