From time to time, someone will ask me if any of the characters in The Deep End are real.
Just one.
Max.
Max is entirely based on Sam, who is known lovingly as The Dog Who Wants to Rule the House.
Sam came to us as a puppy from Weimaraner Rescue. Even then he was a dog of strong opinions. No crate, no staying on the floor when everyone else got a comfortable seat, no limiting his food intake to that which we gave him.
At three-months old, Sam figured out how to push together items of varying heights to create stairs. That led to his first trip to the vet to have his stomach pumped (his belly was wider than he was long). Two days later, he defeated the baby lock guarding a stash of junk food. A second trip to the vet followed. It was that second trip to have his stomach emptied that began his life-long distaste for trips to our very friendly veterinarian.
Why wouldn’t the vet be friendly? Thanks to Sam, we paid for a full semester of his daughter’s college tuition.
Sam also has a taste for expensive handbags, backpacks left too long on the floor and anything left on the stove.
We adore him.
As for being a character in the Country Club Murders series? Sam won’t get mad if he doesn’t like the way he’s portrayed. Despite his prodigious intelligence, Sam has yet to master reading.
And now an excerpt featuring Sam…oops, I mean Max.
When I got home from bridge, a strange sedan was parked in the circle drive in front of our house. I pulled in behind it.
The driver’s door opened and a familiar plaid-clad leg appeared. Apparently, Detective Jones had more questions.
His chin jerked a greeting. “Mrs. Russell.”
“Detective Johnson, if we’re going to see each other more than once a day, you’re going to have to call me Ellison. Mrs. Russell was my mother-in-law.” A queen among battle axes.
He grinned. Nice eyes and a nice smile. “I don’t know if we’ll being seeing each other that often.”
“Call me Ellison anyway.” He wouldn’t. It was probably against regulations.
“I’m looking for Mr. Russell. Is he at home?”
His car wasn’t.
“We can check.” I unlocked the front door. “Be careful. Max ate the basket that catches the mail and I haven’t got around to replacing it. I slipped on a flyer yesterday and nearly broke my neck.” Despite my warning, I was the one who managed to kick an envelope under the bombé chest that stands in the foyer. I stooped and collected the rest of the envelopes that were splattered like paint droplets across the floor.
“Who’s Max?”
“The dog.”
On cue, Max appeared at the top of the stairs and yawned. He had the look of a dog who’d been asleep in my bed. Evil beastie.
The evil beastie trotted down the stairs and gave Detective Johnson’s crotch an exploratory sniff.
Oh dear Lord.
To his credit, Detective Johnson chuckled and scratched behind Max’s ears.
Max gave himself over to bliss and leaned against the detective’s legs.
I used to think Max was a good judge of character. But Max likes Henry, so my faith in his doggy judgment has been shaken.
I must know, what’s the naughtiest thing your dog’s ever done?
Title: The Deep End
Author: Julie Mulhern
Genre: Cozy Mystery / Women’s Fiction
Synopsis
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?
Purchase The Deep End on Amazon
About Julie Mulhern
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.
Connect with Julie: Website | Facebook
Excerpt
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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