Revenge of the Beetle Queen

by M. G. Leonard

  Humphrey clambered out of the bin and dusted himself down.

  “Pickers, hand me the case.”

  Thinking on his feet, Humphrey had grabbed a suitcase from the trunk of the cab before they ran away. He knew they couldn’t show up at the awards ceremony dressed in ripped recycled clothes and stinking of rubbish. Lucretia Cutter would never speak to them. He was hoping there’d be clean clothes inside the case that they could change into.

  Pickering pushed the case out of the dumpster. It dropped to the floor, bursting open. Humphrey bent over and rummaged around. There were slim pickings for a man of his size, but there was a black dinner suit. He lifted out the trousers and hung them over the bottom rung of a fire-escape ladder. He pulled on the white shirt. He could only do up one button, and the cuffs flapped around his chubby wrists. No cuff link was going to be long enough to fasten them. The jacket was tight and pulled his arms backward, but he managed to get it on without ripping it. The man who owned the suit was short in stature but generous in girth, and when it came to the trousers, after taking a deep breath, Humphrey could just about manage to do them up, although they didn’t extend past his calves. With midriff, ankles, and wrists bare, he nodded at the improvement.

  “How do I look?”

  “Like the Incredible Hulk’s sickly cousin,” Pickering spat, struggling to lift the lid and clamber out of the bin at the same time.

  Humphrey snorted and held the dumpster lid open. Pickering fell to the ground. “You’re going to have to wear this!” Humphrey said, pointing.

  “What!” Pickering leapt to his feet. “I’m not wearing that, I’ll look ridiculous.”

  “But this is all that’s left.” Humphrey grinned.

  “There must be something else.” Pickering pulled out knickers, a bathing suit, towels, and toiletries. “Why can’t I wear the suit?”

  “Because it’s the only thing I can fit into,” Humphrey guffawed.

  “Fine.” Pickering snatched the garment out of his hand. “Turn around while I put it on.”

  Despite getting up with the sun and having only a block to walk, Pickering and Humphrey found that there were plenty of other people who’d stayed up all night, or slept on the pavement, to get a good spot outside the Hollywood Theatre for the Film Awards. Crowds of people were gathered behind the cordon next to the red carpet, waiting to see—or perhaps even meet—their movie idols and to soak up the glamorous dresses and dapper suits. The entrance to the theatre was framed by film cameras and photographers with long lenses, on foot, on stools, and on ladders.

  Humphrey pushed and shoved, trying to force his way into the crowd, but discovered Americans were not like the British; they didn’t take kindly to being pushed around, and they shoved him right back. People were staring at Pickering, who’d pulled up the skirt of the pink flowery dress he was wearing because it kept getting tangled around his ankles. He had one hand on his head, holding on a floppy straw hat, and his skirts yanked so high they exposed his hairy knees.

  “What category are you nominated for?” someone shouted. “Ugliest dude in a dress?”

  The crowd erupted in roars of laughter.

  By the time the first cars started arriving, Humphrey and Pickering were stuck in the middle of the crowd with no way of moving forward and no interest in going back. Each time a long black car pulled up at the end of the red carpet, Humphrey craned his neck to see if Lucretia Cutter stepped out of the vehicle. Pickering, intoxicated by the atmosphere, was gibbering excitedly, and Humphrey had turned sideways, hoping to disassociate himself from his scrawny cousin. Pickering resorted to talking to himself, occasionally giggling and waving his muckminder like a lady’s hankie at the people who were arriving early.

  The cousins were stupefied by the chiseled, overgroomed, stallionlike men who strutted past them in deftly cut suits, swaggering and blowing kisses to the ladies. They had never seen such an array of Adonises. “Their teeth,” Pickering gasped, pawing at Humphrey’s arm. “They’re so straight! So white!”

  Humphrey felt bashful looking at the women, they were so pretty. They fluttered and floated by, sparkling and smiling like ethereal creatures, elegant and lovely.

  Suddenly the crowd gasped and surged forward. Humphrey and Pickering both strained to see what everyone was staring at.

  “It’s Snow White!” an excited woman squealed, and the crowd echoed her.

  “Snow White! Snow White! Snow White!”

  A dainty woman, with platinum-blond hair pinned up in kiss curls around her sultry face, lips a Cupid’s kiss of cherry red, accepted the hand of a besuited gentleman and stepped out of the black limousine.

  “Ruby! Ruby! Over here!” the photographers shouted.

  “Give us a smile, Ruby!”

  Cameras flashed and the crowd gasped as light ricocheted off Ruby Hisolo Jr.’s dress. She was so dazzling that Humphrey could barely look at her, and yet he couldn’t look away. All he could focus on was the deep red of her perfect lips. She was a walking prism of pure light.

  The crowd was awed, as if an angel had fallen out of heaven.

  And then she was gone, inside the Hollywood Theatre, and the world was gray once more. Humphrey longed for her to come back.

  Other actresses turned up, but people paid them little attention. The dazzling image of Ruby Hisolo Jr. was seared upon their eyeballs and it was all they could talk about.

  Humphrey began to get impatient. He didn’t like being trapped in the crowd, and he was hungry.

  “Where is she? Are you sure she’s coming?” he grumbled.

  “Yes, yes. It’s been in all the papers. She never goes to awards ceremonies. This will be the first.” Pickering nodded frantically. “She’s coming. I know it. I can feel it.”

  Humphrey rolled his eyes.

  Another limousine arrived.

  “It’s her!” someone cried, and there was a surge forward.

  “Who?” Humphrey asked several people around him. “Who’s arrived?”

  “It’s Stella Manning,” replied a woman, who was so excited that she didn’t even turn around to see who she was talking to. “She’s the greatest actress who has ever lived.” She screeched excitedly, clasping her hands to her chest. “She’s a chameleon, a miracle worker. I love her.”

  Humphrey puffed out a gasp of frustration. It wasn’t Lucretia Cutter, but he may as well see the greatest actress who has ever lived.

  A forest-green skirt flooded out of the car door, then a majestic woman stood up, thick red curls of waist-length hair falling over her shoulders, a circlet of burnished gold on her brow.

  “It’s Lady Macbeth!” a young man gasped, his hands on his cheeks. “O-M-G! It’s stunning!” He pretended to swoon.

  “I thought you said it was Stella Manning,” Humphrey said to the woman, who was now desperately holding out an autograph book and pen.

  “It is. The dress is the Lady Macbeth, designed by Lucretia Cutter.”

  “Lucretia Cutter? Where?”

  “The dress, it’s designed by her.”

  Humphrey frowned. Why would anyone give a dress a name? He looked at Stella Manning, who was parading regally along the red carpet toward him. The dress was mesmerizing, constructed from a highly tailored sheer nude underlayer, showing off every curve and contour of Stella Manning’s body while giving her the posture of a female chieftain of a highland clan. The forest-green lace overlay was floor-length and adorned with pretty green shells, which were iridescent and gave the gown a royal purple tinge. Humphrey had to admit Lucretia Cutter was pretty good at making dresses.

  There were flashing lights, and Stella Manning lingered to talk to a woman with a microphone.

  “Where is she?” Pickering was bouncing up and down like a child who’d eaten too many sweets. And then it arrived, the car that Humphrey had first seen outside their flat in Nelson Parade, more stylish than any limousine, a timeless classic shape hiding a powerful engine. The last time he’d seen Lucretia Cutter, she’d been bundled into
that car and driven away by her chauffeur. He wondered how she’d got it to America—perhaps she had a fleet of them.

  The chauffeur walked around the iridescent car to the rear door and opened it. Humphrey leaned forward, licking his lips with anticipation. A dainty black claw with hooklike nails appeared, stepping down onto the red carpet; cameras flashed as a tiny girl got out of the car. The clawed feet belonged to her. She was dressed in black, her hair sculpted into a white bob. Her eyes were painted in a strip of black, and her lips shone gold, but it was those weird shoes that made Humphrey stare; they looked so much like black claws that he couldn’t see how a foot could fit in them. But then a larger, more vicious pair of claws stepped down onto the red carpet. Lucretia Cutter was getting out of the car, helped by a handsome man in a blue suit.

  The crowd drew breath and then erupted into spontaneous applause.

  Lucretia Cutter was dressed head to toe in gold. She drew herself up, standing impossibly tall, towering above the man whose arm her hand was resting upon. Her sticks and lab coat were gone, but her trademark sunglasses and the black bob were still there, and a heavy gold crown sat on her head. She looked neither left nor right, and a reverent hush fell over the crowd as she glided along the red carpet, her daughter at her side.

  “Woo-hoo!” Pickering shrieked at the top of his voice in the heart of the silence. “Lucretia, darling, it’s me. Pickering!”

  “And me!” Humphrey bellowed. “Over here!”

  “Lucretia!” Pickering shouted. “My sweet, I love you!”

  For a millisecond Humphrey thought he saw Lucretia Cutter bristle, but she continued moving forward and didn’t look in their direction.

  “Oi!” he roared. “We want our money!” But now all the photographers were shouting, too. “GIVE US OUR MONEY! YOU BURNED OUR HOUSE DOWN!” Humphrey shouted, but he couldn’t make himself heard.

  Lucretia Cutter didn’t stop to sign one autograph or do one interview.

  “Didn’t she hear us?” Pickering asked forlornly. “She could at least have blown me a kiss.”

  “Sod this.” Humphrey turned his back on the red carpet. “I’m done with waiting around. Let’s get in there and get our money.”

  “But how?” Pickering whined, traipsing after Humphrey.

  “This place is a theatre,” Humphrey said as they walked to the corner. “It’s got to have other doors.” They looked down the alley that led to the stage door. It was lined with security men in black suits. A man wheeling a cart stacked with golden cages full of colorful, squawking birds was going in through the stage door.

  “We’ll never get in that way,” Pickering said.

  “Then we’ll have to find a different way in,” Humphrey replied, looking upward.

  Novak gasped with delight as they entered the auditorium. The inside of the Hollywood Theatre was an opulent palace of red velvet, crystal chandeliers, and glittering gold trim. She was standing in the most famous theatre in the world. She felt a surge of determination, taking strength from the building. It was time for her to do the best acting of her life.

  She crossed her legs and started dancing around on the spot.

  “I need the bathroom.”

  Mater ignored her, so she looked at Bartholomew Cuttle with pleading eyes. “Please. I really need to go.” She screwed her face up.

  “It’s probably the excitement,” Darkus’s dad said to Mater. “You should let her go now, quickly, before it all begins.”

  “You’d better be in your seat when the awards start. Nominated actresses are all seated in the front row,” Mater snapped, stepping forward to receive the air-kisses and gushing gratitude of Stella Manning for her dress.

  Novak bowed her head and ran back into the foyer, desperately searching for someone who might help her.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  The elderly usher looked down and smiled kindly.

  “How can I help you, Miss Cutter?”

  “You know my name!” Novak fluttered her eyelashes and feigned bashful delight.

  “Why, everyone knows your name, missy. You’re nominated.”

  “I know!” She clasped her hands together. “I can’t believe it. It’s my dream come true.” She smiled up at him. “Only, well, I was wondering if you might help me with something?”

  “I’ll do my best.” He bent down so his head was at her height. “What can I get you? Some ice cream, perhaps?”

  “No, sir. You see, the thing is, I do charity work, for the orphans of Los Angeles, and well, these orphans, see, they’re really poor. They never get to go to awards ceremonies or even watch them on TV, they are so very poor.”

  “Well, that is mighty good of you.”

  “Yes, except I promised some of these orphans, the really poorest ones, that they could watch the awards from the side of the stage. I know I shouldn’t have, but they were so excited when I told them about being nominated, and”—she bit her lip and looked at the floor for a long moment, then fixed the old man with a wide-eyed, sad look—“I can’t bear to let them down. They’ve been let down by every person they’ve ever known, their mummies and their daddies. They don’t even get to eat much chocolate.”

  “Oh dear.” The usher scratched his head. “I’m afraid the security here is tighter than the White House on Election Day.”

  “I know.” Novak blinked tears into her eyes. “I’m so stupid. I didn’t realize how impossible it would be until I arrived and saw all the security.” She sniffed. “They’re coming here because I told them to, and now I don’t know what to do.” Her lip trembled and one solitary tear ran down her face.

  “Oh now, don’t cry. We can’t have you ruining your makeup.”

  “I don’t care about my makeup,” Novak sobbed. “I don’t even care about these awards. I just wanted to give the poor children something incredible to remember for the rest of their lives, and now all they’ll remember is being turned away by scary men in suits, and how horrible I am!”

  “Now, now.” The elderly usher pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket. “Dry your eyes. Why don’t you follow me, and we’ll see if we can’t speak to my nephew.”

  Novak hiccupped. “Your nephew?”

  “He’s on security duty at the stage door.” The usher winked.

  Novak followed him to a door hidden behind a curtain and watched as he punched in a code. They walked through an empty locker room, through another door and down a corridor, and came out in a lobby. There was a reception desk, and behind it sat a woman playing solitaire with a deck of cards.

  “Hello, Nancy, this here is Novak Cutter.”

  Novak smiled sweetly and waved. “Hi.”

  “Is Daniel about?”

  Nancy didn’t look up from her card game. “He’s outside.”

  “Miss Cutter is going to give you some names of orphans from the Los Angeles orphanage.” He winked at her. “It’s part of some charity thing going on today. They’re to be allowed in to watch the ceremony from side stage. Daniel will take care of it.”

  Nancy tossed a pen down onto an open book and returned her attention to the cards. “Write their names here.”

  Novak looked up at the usher with wide eyes. “Really?”

  “I’ll just inform my nephew that he needs to escort them in through the door to the side of the stage,” the kindly usher replied, eyes twinkling.

  “Thank you,” Novak gushed. “There are three children—one girl and two boys—and three carers.”

  “Right, I’ll let Daniel know. Write down their names in the book. Nancy will take care of them.”

  Novak nodded and picked up the pen, felling a thrill of excitement as she wrote Darkus’s, Bertolt’s, and Virginia’s names, but then she paused. She only knew Maximilian Cuttle’s name, not the two others, so she wrote Max, Baxter, and Hepburn.

  The kindly usher was back five minutes later with Daniel. He looked the same as all the security men: black suit, white shirt, black tie, and sunglasses.

  “Da
niel will wait on the corner for the orphans.”

  “Okay, but how will they know who to go to?” Novak opened her handbag and rummaged around, pulling out a fine pink hair ribbon. “Daniel, would you be so kind to kneel down?” she asked politely, fluttering her eyelashes at the security guard.

  Daniel laughed and bent down on one knee, lifting his sunglasses. Novak saw that he had the same kindly eyes as his uncle. She looped the thin pink ribbon around the top button of his jacket and tied it in a bow.

  “You are doing a wonderful thing, Daniel,” Novak said, “and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Miss Cutter.” Daniel nodded and stood up.

  “Darkus will know you by your pink ribbon,” she said, feeling a surge of relief and pride.

  “You mustn’t worry now,” Daniel said. “I’ll take care of the children.”

  “Thank you.” Novak turned to the kindly usher. “And thank you, sir.” She threw her arms around him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “Now, now, Miss Cutter, there’s no need for that.” He untangled himself, smiling. “We must get you back to your seat before the ceremony begins.

  “Could you show me where the bathroom is first, please?” Novak did her best to look embarrassed. “I really need to go.”

  “Of course. Follow me.”

  Novak waved to Daniel, with her pink ribbon tied around his top button, and the kindly usher took her back into the theatre and pointed out the bathroom. Novak thanked him and rushed inside, locking the door. She opened her bag and took out a little purse. Unzipping it, she lifted out Hepburn.

  “Are you okay?” she whispered.

  Hepburn nodded her little bobble of a head.

  “Okay. Here’s the message: Go stage door. Look 4 pink ribbon. 3 kids. 3 adults named Max, Baxter, Hepburn.”

  Hepburn’s elytra sprang up like flashing rainbows, and moving them in a succession of long and quick flicks repeated the message back to Novak in Morse code.

  “Oh, you clever, clever girl.” Novak kissed her little finger and touched it to Hepburn’s thorax. “Now find Darkus and Baxter. Give them the message, and stay safe.”