MY WIFE AND I were just lying in bed watching “LA Law” when I heard the screaming. You hear this voice outside yelling, “My husband’s been murdered!” well believe me, you get up pretty quick and go see what’s the matter. Of course I put on my bathrobe first. When I heard her I was just wearing my skivvies.
It was her, Suzanne Maretto, standing out in the cul-de-sac, running back and forth yelling, “Help, someone help me,” and so forth. Don’t ask me why I remember this but she had high heels on, and she was wobbling when she ran.
“Whoa, there!” I say when I get up close. I put my hands on her shoulders. “What’s going on?” I say.
“I’ve got to use your phone,” she says. “There’s been a murder. My husband’s dead.”
Situation like this, you’re hoping she’s just gone crazy, PMS or some such. You should see my wife at that time of the month. You never know. Only in Suzanne Maretto’s case I could kind of tell it wasn’t some drug trip or what have you. Even though she’s saying these terrible things, and she’s obviously upset, she’s also what you might call under control. She introduces herself. “I’m Suzanne Maretto from number six,” she says. “The one with the Lhasa apso?”
Now I remember, because she was always out walking that dog.
“If only he’d been here tonight this might never have happened,” she said. “He’s off at the kennel being groomed.”
By now my wife’s out there with us. “Come on in the house,” she says. “You can wait over at our place while Dick calls the police.”
So we do. And of course it doesn’t take long—a minute, maybe three at the most. Cynthia pours her a shot of whiskey, but she doesn’t take it. “I was auditioning for a big television job,” she says. “That’s why I’m wearing these clothes. It was for arts and entertainment reporter.”
What’s her husband’s name? Cynthia wants to know. “Larry,” she tells her. “Oh no,” says Cynthia. I guess he used to come over and kid around with Matthew sometimes, when Cynthia’d have him out on his tricycle. “Such a nice guy.”
“He managed his parents’ restaurant,” she says. “Maretto’s. We just got married last June.”
“Tragic,” I say. “Who’d do such a thing?”
I wasn’t really expecting an answer from her at a time like that but she gave me one. How she figured there must have been burglars broke in their place. The TV was disconnected from the cable when she came in, and her jewelry all over the place. “I figure it was a case of Larry just coming in to the wrong place at the wrong time,” she says. “He must’ve surprised them.” She said maybe they were on drugs or something. It was probably kids that are always listening to tapes of that 2 Live Crew type of junk. It gives them ideas. The younger generation has no respect for human life anymore.
This is when the cops come in. Two cars, blue lights everywhere. Now half the development is up too, everybody out in the street in their bathrobes and stuff, trying to find out what happened. A little later on, after the cops were in there a while, I see this little crowd form near their front door, so I think maybe there’s a detective that found some clues, and I try to move in to hear better.
And you know who’s in the middle of the crowd, answering the questions? It’s no cop after all. It’s her. You’d think she was the White House press secretary to hear her talk.