Friday Flash Fiction: What Happened?

(Friday Flash Fiction prompt from The One-Minute Writer on 24 May 2013:
Fill in the blank to start your story. 
"Seven days ago, _______________. Now, no one will talk to me.")

Seven days ago, I booked a hotel room. Now no one will speak to me. Going to a hotel shouldn't be a big deal, right? But let me explain. Sometimes when I'm on a writing binge or have a looming deadline, I'll check into a hotel for a few days so I can concentrate. Only my assistant knows where I'm going, and she keeps the secret. The TV stays off, the wireless stays off, it's just me and my laptop.

So on Sunday afternoon I drove a couple of hours to the hotel and checked in. I hadn't been here before but it looked nice. My room had a view of the city instead of the interstate. The fitness room had a weight machine and an elliptical, enough for basic exercise. I ordered dinner in my room, showered up, and went to bed early.

Monday started off as I'd planned. I woke up early and wrote two chapters for my latest mystery novel. My main character, Flynn Benning, was solving a bank teller's death and finding out this was no ordinary bank. He was facing threats from all directions and I was trying to keep him alive for the next story. I ordered up breakfast and pecked on my laptop until noon. The staff brought me a sandwich for lunch, and I kept writing until mid-afternoon.

I needed a break; a workout would clear my head. I spent an hour in the fitness room alternating between the weight machine and the elliptical. No one else was in there, so I turned off the TV and worked up a good sweat. At one point I caught motion out of the corner of my eye. Looking out the interior window, I saw a woman walking past in the hall. She should have been on a red carpet somewhere. Tall and curvy, auburn hair flowing over her shoulders, burgundy lipstick to match her dress, small gold cross on a necklace. She eyed me with a slim smile and was gone.

Something hurt. I figured out it was the leg press I had held when she appeared. Letting the weights down, I stepped over to the window and looked down the hall. Nobody. After one more round on the elliptical I huffed up the stairs to my room for a shower.

I considered the day's writing a success, and decided to celebrate by eating in the hotel's restaurant. My 6 oz fillet mignon and glass of merlot were perfect. When I returned to my room and opened the door, I caught a whiff of perfume. Tiptoeing further inside, I spotted a familiar-looking red dress on the floor. A little further, around the corner, I saw a woman in my bed. Face down, with flowing auburn hair. Not moving. I stepped up to the bed and shook her right shoulder; no response. I held two fingers to the side of her neck. No pulse.

I closed my eyes and took three deep breaths. When I looked at the bed again, she was still there. I stumbled over to the phone on my desk and called downstairs. Within minutes police and hotel staff were at my door, and my room was now a crime scene.

The first detective on the scene pulled me aside to get a statement. He arched his brows when I said I had no idea who the woman was, just that I saw someone like her downstairs in the afternoon.

"So, you just came back up here after dinner, and there she was. Is that what you're saying?"

"That's right. I really don't know who she is or how she got here."

"Uh huh. Well, we think we know who she is. Hotels are where she usually meets her clients. But you're saying you don't know anything about that?"

"No. Not at all. And you're talking about a certain type of client, right?"

"Yep, she's a call girl, or was. In your room. Dead. You sure you don't have anything else to tell me?"

"No sir", I said. "I just drove over here to write for a few days, without all the usual distractions."

"Uh huh."

So that's how it started. Everything in my room was boxed up as evidence, and the hotel staff moved me to a new room for the night. I called my assistant and explained the situation, including my impounded car. She agreed to drive over and get me when the police would let me leave.

"Assuming you're not in jail", she said.

"I appreciate that vote of confidence, Leslie."

By the next morning the story was everywhere. Mystery novelist caught with dead prostitute in his hotel room. When will he be arrested? Has he done this before? How often does he hire call girls?

My publicist flew in and gave statements to the press. The police found drugs in the woman's system that didn't appear connected to me. My DNA sample was still being tested, though. I stayed at the hotel for another three days, spending most of those days in interviews with multiple detectives. Eventually they said I was free to go, for now.

By the end of the week I was back home, and I called a few friends and family to see about lunch, dinner, whatever. Everyone was unavailable. Leslie said she was taking the next week off.

So here I am, a pariah. For now. But I have a great idea for my next story.