Torn Pages #3 — Monty Devereux: Dance Detective

The Power of Dance

Mandy Claverie wrote nine books in the Monty Devereaux: Dance Detective series. This selection comes from Page 35 of the first book in the series from 1979, although I could have easily included selections from TURNOUT IS FAIR PLIÉ, POINTE BLANK, or DANCE LIKE NOBODY’S WATCHING YOU MURDER SOMEONE.

Monty Devereux: Dance Detective

members of the investigative team left the room. Devereux’s methods were unorthodox, but damn it, they got results. Even Lt. Hardy — who regularly offered his reservations — left in silence. The murder of a child will do that. The murder of four children even more so.

When the room was empty, Devereux turned to the four walls of the orphanage
cafeteria. The four children remained in the positions they were found, sitting around a small tea set. The fifth chair was filled with a slightly oversized Teddy bear.

The music began to play in Devereux’s head. Slowly at first but increasing in
volume until all other sounds receded and were gone. The instrumentation was always different, the song always the same. A didgeridoo and a banjo. Spoons on percussion.

Devereux closed his eyes and felt one foot move. And then the other. Soon his
whole body took over. He moved fluidly through the room. It always surprised him that even with his eyes closed, he never ran into furniture. The music and the dance protected him, showed him, enlightened him.

He rose to his toes and pirouetted. He flew through the air. Made alien shapes
with his body, twisting and contorting to the point of pain. Impossible to describe, his dance was beauty and sadness and the truest form of discovery known to man.

Sweat flying at every turn, Devereux danced for twenty minutes, never letting up, the music growing louder and louder in his mind. Until it stopped. Not the usual slow fade, but an abrupt end. A crash, mid-note. He froze in place.

When he opened his eyes, he stood facing the wall. On the wall hung a picture.
The four dead boys smiled in life, frozen in black and white, haunting us all. The nun in the picture with them had the angriest eyes that Devereux had ever seen.

“You better get in here,” Devereux yelled, stretching his tight hamstrings. “I’ve
got something.”