Free THE DEEP END by Julie Mulhern Page A

preferred a horse-faced woman to his own wife, that he only found me attractive if he could humiliate me, that I was about as desirable as a flat tennis ball. I scratched my nose. “I will.”
    Libba crossed her arms and leaned back against the polished cherry of the dining chair. “Don’t try lying to the police. You’re terrible at it.”
    “How can you tell I’m lying?”
    Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her hand to her face and scratched her nose.
    If my friends could determine my tell, chances were good Detective Jones could too. I needed to find something to do with my hands when my nose itched. Especially since I had a sinking feeling I’d be lying a lot in the coming days.
    Nine

      
    When I got home from lunch, I parked Roger’s car on the street, hid his keys under the floor mat and strolled up the drive, stopping to examine my flattened hostas. Mother was sure to notice and when she did, she’d want a full explanation. The thought of telling her about finding Roger Harper drunk on my front stoop or, even worse, about my ill-considered trip to Club K sent me walking past the front door to the garden shed. Perhaps some fertilizer would help.
    A sleepy-eyed Max met me in the backyard.
    I scratched behind his ear and he leaned into me as if he needed my support to stay upright. “What are you doing out?”
    Of course, he didn’t answer. He just yawned, a huge one that afforded me a full view down his doggy throat.
    Max wasn’t supposed to be out alone. His relentless pursuit of squirrels and rabbits had led him over and under fences. We’d replaced the Johnson’s hydrangeas and the Smith’s lavender and our own boxwoods more than once. It led to a house rule— Max shall not be left unattended in the backyard. Grace was usually pretty good about keeping an eye on him. I wondered where she was.
    The back door stood open. I stepped into the kitchen and called her name.
    She didn’t answer.
    I walked into the front hall and yelled louder, “Grace.”
    Nothing.
    The door to my husband’s study was ajar. Had he come home? If he had, I had quite a bit I wanted to say to him. “Henry?”
    I heard something. The shift of weight on old floorboards? The creak of an old house? What I didn’t hear was the sound of my husband’s voice. A slow shiver traveled the length of my spine.
    “Max,” I called the dog to my side. He didn’t come. I glanced over my shoulder. He’d followed me into the kitchen and collapsed on the floor.
    The shiver turned into a shudder and my chest felt tight, too small to contain the beating of my heart.
    I took a tiny step backward and then a larger one.
    Too little, too late. A figure exploded out of the study. Black shirt, black pants, a bit of hosiery covering the face and the dull glint of a brass fireplace poker arcing toward me. 

      
    Love’s Baby Soft and Chanel No. 5 duked it out above my nose. Grace, Mother, and an appalling headache. I groaned.
    “Mom!” Grace sounded like she’d been crying.
    I forced my eyes open, caught a quick glimpse of her tear-stained face leaning over me then closed them again. “Too much light.”
    Love’s Baby Soft released my hand. The sound of curtains being yanked shut and a light switch being flipped followed. Meanwhile, a gentle jasmine and rose scented hand grazed my forehead. Things must be awful if Mother was being gentle.
    “Max?” My poor dog.
    “At the vet having his stomach pumped. It will take more than a handful of valium to slow that disaster on four legs down.” Mother wasn’t one of his fans. She hadn’t been since he chewed through the handle of her Hermés bag. “May I just say that burglar alarms are unaffected by sleeping pills.”
    Mother’s version of I told you so. She’d been after us for years to install an alarm, and I’d blithely promised that Max was better protection.
    I slitted my eyes. “Where am I?”
    “The hospital,” Grace said. Her voice was thick as if she had a cold or a throat