CHAPTER THREE: Holy Givemore
Her name was Holy Givemore
She lived by the seashore.
She had a way with words
that made us feel like turds.
She had a left eye
That stared off the right eye
Catching us all
Off guard.
She said, "I promise you this
I’ll be your nemesis."
And we found out
After that,
Why it’s always best
to lay to rest
the thing you can’t find.
No nevermind.
A few days later, Jonathan leaned forward in the front row, watching Bigalow stretch his long limbs in his orange jumpsuit. Judge Holy Givemore, a skeletal figure, arrived. Her jet-black dyed hair seemed a desperate measure. She brought her gavel down with a resonant thud, making Jonathan nearly jump out the window.
"This court shall come to order," she declared. Authority infused her voice. "Will the accused please rise?"
Bigalow stood at attention like a church deacon.
“How do you plead?” the judge asked.
"Not guilty, your Honor," he said in a somber tone.
Jonathan felt his stomach sink with the words into the wood-paneled walls. Please God, let that be true, he thought.
Alison Smyth-Yang, the Prosecuting Attorney, did not look impressed as she stood up in her pin-striped power suit that armored her femininity. Beneath the flare of her pants, she wore stiletto heels. They took her from five-foot-seven to six-foot. “We call the accused, Bigalow Love.”
Bigalow looked like a film idol taking the witness stand. His carriage was perfect. He seemed calm and even flashed the gallery a smile.
Smyth-Yang retrieved a white-cardboard box from the table. She lifted its lid to unveil the costume with precise motion.
"May the record reflect this entered as Prosecution Exhibit A." Her voice sliced the air.
Judge Givemore adjusted her glasses, her gaze fixed on the garment. "Granted." Whack.
Smyth-Yang turned back to Bigalow. “Do you recognize this outfit?”
He faced her icy glare. “Yes, ma’am.” His low voice resonated with calm.
“Will you please identify it for the court?”
He said a little louder, “It’s a Blue Velveteen Dormouse costume.”
“Did you wear this costume often?
He puffed up his chest. “I wore one like it at the Bijou. I’m not certain it’s that one.”
"Where were you at the time of Madame Dodi’s murder?"
Bigalow sighed. “I don’t know. I had a blackout,” he replied and looked down.
Doubt churned through Jonathan’s gut like vinegar. He tipped on the edge of his pew turning into one big ear. Bigalow hadn’t told him this side of the story.
“Blackout?” Smyth-Yang frowned as she swept her hair behind her shoulder in a gesture of dismay, as though she were a soccer mom chastising a naughty child.
Bigalow pulled his head high. "Yes ma’am. I did. It’s true. I remember being bound and gagged in total darkness, then coming to at the Bijou bar.” His eyes fluttered.
Who would believe that story? Even from Bigalow? Jonathan thought.
The prosecutor pulled a set of papers from her clipboard. “Your honor, I’d like to present these eyewitness accounts from Madame Dodi’s neighbor. A man of Bigalow’s notable height and build was seen fleeing Madame Dodi’s apartment the night of murder. We have signed sworn statements from witnesses saying he disappeared from the Bijou at the time of her death. Her apartment is only a five-minute walk from the Bijou. The police arrested him wearing a blood-splattered costume. The DNA in the blood tested positive as a match for Dodi’s.”
The defending lawyer gave Bigalow a fist bump as he approached the bench. His expensive-looking suit set off his football-player build. "Your honor, I object. This is only the arraignment, not the full trial. We will argue the defendant is not guilty by reason of magic."
MAGIC? Jonathan twitched and jumped a centimeter in his seat. Murmurs swirled over the courtroom like leaves in a gust.
BANG BANG BANG went the judge’s gavel.
Bigalow’s attorney walked to-and-fro in front of the judge’s bench. He paused to adjust his gold watch. “If we keep an open mind to the possibility of sleight of hand or mistaken identity, we might uncover some deeper truths about what happened the night of Madame Dodi’s death. Someone else used an identical suit, then switched their identity during the murder. Many in our community know the urban legend of the Blue Velveteen Dormouse. We contend he was framed." Bigalow’s attorney faced the audience with his trustworthy-looking hazel eyes, then headed back to his table.
The judge fiddled with her gavel and seemed disappointed not to pound it. “So be it. The defendant is remanded to custody without bail. The trial is set for March 20, just over two months from now.”
This meant a long wait in jail for Bigalow before any hope he’d go free. And what was all this about a blackout? Jonathan couldn’t wait to ask Bigalow why he hadn’t mentioned magic, either.
The gavel fell as the courtroom erupted. Bigalow stretched in his chains to blow him a kiss, and was escorted out by six armed guards. His lawyer gathered up his papers and left like Santa Claus for winter vacation.
###
“What did that piss-ant lawyer think he was doing? He didn’t have to go public with the spell. It’s supposed to be a secret.” Bigalow was yelling and whispering at the same time.
Jonathan had never seen Bigalow angry, and searched his face for how deep his fury went. It seemed to drop into a dark ravine. Jonathan realized you never knew someone until you saw them pissed. “Beats me.” He gulped. “That was the first time I ever heard of an urban legend about the Blue Velveteen Dormouse.”
“This is what I get for talking to my lawyer?” his husband snapped.
Jonathan’s response caught in the back of his throat. He swallowed to find his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me about the blackout?”
“I was going to do it. Eventually. There wasn’t time for all that. Now he goes and mentions the spell out loud, to you, in public.” Bigalow scowled and punched the air.
“A spell? For real? Is magic seriously a thing? I thought it was all just smoke and mirrors.”
Bigalow looked deadly serious. He drew back in his chair and looked him dead in the eye. “For real. A lot of what you see on stage is just an illusion, but sometimes magic is the most serious thing ever.”
Thought bubbles popped in Jonathan’s head. Till now, in terms of hocus-pocus, he was just an outsider with an interest in magic as it related to stagecraft. But Charlie the Crow could speak in complete sentences. . . maybe the bird had a tiny hidden speaker? Or maybe Eduardo was a ventriloquist?
Jonathan swayed back and forth in his seat, still opening his mind to the idea of magic realness. He took a deep breath and asked. “What kind of spell is it?”
“If another person is wearing an identical costume, they switch personalities.”
“Presto-change-o? Like Freaky Friday?”
“Yeah. Like that.”
“That would explain why Madame Dodi’s neighbor thought they saw your body inside the dormouse. Even if I believe you, I don’t know if any jury would believe such a crazy story without proof the spell works.”
Bigalow bent his head down and muttered, “It never should have been brought up. I’m sorry baby. I shouldn’t drag you into all this, but I still need your help. Promise you won’t back out.”
The idea of not helping was unthinkable. The brief time they’d lived together had been the happiest in Jonathan’s short lifetime. His voice went scrunchy. “No! I won’t give you up to rot in jail for something you didn’t do! We’re meant to be together.” It was hard to describe how, but Jonathan knew they would open the door to greatness together. Now that beautiful future stood on the cliff of ruin.
“Then you have to believe me. I’m trying to prove my innocence in the simplest way possible,” Bigalow said. “I bet Eduardo talked to my lawyer D’Arby Jackson, and told him about the spell. Go see Babs. She’s a paranormal investigator. She can show proof of the spell.”
“Bearded lady? Yeah, I met her.” It had been only briefly at the Bijou bar. She had given him her card. How could she have known he’d need to see her? “How come she has a beard, but uses female pronouns?”
“Oh, that’s just Babs. She explained it to me once, years ago. She said she’s a Bioriginalist. The beard grew at menopause. She felt no need to hide it, or change her gender. She just goes about her business that way.”
“Good for her.” Jonathan nodded. “How can she help?”
“Ask her to show you proof the urban legend of the Blue Velveteen Dormouse is true. I ain’t going nowhere unless you believe me.” Bigalow looked as earnest as a captive possibly could.
Jonathan couldn’t help feeling for him. “Should I tell her I have the second costume?” He felt he should at least ask if it was alright to share that kind of information.
“Go ahead. I trust her as much as I trust you,” Bigalow said.
Jonathan sighed as he thought of all their Zoom calls where they’d poured their heart out over the last year, and their first night together, then the next and next, up to their marriage and honeymoon. It felt an honor to be entrusted with such a responsibility. “Anything to help,” he said. Even going to see a paranormal investigator.
###
The front-yard gate creaked as it swung open onto a brown lawn. Jonathan jumped over a puddle in the middle of the path leading to a crumbling pink Victorian two-story. He passed a bramble of dormant rose bushes and hurried toward the bright lights inside its dormered windows.
A plaque on her door read: Dr. Barbara Matie, Parapsychologist. He took a deep breath, then pounded.
He heard a raspy woman’s voice call from inside, “No. I won’t buy another Girl Scout cookie.”
He leaned forward and knocked again. “I’m not selling cookies. Bigalow sent me.”
Babs opened the door in a nylon flight jacket, cargo shorts, and Birkenstock sandals with socks. She ran a hand over her white whiskers. She was a foot-and-a-half shorter than him, built like a thirteen-year old boy.
“Oh. It’s you, Jonathan. Oh alright then, I guess you’re in time for tea.” She gestured for him to follow. He walked down the dark-panelled hall past a series of framed lithographs of bridges, dodo birds, and dirigibles.
Everywhere he looked there was some antique curio. Turned balusters led up the wooden stairs to the floor above. The smell of nutmeg and cloves irritated his nostrils.
“You can hang your jacket on one of those pegs by the door,” Babs said.
He removed his black-knit hat and stuck it in his coat pocket. He added his peacoat to the collection of hoodies, ponchos and bomber jackets, then followed into her Nordic kitchen. He took in the white-painted cabinetry, and oak floor. Everything seemed orderly and clean.
She pushed aside a basket full of lambs’ wool on a butcher-block countertop and reached for a glass canister of tea. Rows of jarred dried herbs and berries filled the open shelves above her.
He put his hands together in a prayer position. “Bigalow said you can help,” he said on his toes with bent knees.
As the kettle came to a boil, she turned the flame off. She put the tea in the tea ball and let it steep. She tightened close the blue curtains with yellow duckies above the sink. “Really? Why’s that?”
He felt light-headed. It had been a challenging week. He had not eaten much of anything. If he crumbled Bigalow would be locked away for life, or worse, even executed. His heart fluttered and the lights grew dim. He imagined looking at the scene from twenty-feet above. Dude, don’t freak out.
“Jonathan!” Babs’ face appeared as if in a small spotlight. “Let’s get you into a chair.” She pulled one from the breakfast nook and guided him to it.
He waited for his heart to slow down then opened his eyes. “He’s my new husband. I love him. You have to help me prove his alibi.” It was all he could think to say.
Babs’ chin twitched in a brief tremor that deepened her wrinkles. Her eyes widened behind her glasses. “So you love him, then?”
“I’m afraid to admit how deep. I can’t think of anything else.” The love had a mind of its own. It demanded his brain and heart like a kidnapper demands ransom. In his fantasies, he and Bigalow danced to eternity up a grand staircase.
“How long have you known him?” She went to her vintage Frigidaire, and took out a cake.
“I approached him online over a year a—”
“You approached him?”
“After he liked one of my Instagram posts, I liked his TikTok videos. We became mutual fans and started chatting on the app. I never dreamed a big producer like Bigalow Love would take an interest in me. He got me an audition at Cirque du Soleil. He called me his golden boy. I met him in Las Vegas three weeks ago and we ended up married.”
“I know Bigalow was very excited about you. He said you’re very talented.”
Jonathan felt his face start to flush. “Thank you. I flew back to my old apartment to pack and ship my things here, and have been staying at the Bijou ever since. His arrest must be a mistake. Bigalow said you have proof the legend of Blue Velveteen Dormouse is true, and it can show how Eduardo is to blame for the murder.”
“He thinks it was Eduardo?” Babs asked. She set the cake on the table, cut them each a piece, and handed him his on a china saucer. “Of course. He was a fool to get mixed up with those dormice. Let me get the forks.”
“Whoa. It’s true then?” Jonathan exclaimed. “Not that I doubted him.” His mind felt like the tumblers inside a combination lock.
Babs put the forks on the table and seemed to think for a moment. “Whoever had access to another of the suits could have been inside Bigalow’s body the night of the murder.”
“Right. Eduardo kept one in the basement. I’ve got it now.”
“You have it? Good,” Babs said.
Jonathan was relieved that Bigalow’s plan seemed to make sense to the crone. That was a good start. He started wolfing down the caramel-pudding cake with figs and pecans. “This is one of the most delicious things ever.”
“Thank you. What else do you know about Bigalow and Madame Dodi?” Babs asked.
“I knew he went to see Madame Dodi on occasion. Bigalow described her as one of the Bijou’s many novelty attractions, part of life at the Bijou.”
“Do you know why Bigalow was seeing her?” Babs asked.
“To see his future, I guess. What else?” Jonathan answered. “He found it worthwhile. He said he saw me before in one of her predictions.”
Babs stood up. “Hold on a second. I’ll be right back.” She left him to eat his cake and sip his tea.
Jonathan noticed how Babs walked with good posture but a little stiffly. Even though she was small, there was something grand about her. If Bigalow said to trust her, then she must be okay. He didn’t know anyone else in Seattle besides Eduardo. And certainly, sweets seemed to help his lightheadedness. If only Bigalow were here.
He sipped the tea and added sugar, and checked his social media accounts. Word was out on Bigalow’s arrest. Several friends had posted messages of support. He posted a few heart and tear emojis and left it at that.
She returned with a thick scrapbook. "I’ve been collecting clippings about the Bijou and the Blue Velveteen Dormice for decades.” She thrust the book across the table.
He flipped through the yellowed pages filled with newspaper clippings and flyers about the Bijou. A headline announced its construction in 1920. Its grand opening happened on New Year’s Eve, 1925.
He turned the pages until he came to a poster for the 1949 Nutcracker at the Bijou. It showed the Mouse King and Mouse Soldiers in the Blue Velveteen Dormouse costumes. He felt a dancer’s joy on seeing this. “I love that ballet. I played a mouse soldier in it for ten seasons.” He was at his happiest when performing. He had played the prince in Cinderella and Snow White, as well as Romeo in school productions. His dream was to dance the role of the black swan in an all-male production of Swan Lake.
He scanned a newspaper article and learned that nineteen mouse costumes were designed for the production of the Tchaikovsky Nutcracker ballet. Eighteen military-style costumes were made with identical mouse heads. The nineteenth—bedecked in ribbons and medals, with a frightful set of seven mouse heads piled atop one another—belonged to the Mouse King.
He flipped back further, until he came across a scrap of paper with a handwritten note:
Head of Mouse and Body of Man
Encompass these souls in symmetry’s plan
Whosoever wears its twin’s hollow head
Sees through the other’s eyes instead
“Extraordinary. I’ve never seen a spell before.”
“Read the letter,” Babs said.
He read the letter mounted on the opposite page:
December 21, 1949
My Dearest Maurice,
My deepest gratitude to you for your wizardry! As Dance Director of the Bijou Nutcracker ballet, I felt frustrated. My dancers lacked the skill to dance the Mouse scene with the keen precision I demand. You cast such an astounding spell on the Mice costumes. It is so incredible that whoever wears the Mouse heads at the same time switches bodies.
Thanks to your spell, the dancers achieve an uncanny conformity while in costume, each sharing the same body memory. The audience adored the precision of the Mouse Army!
As you wish, the Mouse heads are kept from the dancers. They are forbidden to wear them other than while performing.
Thank you again for your services. Enclosed please find a check for one thousand dollars.
Your Faithful Servant
Millicent Manley
Bijou Dance Director
“The original spell. And proof of authenticity,” Babs told him.
A tumbler clicked in Jonathan’s brain. If, as this indicated, the magic spell was true, then . . . “Why on earth would any dancer agree to wear the costume?” he asked.
“That is a very good question, young man. It was three-quarters of a century ago, before I was around. However, Millicent Manley was reputed to be a powerful personality. She held a tremendous amount of sway over her troupe’s economic careers and convinced them it was all part of some fabulous stunt for publicity. Besides, there was no real harm in it.”
Jonathan brushed a long lock of his hair behind his ear. “Why were they forbidden to wear them after hours?”
“Maurice must have warned her their powers could be abused.”
“How did you come to have the spell?” he asked as he stuck his fork into the last bit of cake.
“When Maurice died, I went to his estate sale and bought it and the letter. I’m a witch.” She said it matter-of-factly, as if saying she was a dental hygienist or air-traffic controller. “That’s what qualifies me as a paranormal investigator. I’ve studied metaphysics and parapsychology extensively.”
Jonathan closed his eyes for a moment, trying to comprehend the scale and complexity of the occult world. “Does that mean my husband is a warlock?”
“That’s hard for me to say. In all the time I’ve known Bigalow, I’ve never known him to cast a spell. But, considering his association with the Blue Velveteen Dormouse, anything is possible. I just haven’t seen it directly.”
What does that mean? “What about Eduardo? Is he truly a wizard like they say?”
“Perhaps in promotion, maybe in finance. But other than Charlie the Crow, I haven’t seen much to indicate he’s all that powerful at anything magical. I’d say perhaps.”
“Don’t you think he killed Madame Dodi?” Jonathan asked.
Babs rose and walked to the simmering teapot. “It’s possible. Bigalow certainly thinks so.”
He jumped in his seat when the grandfather clock struck eleven. Did it deceive the hour? He could ask questions all night, but didn’t see how he could stay awake much longer. “What happened after the Nutcracker ended?” he decided to ask.
“They entertained as a troupe worldwide. Two-by-two, all but the last Blue Velveteen Dormouse costume split off and started nightclubs of their own. The last pair to disappear was over twenty years ago.”
“Why do I feel like we’re just scratching the surface?” Each question seemed to lead to another he could barely dare ask himself, because he didn’t want to second-guess Bigalow. “So what now?” he asked.
“I recommend you take things one step at a time. Let him know I showed you the spell. Ask what else he wants to prove his alibi. Ask him if he has any other clues. And don’t tell anybody else.”
Like who?