A Bird in the Hand by Dane McCaslin Read Free Book Online Page B

when I am right. I also love it when the unspoken words, "I told you so," are as palpable as breath without even having to say them. Except when they are aimed at me. Particularly when they are aimed at me.
    Thank goodness I was right this time. I absolutely could not have stood another evening of Gregory's unnatural solicitous behavior, chalking up my actions to the rather nasty bumps to my head.
    By the time the Seneca Meadows Police Department, accompanied by a bevy of crime scene investigators, had left, I was thoroughly convinced that Mrs. Nellie Grayson, she of the feline persuasion, had indeed seen something in our little park that had made someone very nervous.
    And I was as curious as the next person what the SMPD was going to do with all of those cats with my neighbor now lying toes up in the back of the coroner's wagon.
    "Damn," I muttered, viciously stirring creamer into the mug of coffee that Gregory had handed me. Since I only dip into my store of curses when I am very angry or perturbed, my spouse wisely said nothing, only continued to sip from his own mug as he silently watched me from across our kitchen table. Even Trixie was still for once, shoving her wet nose into my hand as I patted her head.
    "Well, what are we going to do about this?" I asked, flinging one hand dramatically in the direction of the yellow crime tape that hung between the porch columns of Mrs. Grayson's house.
    "Who's 'we,' pray tell?" began Gregory, then stopped. "Oh, I don't think so, Caro." His eyes narrowed as he geared himself for battle. I could almost hear the metallic clink of armor snapping into place as he carefully set down his mug, the one that proclaimed I only drink coffee when I'm awake around its top.
    I continued to sip my own coffee, shifting my eyes to the sad sight next door. I've always considered yellow one of the cheeriest hues in the color wheel, but somehow that didn't seem right when it came in a roll that imprinted with the words "Crime Scene—Do Not Cross" in a never-ending admonishment.
    "Caro," Greg tried again, this time using his gentle-explanation-to-a-child voice. "I know that you've written about murder and detective work and all that it entails." He cleared his throat, always a sign that he's cognizant of breached boundaries. "But that's in your books, not in real life. You can't expect to jump into a police investigation," here I began to protest, but he cut me off, "when you have no idea what you're doing. Leave it to the professionals, okay?"
    Well. Of all the things he could have said to me that was about the weakest excuse, at least in my book, if you'll pardon the pun. I've logged enough hours in interviews of detectives and the like to qualify as an honorary officer, and I was confident that I knew the ins and outs of an investigation. After all, hadn't my most recent book, Died Blonde , been hailed by the New York City police chief himself as, "…a solid read with a plot so real, you'll feel as though you're in the middle of the action?" As far as I was concerned, there was no higher praise.
    Before I could fire off another salvo in my defense, Gregory rose and walked around the table, leaning over to carefully kiss my bruised face. I closed my eyes and felt the sting of tears. My husband, as wonderful as he is, can annoy the socks off me at times, but I know that he loves me and only wants me safe. I reached up to pat his cheek.
    "Alright, round one goes to the husband." I smiled crookedly, my eyes feeling as though they'd been plopped down into sockets a few sizes too small. "I need to get moving with my next book anyway."
    That was not a lie. I'd been ignoring emails from my agent marked urgent , aware that he'd already promised my publisher that I'd have the next manuscript ready for editing by early fall. I'd probably need to do some research for this—lots of research. And if I happened to run into information concerning the mess next door, so be it. Could I help what landed in my lap? I