Adam and Andria Conway met at a quintessential American hangout. At least, that's what I was led to believe prior to Adam's surprising death. "We met at Junior's malt shop, too young and stupid to know better," he said while sipping a vodka on the rocks with three olives. "We're celebrating our 50th, but I won't tell you of what!" They both laughed as he plucked an olive from his drink and fed it to Andria.

I had been heading home following two grueling weeks on the road of sales training seminars. The Hide-A-Way caught my eye. It was a beautiful two-story Victorian in the middle of nowhere, its billboard on the side of the road promising a memorable stay. I was dog-tired and thirsty and in no real rush to get home to my empty condo. "She still looks the same today as she did way back then, doesn't she?" Adam asked, nodding toward Andria.

"I really wouldn't know, Adam. I mean, I just met you two," I stammered. Andria Conway sat to Adam's left. She didn't look like the malt shop type, far from it. She was smoking a long cigarette, tip red-stained from her glossy lipstick, legs crossed and heels dangling. Her blonde hair didn't look natural, in fact nothing about Andria Conway looked natural. My eyes kept shifting between her ample chest and the rose tattoo on her ankle. I couldn't help but think Adam was one lucky son of a gun. I should have gone to my room sooner, but couldn't pull myself away from staring at those long, silky legs. Adam asked me to pass him a bowl of nuts. As I did, my hand grazed Andria's arm. She smiled, uncrossed her legs and I knew that was enough. I had exceeded my drink limit, so I excused myself, signed off on my tab, and headed away from the bar. Okay, I admit it, I was still thinking about Andria as I repeatedly slid the plastic key card in a downward motion, waiting for the little green light to illuminate, signaling it was okay for me to enter room 111.

I was having one of those weird dreams. I was drowning. Water surrounded me. Andria's red lipstick was drifting snake-like off her lips and into the water. It looked like smoke coming from the bowl of a pipe. Her rose tattoo floated by, subtly folding and unfolding, eluding my grasp. I tried saving myself by drinking all of the water around me. It was cold and tasted good. I was soaked before waking and realizing that water was dripping from the ceiling above me. First, slowly, then it began to come down steadily. I got out of bed, put on my bathrobe, and heard water coming from the ceiling in the bathroom as well, smacking with regularity onto the white tiles. I maneuvered the garbage can under the drip and called the front desk. Within minutes, an engineer was knocking at my door. "I don't know what's going on in the room above me, but you had better check it out," I said to Chris. He wore a blue uniform with his name printed in on an oval patch sewn to his shirt on his left breast. He disappeared quickly, heading toward the staircase.

I couldn't get back to sleep, so I maneuvered around the garbage can in the bathroom, took a shower, shaved, made myself a cup of horrible tasting instant coffee, and got dressed. The dripping water had slowed to a drop about every 8 seconds or so. I was combing my hair when the door to my room suddenly burst open.

"What the?" I shouted. I saw Chris. He was with a slim, tall guy I immediately recognized as the bartender from last night. With them was a woman with short cropped dark hair and uneven bangs, wearing a sharp blue suit with an expensive looking silk blouse. She was very professional and corporate looking in appearance. She looked toward the bartender. "Well?"

"That's him, Miss Green," he said nodding his head up and down.

She faced me. "Mr. Ellsworth, my name is Sheila Green. I am the manager of the hotel. I must ask you to remain here and answer a few questions."

"What the heck are you talking about?" I looked from one to the other for an explanation.

"A man is dead, Mr. Ellsworth, and you were apparently the last one to see him alive," said Green. "The poor fellow in room 211 above you is dead. He was strangled and then placed in the bathtub with the water running to make it seem as though he drowned by accident. His name was Adam Conway. I believe you knew him and spoke at length to him last evening? In fact, you were the last person to see him alive."

"I didn't know him. I met him and his wife for the first time last night at the bar." I pointed to the bartender. "Ask him, he'll tell you. And, how was I the last person to see him alive? Wait a second, where's his wife? The blonde woman...Andria, where is she? This is ridiculous. When I left the bar, he was still alive. You know it," I stared at the bartender. "Is this some kind of joke?"

The bartender smiled. "I'm sorry, sir, there was no Mrs. Conway last night. There was no lady. It was only you and Mr. Conway who I seen last night. And, from what I seen, the two of you were going at it pretty good. It doesn't surprise me none that you don't quite remember things so well."

I couldn't believe my ears. I felt like Scott Henderson in the Phantom Lady. "Surely, you're joking, right?"

Green looked at the others and then at me. "Mr. Ellsworth, I understand you are upset and confused. Murder is no joke. And, we have some very severe damages to the rooms here. Perhaps we should all go to my office and talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about. Ask Mrs. Conway what happened up there."

"Sir, there is no Mrs. Conway. Adam Conway has been coming to this hotel for years. He's a single man. He's been in room 211 for the past week, all alone."