Read Online Murder in the Past Tense (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series Book 3) by E. E. Kennedy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: E. E. Kennedy
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the boards. Waving for Irene to continue, I pulled myself quickly to my feet and began a series of wobbly turns.
“Amelia! Amelia!” Terence called, laughing. “I applaud your fortitude, but I think we’ve seen enough. We can’t have you hurting yourself.” He made a throat-cutting motion for Irene. “You have a nice sense of rhythm and move gracefully. You’ll make a perfect swayer and reactor.”
My heart sank. “Beg pardon?”
Swayer didn’t sound very Broadway to me and reactor sounded sort of atomic. It didn’t bode well, I thought, using another expression from a Victorian novel I’d recently read.
“You just sway to the music and react to the story. I know you’ll have no trouble with the latter.” He chuckled.
I smiled half-heartedly and made my way off the stage. My sense of disappointment was eased somewhat when I passed Elm DeWitt, carrying a bag of tools backstage.
He leaned down and murmured, “Don’t feel too bad. He had me try to dance, and then told me I belonged in a herd of buffalo.” He grinned, shrugged, and continued on his way.
My eyes widened in amazement. Terence thought our star quarterback Elm, known all over Clinton County for his amazing footwork, was clumsy?
I resumed my seat next to Lily.
“Dierdre, DiNicco, onstage. Let’s see you do the opening dance,” Terence ordered.
Irene struck the chords to the waltz that shows the Lover and Johnsie falling in love. I’d always thought the dance, which involved whirling in circles with the man’s arm around the girl’s tiny waist, to be incredibly romantic. This time was no exception.
Danny’s muscular arms clasped Diedre ever tighter to him as they spun around the stage, gazing into each other’s eyes. It could have been my imagination, but Dierdre’s eyes seemed to widen more and more by the second. It also seemed to have grown suddenly quite warm in the theatre.
All at once, Terence barked, “Thank you! That’ll do!” and the two stopped abruptly, breathing heavily. Dierdre’s pale, freckled complexion was crimson. She put both her hands to her cheeks.
We applauded.
Danny took Dierdre’s hand in his and bowed over it gallantly. Then he guided her gently offstage, still holding her hand in his.
Either both of them were marvelous actors, or I’d just seen some heavy infatuation going on.
Lily whispered to me, “Whew! Who knew the waltz could be so . . . so intense!”
Terence handed his clipboard over to Chris Gold. “Take over, will you? I have some important calls to make.” He hurried up the theatre aisle, with Pat following close after him.
“So, anybody else?”
Chris Gold lifted a page on his clipboard. I heard movement behind us, and turned around.
Janey Johnson had her hand raised.
Chris stuck a pencil behind his ear and frowned. “Um, I don’t know. Are you sure?”
But Janey, clad again in the cheap and surprisingly flattering sundress, was already striding down the aisle. Pausing to whisper in Irene’s ear, she then made her way onstage, and struck a graceful ballet-looking pose. As the opening chords of “Greenwich Montage” began, she turned slowly and surveyed an imaginary crowd. As the pace of the music quickened, she bustled around the stage, acting out the busy street scene in rhythmic pantomime.
Before our eyes she became a coquette, catching the eye of a young swain, and shyly averting her gaze as she fluttered her eyelashes, making good use of her dark eyebrows, which were clearly visible, even at that distance. Moving to the music, she accepted his imaginary arm, and began to stroll along the street.
Suddenly she began singing the verse to the show’s opening song: This isn’t Paris, nor is it much like Rome . . .
It was a dance tryout, and she wasn’t supposed to sing, but Janey’s voice was lovely, light, bell-like, and perfect for the old-fashioned song. It was even better, I had to admit, than Dierdre’s.
But there’s something here in the
“Amelia! Amelia!” Terence called, laughing. “I applaud your fortitude, but I think we’ve seen enough. We can’t have you hurting yourself.” He made a throat-cutting motion for Irene. “You have a nice sense of rhythm and move gracefully. You’ll make a perfect swayer and reactor.”
My heart sank. “Beg pardon?”
Swayer didn’t sound very Broadway to me and reactor sounded sort of atomic. It didn’t bode well, I thought, using another expression from a Victorian novel I’d recently read.
“You just sway to the music and react to the story. I know you’ll have no trouble with the latter.” He chuckled.
I smiled half-heartedly and made my way off the stage. My sense of disappointment was eased somewhat when I passed Elm DeWitt, carrying a bag of tools backstage.
He leaned down and murmured, “Don’t feel too bad. He had me try to dance, and then told me I belonged in a herd of buffalo.” He grinned, shrugged, and continued on his way.
My eyes widened in amazement. Terence thought our star quarterback Elm, known all over Clinton County for his amazing footwork, was clumsy?
I resumed my seat next to Lily.
“Dierdre, DiNicco, onstage. Let’s see you do the opening dance,” Terence ordered.
Irene struck the chords to the waltz that shows the Lover and Johnsie falling in love. I’d always thought the dance, which involved whirling in circles with the man’s arm around the girl’s tiny waist, to be incredibly romantic. This time was no exception.
Danny’s muscular arms clasped Diedre ever tighter to him as they spun around the stage, gazing into each other’s eyes. It could have been my imagination, but Dierdre’s eyes seemed to widen more and more by the second. It also seemed to have grown suddenly quite warm in the theatre.
All at once, Terence barked, “Thank you! That’ll do!” and the two stopped abruptly, breathing heavily. Dierdre’s pale, freckled complexion was crimson. She put both her hands to her cheeks.
We applauded.
Danny took Dierdre’s hand in his and bowed over it gallantly. Then he guided her gently offstage, still holding her hand in his.
Either both of them were marvelous actors, or I’d just seen some heavy infatuation going on.
Lily whispered to me, “Whew! Who knew the waltz could be so . . . so intense!”
Terence handed his clipboard over to Chris Gold. “Take over, will you? I have some important calls to make.” He hurried up the theatre aisle, with Pat following close after him.
“So, anybody else?”
Chris Gold lifted a page on his clipboard. I heard movement behind us, and turned around.
Janey Johnson had her hand raised.
Chris stuck a pencil behind his ear and frowned. “Um, I don’t know. Are you sure?”
But Janey, clad again in the cheap and surprisingly flattering sundress, was already striding down the aisle. Pausing to whisper in Irene’s ear, she then made her way onstage, and struck a graceful ballet-looking pose. As the opening chords of “Greenwich Montage” began, she turned slowly and surveyed an imaginary crowd. As the pace of the music quickened, she bustled around the stage, acting out the busy street scene in rhythmic pantomime.
Before our eyes she became a coquette, catching the eye of a young swain, and shyly averting her gaze as she fluttered her eyelashes, making good use of her dark eyebrows, which were clearly visible, even at that distance. Moving to the music, she accepted his imaginary arm, and began to stroll along the street.
Suddenly she began singing the verse to the show’s opening song: This isn’t Paris, nor is it much like Rome . . .
It was a dance tryout, and she wasn’t supposed to sing, but Janey’s voice was lovely, light, bell-like, and perfect for the old-fashioned song. It was even better, I had to admit, than Dierdre’s.
But there’s something here in the
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