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The humid Los Angeles night presses down like a damp towel as Marco Lumiere's van disappears into the September darkness, carrying a groggy Alex who'd mistaken her abduction for a bad dream. By dawn, Sam clutches the first clue left in Alex's abandoned locker – a blood-red rose pinned to torn yellow fabric with a typed note: Roses are red, violets cost plenty/Find your friend where stars become twenty.
Sam's knuckles whiten around the stem. "Beverly Hills," she breathes, the Walk of Fame's brass stars flashing in her mind. Clover adjusts her red jumpsuit, already sweating in the morning heat. "Twenty stars? That's like, half a block! Couldn't he be more specific?"
Their platform sneakers slap against Hollywood Boulevard's sticky pavement as they dodge tourists. Beneath Joan Crawford's star, a pressure plate triggers. Sam yanks Clover backward just as a net loaded with rancid prop spaghetti splatters where they stood.
"Ew! My new jumpsuit!" Clover shrieks, scraping marinara off her sleeve.
The second clue arrives via carrier pigeon at noon, its leg bearing a tiny scroll: Hickory dickory dock/The mouse hides inside the clock/But your mouse? Higher than birds/Where the silver screen speaks without words.
Sam's eyes dart to the TCL Chinese Theatre's silent-movie gargoyles. "The projection booth."
Inside the dusty booth, Clover's Pilates training saves them. Lumiere's infrared laser grid glimmers menacingly.
"Watch this!" Clover whispers, arching backward until her spine forms a perfect crescent moon, sliding under the lowest beam with inches to spare.
Sam mimics her, joints protesting. They disarm a projector rigged to blast blinding klieg lights into their eyes. Jerry materializes beside a film reel cabinet, adjusting his cufflinks.
"Lumiere's using practical effects from his horror films. Predictable." Clover beams. "See? Pilates isn't just for core strength!"
Jerry merely raises an eyebrow.
The final clue buzzes on Sam's flip phone at dusk: Hey diddle diddle, straight down the middle/Meet where cameras watch the riddle.
They sprint to Stage 18 of the abandoned Paramount lot. Jerry disables pressure-sensitive floor tiles that would have dropped them into a pit of (thankfully fake) alligators. Inside, the smell of stale popcorn and fear hangs thick. Behind Lumiere's director's chair – draped with film strips like trophies – Alex struggles against duct tape binding her to a replica Oscar statue. Muffled screams strain against her gag. Lumiere whirls, megaphone raised, but Sam's lipstick taser finds his thigh before he can shout "Action!" He convulses, collapsing onto a pile of rejected scripts.
Clover slices Alex's bonds with her compact mirror laser, snarking at the man, "Lumiere thinks he's nimble, Lumiere thinks he's quick, Lumiere just got busted by a laser lipstick."
"He kidnapped me before coffee!" Alex rasps, rubbing her wrists. "And he used nursery rhymes? How lame!"
Jerry prods the unconscious director with his umbrella. "Indeed. Though his security was... moderately inventive."
Outside, police lights paint the soundstage walls blue. Sam pockets the "Most Popular" voting slip someone slipped into her backpack earlier, its glitter smudged by sweat. For now, the spotlight can wait.