Free A Bird in the Hand by Dane McCaslin Page A

quiet, their breathing too deep for this time of the day.
    I leaned in, sniffing to see if perhaps Greg had indulged in a rum and coke, his drink of choice, but I detected nothing in the way of spirits on his breath. That wouldn't have explained Trixie's snoring, at any rate, unless she had taken up the habit as well.
    Well. This was certainly very odd. I reached out a hand and gave my husband's shoulder a mild shake, then a harder tug—nothing. It was then I noticed the small box sitting on the floor next to the recliner, its top open and bereft of its contents save a few crumbles of brown sugar-and-pecan topping.
    I frowned, drawing my eyebrows together in a manner that ensured more and deeper wrinkles. I remembered tossing out the empty strudel box before I left for His Honor's office, which had precipitated my decision to stop for another of the addictive goodies. Could Gregory have gone through the trash and…no, it was too ridiculous to even contemplate. Somehow, though, the strudel box had made an encore appearance.
    I decided to leave the twosome as they were for the time being. I needed to get dinner started anyway, and I could do this quicker without two pairs of eyes watching my every move in the kitchen. I started the dinner prep, setting out zucchini squash, scallions, garlic cloves, and unsalted butter. Since we were closing in on our "finally settled and stable" years, as we had christened our forties, Gregory and I had pledged to eat better, the odd pastry notwithstanding. And I figured that if the man had indulged twice today, he'd get a healthy dinner tonight whether he liked it or not. This was accompanied with a guilty glance at the bakery box sitting on the counter top.
    I paused in mid-chop. I clearly recalled taking the empty box with me when I left earlier, dropping it into the trash bin that sat near the side gate. I laid the knife down and slipped my shoes back on, ready to solve a mystery of the culinary kind.
    There it was, just where I'd tossed it, laying on top of yesterday's trash. I lowered the lid, standing perplexed for a moment as I tried to think. Unless he'd snuck out during the night, I had no idea when Greg would have had time to fit in another bakery run.
    It wasn't that I was keeping tabs on what my husband ingested, not really. I just wanted to make sure that he didn't overdo the sweets. And it was a bit odd, this afternoon nap that he and Trixie were in the midst of. A bit too odd for my liking, as a matter of fact.
    With that thought, I dashed back into the house, quickly rinsed my hands at the sink then went back into the den. They were just as I had left them, Gregory and Trixie, their heavy, even breathing almost as loud as the cycling announcer on the tube. I picked up the bakery box, gave it a suspicious sniff then paused. It smelled okay, but there was something a bit off about the crumbs. I could see among the golden bits of brown sugar and toasted pecans a few specks of white. I peered closer, trying to decide whether or not I should do the taste test, the type you see being done by detectives on television. (I've never been able to work that trick out, not even for my own books.)
    "Gregory," I all but shouted. "Wake up." This was accompanied by a vigorous shaking of his shoulders with both of my hands. To my immense relief, his eyelids fluttered, and he looked up at me through bleary eyes.
    "What's the matter, Caro?" he asked, only it came out, "Wuzza mat, Carrrro?" He sounded drunk, and the way his eyes kept fluttering shut was not helping his cause. I simply would not put up with my husband becoming a lie-about drunkard, not on my watch.
    I think I might have said something along those lines if it hadn't been for Trixie. It occurred to me that she was just as knocked out as Greg, and I simply could not imagine her tippling. Besides, we kept the rum high above the stove in that cabinet too high for me to reach without the aid of a stool. Unless my dog had developed