Free The Buck Stops Here by Mindy Starns Clark Page B

information for Chalfont Vacation Homes in Richmond. They connected me right away, and when a woman answered, I asked for the agent who handled 4839 Randall Road. After a moment, a woman picked up, identifying herself as “Misty.”
    “How can I help you today?” she asked cheerily.
    “My name is Callie Webber,” I said, “and I’m a private investigator. I need to ask you a few questions about a rental property you handle at 4839 Randall Road, near Riverside.”
    “Yes? Is there a problem with the house?”
    “No, ma’am,” I said. “This is regarding an incident that happened several years ago. An accidental death involving a man who was staying at that house at the time.”
    “He died in the house?”
    I pinched the area between my eyes.
    “No, the man was staying in the house. The death happened nearby. On the river.”
    “Oh. Okay. What do you need to know?”
    I tried to make my voice sound nonchalant, though I knew that what I was asking for was probably against the rules for her to give.
    “I need the name that the house was registered under at that time.” I gave her the date; she repeated it back to me and then asked me to hold on.
    While I waited, I tried to decide what I would do once I heard the inevitable, that the house had been rented under the name “Tom Bennett.” I had nearly convinced myself that this was the case, that Tom felt responsible for Bryan’s death because he had coordinated the vacation that had brought his friend James Sparks to the house, to the river. That wouldn’t explain all of the weirdness, all of the secrecy, behind my meeting with Tom and the lawyer, but at least it would give him a tangible claim for guilt—and a starting place for me to begin finding forgiveness.
    “Miss Webber?” Misty said.
    “Mrs. Yes?”
    “I’m sorry, but this is odd. I can’t tell you who rented the house that week.”
    “I know it’s probably against the rules, but it’s just a simple request that would save me an enormous amount of—”
    “No, you don’t understand. If you’re an investigator, I don’t mind telling you what you need to know. But that week isn’t in the files.”
    “What do you mean?” I asked, feeling the skin prickle along my neck.
    “I checked the paper file and the computer. The house was occupied on that date, but under the place where it tells you the name and the address of the person who rented it, it’s been deleted.”
    “Deleted?”
    “Deleted in the computer. And in the paper files, that page is missing. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
    First the police file, now the real estate file. My mind raced.
    “I wonder if you could tell me the agent who would’ve handled the rental.”
    “Gosh, we’re a big place. It could’ve been anybody.”
    “But at the time there was a tragic death, an accident on the river. The speedboat that rents with the house ran into someone in the water and killed him. The boat was impounded by the police and all of that. Surely someone there would remember.”
    “Wow. I wasn’t here then. Hold on. Let me see if Trudy knows.”
    This time I was on hold for so long I was afraid my cell phone battery might die. While I waited, I nervously cleaned out the little basket that sat between the two front seats of my SUV.
    “Hello? Maybe I can help you,” a different woman said finally, coming onto the line. “I remember all that. It was real sad. Just tragic.”
    “Yes.”
    “Our insurance company handled the situation with the widow’s lawyers.”
    “Who handled the matter on your end, in your office?”
    “I did. Man, what a brouhaha we had with that boat afterward. It was impounded by the police, you see, and we had to get it back and then get it repaired. We lost a lot of money in the meantime.”
    I held my tongue, thinking, Some of us lost a lot more than money.
    “See, the boat is a big draw for that house,” she continued, oblivious. “A lot of people rent the house just to get the free boat that