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 day later, I leaned forward in the front row watching Bigalow flex in his 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 me 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.
I felt my stomach sink with the words into the wood-paneled walls. Please God, let that be true, I thought.
Alison Smyth-Yang, the Prosecuting Attorney, did not look impressed as she stood up in her pin-striped power suit. Beneath the flare of her pants she wore stiletto heels. They took her from about 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 flashed the gallery a smile.
Smyth-Yang retrieved a cardboard box from the table. She lifted its lid to unveil the costume with a neat, precise motion. "May we enter this 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.
I tipped on the edge of my pew, turning into one big ear. Bigalow hadn’t told me 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 with my head resting on the Bijou bar.” His eyes fluttered.
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 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, D’Arby Jackson, 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? I twitched and jumped a centimeter in my seat. Laughter 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 which 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. “This is highly irregular, but so be it. The defendant is remanded to custody without bail. The trial is set for March 20, just over two months from now.”
That meant a long wait in jail for Bigalow before any hope he’d go free. And what was all this about a blackout? Doubt churned through my gut like vinegar. I 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 me a kiss, and was escorted out by armed guards. His lawyer gathered up his papers and left like Santa Claus for winter vacation. I wondered if this would get in the newspaper.
I took the #11 bus from the great stone block courthouse downtown back up to Capitol Hill, and dined alone in the Bijou diner on a fried chicken filet sandwich with potato salad. As I ate, I couldn’t stop thinking about Bigalow’s magical defense and the Blue Velveteen Dormouse.
###
The next morning, I made it through security at the detention center, and met Bigalow at one of the visitor windows at our appointed time.
“What did my lawyer think he was doing? He didn’t have to go public with the spell. It’s supposed to be a secret.” Bigalow whispered.
I searched his face. His mood seemed to drop into a dark ravine. I realized you never knew someone until you saw them backed in a corner. I gulped and pushed him even further. “A secret? That was the first I ever heard of an urban legend about the Blue Velveteen Dormouse. Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered back.
“I was going to. Eventually. There wasn’t time. Now my lawyer goes and mentions it out loud, to you, in public.” Bigalow scowled and punched the air.
My response caught in the back of my throat. I swallowed. “A spell? For real? Is magic seriously a thing, then? I thought it was all just smoke and mirrors.”
Bigalow drew back in his chair and looked me dead in the eye. “For real. A lot of what you see on stage is just an illusion, but real magic is the most serious thing ever.”
Thought bubbles popped in my head. Till now, in terms of hocus-pocus, I was just an outsider with an interest in magic as it related to stagecraft. But, if Charlie the Crow could speak in complete sentences. . . maybe the bird had a tiny hidden speaker? Or maybe Eduardo was a ventriloquist?
I swayed back and forth in my seat, still opening my mind to the idea of magic being real. I 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. Except they have to keep the dormouse head on for it to work.”
I paused to consider. “That would explain why Madame Dodi’s neighbor thought they saw your body inside the dormouse. I don’t know if any jury would believe such a crazy story without proof.” I didn’t want to belabor the point.
Bigalow bent his head down and muttered, “Oh, the spell works, alright.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve experienced it first hand.”
This hit like a bolt of lightning. “Whoa, wait. When you say you swap personalities, are you switching souls, or consciousnesses?”
“Is there a difference?” Bigalow asked.
“I’m not certain, but my grandparents were very brainy university professors. They used to discuss philosophy at the dinner table all the time. Some teachings say they’re different. The question has always fascinated me.”
“We’re talking about the part of you that is not your body. Whatever that is. Soul. Spirit. Consciousness. Remember our vows? We promised to love each other mind, body, and soul. Regardless, it never should have been brought up in court. I’m sorry baby. I didn’t want to drag you into this, but I need your help even more now. Promise you won’t back out,” he pleaded with arms wide open and a cherubic expression.
The idea of not helping was unthinkable. The brief periods we’d lived together had been a peak experience. My 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.” I knew we would open the door to greatness together. Now that beautiful future stood on a cliff.
“Then you have to believe me. I’m trying to prove my innocence in the simplest way possible,” Bigalow said. “I bet Eduardo told D’Arby about the Blue Velveteen Dormouse. Go see Babs. She’s a paranormal investigator. She can show proof of the spell and answer all your fancy philosophy questions.”
“Bearded lady? Yeah, I met her.” It had been only briefly at the Bijou bar. She had given me her card. 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.” I nodded. “What should I say to her?”
“Ask her for proof that the urban legend of the Blue Velveteen Dormouse is true. I ain’t going nowhere unless you believe me.” Bigalow hunched forward in his chair, his arms crossed over his knees.
It felt weird to feel pity for someone I looked up to. “Should I tell her I have the second costume?” I thought I’d ask. It was the conscientious thing to do.
“Go ahead. I trust her as much as I trust you,” Bigalow said.
I sighed as I remembered the Zoom calls where we’d poured our hearts out, and all the lavish gifts he’d sent, up to our marriage and honeymoon. It felt an honor to be entrusted with such a responsibility. “Anything to help,” I said. Even going to see a paranormal investigator.
###
The front gate creaked as it swung open onto a brown lawn. I jumped over a puddle in the middle of the path leading to a crumbling pink Victorian. I 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. I took a deep breath, then pounded. I knew from my grandparents that a parapsychologist studied the spiritual world and the occult.
I heard a raspy woman’s voice call from inside, “No. I won’t buy another Girl Scout cookie.”
I 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 was a foot-and-a-half shorter than me, built like a thirteen-year old boy. She ran a hand over her white whiskers. “Oh. It’s you, Jonathan. Oh alright then, I guess you’re in time for tea.” She gestured for me to follow.
I walked down the dark-panelled hall past a series of framed lithographs of bridges, dodo birds, and dirigibles. Everywhere there was some antique curio. Turned banisters led up the wooden stairs to the floor above. The smell of nutmeg and cloves irritated my nostrils.
“You can hang your jacket on one of those pegs by the door,” Babs said.
I removed my knit hat and stuck it in my coat pocket. I added my peacoat to the collection of hoodies, ponchos and bomber jackets, then followed into her Nordic kitchen. I took in the white-painted cabinetry, and oak floor. Everything seemed orderly and clean.
She pushed aside a basket full of wool on a butcher-block countertop and reached for a canister of tea. Jars of dried herbs and berries filled the shelves above her.
I put my hands together in a prayer position and went on my toes with bent knees. “Bigalow said you can help.”
As the kettle came to a boil, she turned the flame off. She put in the tea ball and let it steep. She tightened close the blue curtains printed with yellow duckies above the sink. “Really? Why’s that?”
I felt light-headed. It had been a challenging week. I had not eaten much of anything. If I crumbled Bigalow would be locked away for life, or worse, even executed. I wasn’t sure about the laws in Washington State. My heart fluttered and the lights grew dim. I 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 me to it.
I waited for my heart to slow down then opened my eyes. “He’s my new husband. I love him. You have to help me prove his alibi.” It was all I 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 my brain and heart like a kidnapper demanded ransom.
“I know Bigalow was very excited about you. He said you’re very talented.”
I felt my face flush. “Thank you. It must be a mistake. He said you have proof the legend of Blue Velveteen Dormouse is true, and can prove Eduardo is the murderer.”
“He thinks it was Eduardo?” Babs set the cake on the table, cut us each a piece, and handed me mine 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?” I exclaimed. “Not that I doubted him.” My 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 Blue Velveteen Dormice suits could have used Bigalow’s body to commit the murder.”
I was relieved Bigalow’s story made sense to the crone. That was a good start. “Right. Eduardo kept one in the basement. I’ve got it now.”
“You have it? Good,” Babs said.
I 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 finished chewing a pecan and said “I knew he went to see Madame Dodi on occasion. Bigalow described her as the centerpiece of the Bijou’s many novelty acts, the heart of the Bijou.”
“Do you know why Bigalow was seeing her?” Babs asked.
“To see his future, I guess. What else?” I answered. “He found it worthwhile. One of her predictions was that I would marry him.”
“There is an undeniable magnetism about the man. I can see why you fell for him.” Babs stood up. “Hold on a second. I’ll be right back.” She left me to eat my cake.
I 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, she must be okay. And certainly, sweets seemed to help my light-headness. I didn’t know anyone else in Seattle besides Eduardo, who I instinctively distrusted.
I sipped the tea and added sugar, and checked my social media accounts. Word was out on Bigalow’s arrest. Several friends had posted messages of support. I 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.
I flipped through the yellowed pages filled with newspaper articles and Bijou flyers. A headline announced its construction in 1920. Its grand opening happened on New Year’s Eve, 1925.
I turned the pages until I 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. I felt a dancer’s joy on seeing that. “I love this ballet. I played a mouse soldier in it for ten seasons.”
I scanned a newspaper article and learned nineteen mouse costumes were designed for the production of the Tchaikovsky 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—belonged to the Mouse King.
I flipped back further, until I 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.
I 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 instincts. The audience adores 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 me.
A tumbler clicked in my brain. If, as this indicated, the magic spell really was true, then . . . “Why on earth would any dancer agree to wear such a costume?” I asked.
“That’s 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 publicity stunt. Besides, there was no real harm in it.”
“What a stupid spell! I don’t get why Millicent bothered doing it at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m a dancer, and a choreographer. I know you can’t just switch a dancer’s body on them and expect them to dance the same part exactly the same. The body doesn’t work that way. What if one body is way taller than another? It would throw their movements off. It would be like learning a new musical instrument, expecting a violinist to play a bass well the first time.” I felt strongly about this.
“I think, actually she took a few months to cross-train all the dancers in each other’s body. That’s how all their movements became so uniform.”
“Is this spell on the Blue Velveteen Dormice switching consciousness or souls?” I was really curious to see how she’d answer this one.
“Good question. It’s very astute of you to ask. The consciousness goes to sleep, while the soul remains in a different place. Some say it is in our heart. Others believe it is an energy that surrounds us. More ephemeral. I’d say the soul stays with the body like a cloud even if its awareness is elsewhere.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve never experienced it personally.”
“But you’ve studied this.” I brushed a crumb off my knee. “Why were the Nutcracker dancers forbidden to wear them after hours?”
“Maurice must have warned her their powers could be abused.”
I stuck my fork into my last bit of cake. “How did you come to have the spell?” I asked.
“When Maurice died, I went to his estate sale and bought a grimoire that contained 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.”
“How does a spell even work?” I asked. I guess it was a bold question because she shook for a moment like a wet hen.
“You want to know how magic works? You realize witches and wizards work lifetimes to learn that? The very word occult means hidden. And you think I can just tell you?”
“Well, no, not exactly. But just theoretically, perhaps?”
“A lot of things we take for granted now, like cell phones, would have been considered witchcraft in the Dark Ages. Alchemy turned into the scientific method during the Enlightenment. We consider people like Newton, Einstein, and Tesla to be wizards, unlocking the secrets of electricity and radio waves. Einstein was closest when he hit on Quantum Theory.”
“Quantum? I think my stepfather mentioned investing in quantum computing.”
“Yes. It’s fascinating. Sympathetic specks of energy that spontaneously change together across great distances. It’s happening around us on an energy level all the time. Most people are oblivious to it. It’s just one step from time travel. That’s why the magic eyeball was so special. It possesses a magic beyond quantum.”
“So the way the dormice’s heads switch personalities is due to quantum physics?”
“That’s right.” Babs nodded and pushed her horn-rimmed glasses up on her nose.
I closed my 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 to say. 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. There’s a sort of dome of secrecy that covers the Bijou.”
How does that even happen? “Like a magical forcefield? Interesting. What about Eduardo? Is he truly a wizard like they say?”
“Other than Charlie the Crow, I haven’t seen anything to indicate he’s a powerful wizard. I’d say perhaps. Again, a lot that goes on there is impenetrable.”
“Do you think he killed Madame Dodi?” I asked.
Babs rose and walked to the simmering teapot. “It’s possible if he had another dormouse head.”
I jumped in my seat when the grandfather clock struck eleven. Did it deceive the hour? I could ask questions all night, but didn’t see how I could stay awake much longer. “What happened after the Nutcracker ended?” I 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 I could barely dare ask myself, because I didn’t want to second guess Bigalow. “I’ll let him know you showed me the spell.” I said.
“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?