Carlton wandered aimlessly around the suite. Nothing in his life had prepared him for being a murderer. Other people did things like that. Terrible people. Evil, awful people. Not him. He finally settled in front of the wine and cheese that he had purchased only a few hours, and another lifetime, ago.
I won't get this kind of thing in prison, he thought, suddenly maudlin. Unconsciously he began to gorge himself on the cheese, his motivation akin to an animal's instinctive preparation for a long winter. After retrieving a corkscrew from the nearby wet bar, he opened the wine and started drinking from the bottle. It didn't dull his senses as much as he hoped it would.
Carlton caught a look at himself in the mirror. He was a mess. His clothes were disheveled, and his thin, stringy hair was matted in little unkempt clumps. There were stains on his shirt, telltale marks of the horror he had committed. He stripped off his clothes and walked into the bathroom.
The fragrant smell of potpourri welcomed him inside Strains of Brahms sounded, so restrained as to be almost subliminal. Carlton looked around the enormous bathroom. It had a separate shower and an oversize sunken spa. Both were marble. The ceramic tile floors, he noticed, were heated, warm to the touch. It was the first bathroom he had ever seen that had its own television and telephone. There were even headsets in the spa. Five kinds of soap were displayed, one seashell-shaped, one in a box, one scented, one with a designer label, and one that was even functional. There were two sinks and two amenity baskets. Among the offerings were bath salts, bubble bath, hairspray, hand cream, shaving cream, razors, a sewing kit, body lotion, conditioning cream, cologne, toothpaste, and toothbrushes. A lump came to Carl-ton’s throat. The Hotel had been so thoughtful. It was almost as if they had anticipated his dilemma.
He filled the spa, poured in a little of the bubble bath, and turned on the churning jets. His conscience still troubled him, but as he descended into the suds his other senses were soon overwhelmed by pleasure: the gentle music, the bubbling water, the lilac scent. It had been a long time since he had indulged himself. The thought brought on a twinge of self-pity. In his lifetime he had never taken time to smell the roses. Now it was too late.
After twenty minutes in the spa, Carlton regretfully raised himself out of it. All good things must come to an end, he thought darkly. He reached for a towel. It was thick, more like a mink stole than a towel. While drying off, he took a moment to examine an item new to him: an electric towel warmer. He was tempted to warm some towels just for the novelty of it but decided instead to wrap himself in a terry-cloth robe. The blue-and-gold Hotel California crest was emblazoned on the robe. He felt it with his hands, touched the stitching that stood out proudly like a royal signet. Then he picked up the cologne and sprinkled some on his hands. It was Old Spice. He patted his red cheeks and dared to peek into the mirror. He looked better now, no longer resembled one of those post office Wanted posters.
Trying not to think, Carlton walked into the bedroom. It wasn’t in his nature to leave a mess. He went to the bed and stripped off the bedspread, then used it and the extra blanket to wrap the bodies. The bedroom’s large walk-in closet provided ample space for their placement.
The strewn food, scattered room service trays, and spilled blood weren’t as easy to tidy up, but Carlton’s work was simplified by the thick, stain-resistant carpet. When he finished, he felt an almost desperate need for fresh air. He opened the curtains and the sliding glass doors and stepped out to the suite’s double balconies. Breathing deeply, he took in the panoramic expanse of La Jolla Strand. Six floors below was the sandy beach. From where he stood, everything looked like an interweaving mosaic. Couples walked arm in arm along the boardwalk. Weaving between bodies were skateboarders and roller skaters. Beyond the seawall were the volleyball games, half a dozen or more being contested. The center of the strand was taken up with Frisbees, and paddleballs, while joggers pounded along the surf line. Even the ocean had its territories, with waders, then the divers, and finally the boogie boarders and surfers.
The sun was setting, and everyone was trying to get the most out of the waning light. How long has it been since I’ve watched a sunset? thought Carlton. He settled onto a balcony chair, front row to the blue Pacific eating fire. When the sun set, he heard clapping from below, San Diegans applauding the colorful end of the day.
The vermilion sky gradually gave way to darkness, and Carlton’s mood followed the colors. He thought about his life. His thinking was mostly in the past tense. He was full of regrets, the enormity of his crimes overwhelming everything else.
A light suddenly came on behind him. He blinked, confused, lost for a moment. A young woman was standing in the bedroom.
“Excuse me,” she said very deferentially. “I knocked, you see, but there was no answer. And there was no Do Not Disturb sign on the door.”
She was wearing a black outfit with white buttons and a lace collar. The outfit looked like a modified French maid’s uniform. It went well with her dark hair and eyes. Her name tag read Teresa. Teresa’s eyes still asked for forgiveness. Carlton wondered if his did the same.
“I came to do turndown,” she explained.
“Turndown?”
The room attendant extended her uniformed arm toward the bedspread, only to notice it wasn’t there. Carlton saw her look of confusion.
“The bedspread got wet,” he explained. “I had to hang it up in the bathroom.”
“I can get you a new one—”
“No,” he interrupted. “That won’t be necessary.”
“How about your good-night goodies, then?”
Teresa seemed anxious to please, Carlton thought. But that didn’t help him to understand what she was talking about. She took his silence as assent, though, and said, “I’ll get them from my welcome wagon.”
She was gone before Carlton could refuse, returning a few moments later with a tray that had two covered bowls of strawberries, some packets of brown sugar, and a creamer.
Carlton still looked confused.
“Strawberries and cream tonight,” said Teresa. “Or if you prefer, I can get you cookies and milk.”
“The strawberries are fine,” Carlton said.
When she finished setting up, Teresa turned to Carlton and asked, “Would you like Teddy tonight?”
Teddy, he thought. What was she talking about? He raised his hands, signaled that he wasn’t sure, and Teresa smiled. She had yet to meet the man who could come right out and make that admission. “Why not?” she asked.
“Why not?” repeated Carlton.
Teresa went to her welcome wagon once more and this time returned with a teddy bear. Its arms were closed around a heart-shaped chocolate that bore the words Suite Dreams. She placed the stuffed animal in Carlton’s hands.
“Thank you,” he said, albeit a bit uncertainly.
“Will you be needing a second one?” Teresa knew that two people were registered to the room.
“No, thank you.”
She offered a bright smile. “Good night, then, Mr. Stern.”
Carlton almost winced at the name. “Good night,” he said.
Teresa closed the door softly behind her.
People keep coming to the room and giving me things, thought Carlton. He had never been religious, but he thought that if there were a heaven, it should be a place like this. For a moment he was happy, but then he remembered what he had done.
He gave his teddy a troubled squeeze.