Free The Buck Stops Here by Mindy Starns Clark Page A

alone on the road, I pulled into a nearby parking lot to study the county map. I found Randall Road and then traced with my finger the way to get there from here. I would need to cross the river and come at it from the other side.
    I followed the route I had worked out, trying to calculate how much more daylight I had left. By the time I turned onto Randall Road, I figured that the sun would probably set in about an hour. That should be plenty of time for what I needed to do.
    As I drove I thought of what Officer Robinson had told me when I asked for the address of the rental house where James Sparks had been staying at the time of the accident.
    The house is out on Randall Road, the last one just after it dead-ends, he had said, so I stayed on the road as it followed the river, and after about five miles it finally looked as if there were an end in sight. When I followed a slight rise and could see far behind me in the rearview mirror, I was glad to confirm that mine was the only car on this road.
    Randall Road petered out in a heavily wooded spot with one lone driveway shooting out from the end like a spur. Ignoring the “Private Property” signs, I turned into the driveway beside a mailbox marked “4839 Randall Road,” pulling past the screen of trees to see a big riverfront home, the lawn wide and expansive, the house itself pretty but not ostentatious. On the other side, of course, lay the river, wide and dark and slow moving.
    There were no cars here, and the place looked empty, closed up tight. Still, I drove all the way up to the house, got out, and went to the door. I knocked and rang the bell several times, but no one came. I tried peeking through the windows, but there were no lights on inside, so I couldn’t see much. What I did see looked like a typical upscale vacation rental—wide fireplace, sturdy furniture, muted tones.
    I walked around the house and noticed a graceful porch fronting the river, with a walkway leading down to a dock and an over-the-water shed. I followed the walkway to that shed, peeking inside and then catching my breath at the sight of the red cigarette boat docked there. Was it the same boat, the one that had struck Bryan and killed him? I stared hard at the waterline, near the front, but I couldn’t see any dents or marks. Of course, the accident had happened several years ago. With a nice boat like that, any damage caused by striking Bryan’s body would have been repaired by now.
    From my vantage point, I looked out at the river, trying to calculate how far this was from the scene of the accident. From what I could tell, it wasn’t far at all, maybe a quarter of a mile, just enough for the boat to pick up some speed.
    Frustrated, I headed back up the walk, taking the steps onto the front porch. There were no curtains on these windows, and I could see a little better. The place was nice inside, with a large kitchen and a table with seating for ten near the windows.
    There was something on the kitchen counter, a sort of brochure that was propped up, with the word “Welcome” printed on it. I couldn’t make out what else the thing said, so I quickly ran to the car, dug out the binoculars I had bought earlier, and came back for a better look.
    “Welcome!” the top line said in large red letters, and then in smaller letters the next line said, “We hope your stay is a pleasant one. Please read the following information.”
    There was a bulleted list of rules about things like trash disposal and recycling, and information on where different items could be found, such as “Local maps in top right drawer of credenza.” At the bottom was a small logo, with the words “Chalfont Vacation Homes, Richmond, Virginia.”
    Back in the car, I was frustrated to see that my cell phone couldn’t get service. I started up and drove back the way I had come. I finally got service once I was on the highway, so I pulled over into an abandoned gas station, left the car running, and dialed