The Grave Soul by Ellen Hart Page B

back in the car, Jane commented on Cordelia’s change of attire. Instead of the cape and Cossack boots, she was wearing a buffalo-plaid hunting jacket, black jeans, and a Batman T-shirt. “Where’d you get the T-shirt?” asked Jane.
    â€œYou think I’m going to tell you that? So you can run right out and buy one for yourself? No way, dearheart. This is my fashion statement.”
    Jane was a bit nonplussed to think Cordelia thought of her as the Batman-T-shirt-type.
    â€œDid you try out your bed?” asked Cordelia.
    â€œNever thought about it.”
    â€œWell, mine’s lumpy.”
    â€œYou have terrible luck with motel beds.”
    â€œOnly in fleabags.”
    â€œThis isn’t a fleabag.”
    â€œJust because they’ve put down some new carpet and added a few, may I say hideous, pieces of new furniture, doesn’t mean this place doesn’t qualify for fleabag status. In fact, I may start giving fleabag star ratings. One flea. Two fleas. You get the picture. We seem to stay in so many when we’re off in search of evildoers.”
    â€œYou sound like George Bush.”
    â€œAh, the halcyon days, when I was driving that Hummer and thought if I pressed the wrong button, I might end up launching a missile.”
    Jane had never understood Cordelia’s Hummer period. It was best left buried in the mists of time.
    â€œWhere are we going?” asked Cordelia, fiddling with the heat.
    â€œForty-nine Amberwood Trail. Delia and Kevin’s old house.”
    â€œThe scene of the crime.”
    â€œOne of them,” said Jane.
    Driving up a fairly steep hill to the house, Jane parked her CR-V in the unplowed driveway. The home was two stories, covered in weathered wood shakes, and had obviously seen better days. The green paint around the doors and windows was peeling, and the screens were old, rusty, and full of holes. There were a few other houses around, but all were at least a block away and none as close to the ravine.
    â€œDo you think anyone’s living here?” asked Cordelia, peeking in the window of the one-stall garage.
    â€œLooks pretty derelict to me.”
    They tramped through snow to the rear of the house, where they found a chain-link fence preventing anyone from gaining access to the ravine.
    â€œI wonder if the fence was here when Delia fell,” said Jane.
    â€œI can’t imagine building a house this close to something so dangerous without a fence,” said Cordelia. “Seems like it would be a kid magnet.” She shuddered.
    Jane was surprised by how rugged and steep the ravine was. Turning back to the house, she studied the deck. Like the rest of the place, it was in rough shape. Several of the upright posts had broken off. “Makes you wonder why the murderer needed to strangle her. Just pushing her off would have done the trick. If she didn’t die immediately, the subzero temperatures would have finished her.”
    â€œYou saying the strangulation was overkill?” asked Cordelia.
    â€œI think it shows rage. Makes me wonder about premeditation.” Jane took a few photos with her cell phone.
    â€œMust have been hard to haul her body up, especially in the ice and snow,” said Cordelia, shivering.
    Studying the angles, Jane concluded that if Delia had dropped from the deck like a rock, she would have landed ten to fifteen feet down the incline. If there’d been any force at all, if she’d been ejected, she could easily have landed twenty or thirty feet down. With all the trees and rocks, there was no possible soft landing.
    â€œOkay, we’ve seen it,” said Cordelia, tugging on Jane’s arm. “Let’s get out of here. Where to next?”
    â€œThe town library.”
    â€œWhat do you expect to find there? Besides books and librarians?”
    â€œHave patience and all will be revealed.”
    *   *   *
    They spent the next half hour scoping out