While he was rifling through the remains of the dead, Carlton came to the sobering conclusion that in addition to being a murderer, he was now a grave robber. The thought was almost enough of a deterrent to stop his plundering, but not quite. Carlton justified his actions by reasoning that he wasn’t really disturbing the dead. They were still in the closet. He was just going through some of their hitherto untouched belongings that had been left in the room. David had strewn his wallet, and his Breitling watch, on the bedstand, while Deidre’s pocketbook and her nylons had been thrown on top of the dresser. The items looked as though they had been dropped rather hurriedly. That thought hardened Carlton to his search.
David’s wallet was full of green, and credit cards, and the telephone numbers of half a dozen women. As wallets went, the inside contents were much like Carlton’s (except for the telephone numbers). There were no secret pictures, no surprises.
Deidre’s purse held more interest for him. Women and their handbags had always been a mystery to Carlton. At another time he would have derived pleasure from doing just such a surreptitious search. What was in purses that produced so many bulges and made them look so weighty? Carlton had never seen anything useful, like a Swiss Army knife, emerge from a purse. His observations had yielded him glimpses of lip-stained Kleenex, fuzzy key holders, and appointment cards. Trembling slightly, Carlton dumped the contents of Deidre's purse on the bed. She had been traveling with a cosmetics counter. There were also tissues, gum, jewelry, hair bands, tampons, pictures (none of him, just of her sister and parents), pens, combs, lotion, sunblock, and a checkbook/wallet.
Carlton knew where Deidre carried her mad money. She had dug through her purse on more than a few occasions in search of her hoard. He had never understood her logic. Why hide money away when you know it's there? He opened the compartment and took out her store of mad money. Usually there were a few bills inside. This time there were a number of Ben Franklins. He counted ninety-six, almost ten thousand dollars.
Hundreds (or was that thousands?) of ideas popped into Carlton's head, plots and snippets from every hackneyed police show he had ever seen. He could flee with the money and end up in Mexico. It was only a half hour drive south, and there was enough money to keep him in margaritas for a long time.
Or better yet, he didn't even have to flee. He could bury the dead, and no one would be the wiser. There was plenty of room on the Hotel grounds. Or in the sand. People were always digging holes in the sand for one reason or another. Or what if he just flew back home? The police would have a hard time proving he was a murderer. Wouldn't everyone say he was the last person in the world who could have done such a thing?
Enough, he thought. Carlton told himself the schemes were too repulsive to consider. He had never been the type to root for the bad guys. When good didn't triumph in the films, he got downright annoyed. It wasn't right that the bad guys should ever win. In his estimation the movie business had gone downhill ever since John Wayne had died. But that was Hollywood, always twisting things, and thighs, around.
He would give himself up. That's what he would do. But when Carlton left the room, he made a point of posting the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. He also didn't leave empty-handed. He took Deidre's wallet, and all of David's money, with him.