Title: The Deep
End
Author: Julie Mulhern
Genre: Cozy
Mystery / Women’s Fiction
Swimming into the lifeless body of her husband’s mistress tends to
ruin a woman’s day, but becoming a murder suspect can ruin her whole life.
It’s 1974 and Ellison Russell’s life revolves around her daughter and her art. She’s long since stopped caring about her cheating husband, Henry, and the women with whom he entertains himself. That is, until she becomes a suspect in Madeline Harper’s death. The murder forces Ellison to confront her husband’s proclivities and his crimes—kinky sex, petty cruelties and blackmail.
As the body count approaches par on the seventh hole, Ellison knows she has to catch a killer. But with an interfering mother, an adoring father, a teenage daughter, and a cadre of well-meaning friends demanding her attention, can Ellison find the killer before he finds her?
It’s 1974 and Ellison Russell’s life revolves around her daughter and her art. She’s long since stopped caring about her cheating husband, Henry, and the women with whom he entertains himself. That is, until she becomes a suspect in Madeline Harper’s death. The murder forces Ellison to confront her husband’s proclivities and his crimes—kinky sex, petty cruelties and blackmail.
As the body count approaches par on the seventh hole, Ellison knows she has to catch a killer. But with an interfering mother, an adoring father, a teenage daughter, and a cadre of well-meaning friends demanding her attention, can Ellison find the killer before he finds her?
Author Bio
Julie Mulhern is a Kansas City native who
grew up on a steady diet of Agatha Christie. She spends her spare time whipping
up gourmet meals for her family, working out at the gym and finding new ways to
keep her house spotlessly clean--and she's got an active imagination. Truth
is--she's an expert at calling for take-out, she grumbles about walking the dog
and the dust bunnies under the bed have grown into dust lions. She is a 2014
Golden Heart® Finalist. The Deep End is her first mystery and is the winner of
The Sheila Award.
Links
Excerpt #1
June, 1974
Kansas City, Missouri
My morning swim doesn’t usually
involve corpses. If it did, I’d give up swimming for something less stressful,
like coaxing cobras out of baskets or my mother out of bed before ten.
Watching the sun rise over the
seventh green is often the best part of my day. I dive into the pool while the
water is still inky. When the light has changed from deepest indigo to
lavender, I break my stroke, tread water and admire the sky as it bleeds from
gold to yellow to pink. It’s a ritual, a metaphorical cleansing, a moment of
stolen peace.
After all, I have a teenage
daughter, a mother with strong opinions, a Weimaraner named Max who plots to
take over our house on his path toward world domination, and a husband. Much as
I’d like to, I can’t leave him out.
I kicked off my Dr. Scholl’s,
tossed my husband’s button-down onto a deck chair, dove into the dark water and
gasped at the sudden, encompassing cold. That shock of chilly water against my
skin is better than coffee when it comes to waking up. Maybe not better. Faster.
My legs kicked, my arms sliced
and I settled into the comforting rhythm of the Australian crawl. My fingers
knifed through the water, anticipating the smooth parting of liquid. They found
fabric and the horrific touch of cold flesh.
***
I
watched the sunrise from a deck chair. It was not cathartic or peaceful. It was
awful. The police swarmed around the pool like industrious ants, pausing only
when someone jumped into the water and floated the body to the side. They
fished it out and laid it at the edge of the pool.
I turned my head away. I didn’t
want to see.
A man wearing a truly
unfortunate pair of plaid pants broke away from the ants and sat on the deck
chair next to mine. “Are you all right? Do you want a glass of water?” He had
nice eyes. Brown. Like coffee.
“Coffee,” I croaked.
He waved at the ants and a
moment later one of them appeared with a thermos. He poured some caffeinated
ambrosia into the red plastic top and handed it to me.
“Thank you.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have cream
or sugar.”
“Black is fine.” I took a sip to
prove it.
“I’m Detective Jones. Can you
tell me what happened this morning?”
“I was swimming.”
“Without a lifeguard?” I could
hear the disapproval in his voice. Detective Jones, purveyor of thermos coffee,
wearer of plaid pants, was a follower of rules. I used to like that in a man.
There’s something comforting about someone who colors within the lines.
Problems arise when a strict follower of rules decides to forsake them. He
doesn’t just jaywalk. Nope. A lifetime of good behavior gives him the right to
sleep with other women. Or, if he’s slightly more powerful, order a break-in at
Watergate. Goes to show, you can’t trust anyone these days. Not husbands. Not
presidents. Not cops.
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