Or maybe not.
I read a lot of murder mysteries, crime stories, and even the occasional supernatural thriller. I admire writers who can dream up elaborate plots full of twists, turns, and dark motives lurking just beneath the surface.
Which is probably why, when I had a slightly inexplicable experience during a four‑night hotel stay, my imagination didn’t just wander — it sprinted.
My husband has hunting friends in Iowa, and we decided to stay in a small town for four nights so he could join in the fun. No Airbnbs were available, and once you added “pet‑friendly” to the search, our hotel options narrowed fast.
I found a national chain hotel — let’s call it Excellence Inn — and while booking online I noticed a King Deluxe Balcony Suite for just a couple of dollars more than a standard room. Sold. While my husband was off shooting birds with his dog for four days, I could relax in our luxe accommodations, reading and binge‑watching the final episodes of Stranger Things. Perfect.
Checking in on Christmas Eve was… rocky. There was only one employee working the desk, and he admitted he’d been there just three weeks. Fair enough — we can make this work.
After peering nervously at his computer, he sheepishly announced that my room wasn’t marked as “cleaned” and therefore wasn’t technically ready for occupancy.
I asked if he could go take a look.
He came back and said the room looked fine to him — it just needed towels.
Score. Hand over the keys.
The room itself was actually great. It was clearly part of a former lodge or resort, with rustic touches that felt a cut above your typical lower‑range chain hotel. I could happily spend four days and nights here.
There were a few minor issues — nothing urgent — so I made a short list and decided to address them the next morning. The poor front‑desk guy had already been through enough for one shift.
The next morning, I set up the desk area with my laptop and work materials. Since we were staying multiple days, I wanted to reduce clutter, so I opened the desk drawer expecting to find the usual hotel items: a Bible, some notepads, a pen, maybe a brochure.
What I found would have been completely foreign to me had I not watched The Wire — all seasons — three times.
A crack pipe. A lighter. And other assorted paraphernalia.
WTF?
I snapped a photo and showed my husband, who was just as stunned as I was.
Mildly perturbed, I added it to my list, which now looked like this:
- Extra towels
- Four lightbulbs need replacing
- Bed linens need professional attention
- Missing cups for the coffee maker
- Crack pipes in the desk drawer
After breakfast in the little room near the entrance, I went to the front desk and calmly explained that a few items in our room needed attention. Trying very hard not to be that guest, I kept things pleasant and matter‑of‑fact.
The employee I spoke with — let’s call her Lizzie — told me she was the assistant manager. At first, she seemed mildly bored and slightly annoyed.
Then I got to the crack pipe.
I showed her the photo. She went pale.
She assured me she would take care of everything immediately and asked me to let her know when I’d be out of the room so she could handle it personally.
And honestly? I didn’t give it much more thought. I went about my day and let her know when I was leaving. When I returned, Lizzie was in the room herself, cleaning.
My initial reaction was charitable: Wow, she really wants to make this right.
Later, as I sat down to work at the desk, there was a knock at the door. Expecting maintenance for the lightbulbs, I opened it to find a man standing there.
“Lizzie?” he asked.
Nope. Not Lizzie.
He apologized awkwardly and hurried away.
Not long after, while I was in the exercise room, Lizzie approached me holding a large, fancy iced coffee — definitely not from the hotel — and a piece of paper. She explained that because of my troubles, she was only charging me for one of our four nights.
What?
I objected, saying that wasn’t necessary and that I didn’t want her getting into trouble. She assured me that as assistant manager, she wouldn’t.
That’s when my imagination really took the wheel.
I Googled reviews for the property and noticed something odd: several disgruntled guests mentioned booking the same King Deluxe Balcony Suite, only to be told upon arrival that it was “not available” or “dirty and not ready.”
Suddenly, the pieces felt less random.
Imagine being the assistant manager of a small‑town chain hotel.
Imagine having control over which rooms appear available for booking.
Imagine a steady stream of strangers coming and going at all hours.
Imagine a lucrative side hustle.
Imagine a brand-new employee working alone on a holiday not twigging to the situation.
Holy cow.
Had I stumbled onto a crack den?
Or was this just my crime‑novel‑addled imagination running completely away with me?
What do you think?
