Page 48 of The Burnt
Charlie went back to the image of the real estate agent, Mark Tupper. If Milo had escaped to California with his mother’s help, could he have changed his name? Tupper had a large social media presence with accounts on Instagram, X, Threads and Facebook, but there was no mention of familial relations. His accounts were strictly for business.
Charlie looked at the mess of loose threads. He stood and wandered over to Mrs B’s desk.
She looked up at him, staring over the top of her glasses. “Yes? May I help you?”
Charlie cocked his head. “Need any help?”
“No,” she answered.
“Coffee?”
“Don’t you have a crime to solve?” she asked.
“To be honest, I’m not having much luck.”
She shrugged. “Sometimes you have to use the three Ps of good detective work.”
Charlie frowned.I don’t remember them covering that in my PI course.“What are they, Mrs B?”
“Patience, politeness and perseverance…and a bit of dumb luck doesn’t hurt, either. I’ve got filing to do, so…”
Mrs B stared at him for a moment. “Go,” she said as she pointed back to his desk.
Charlie went back to his computer and was surprised to discover that the writer of the article had already emailed back.
So, you’re interested in Michelle Hoffman? Now why would a private investigator from Canada be wanting to interview that kook? Too many possibilities are rolling around in my head at the thought. She has no internet or phone. She thinks that having a cell phone is “giving into the corporate MAN” so you’ll have to contact her by mail care of the general post office.
Good luck. You’re going to need it.
Charlie sighed. This was going nowhere. It might be easier to send a message to Mark Tupper, the potential candidate for Simon’s Milo. Charlie opted for the plain simple truth with this one.
I am acting on behalf of Simon Griffin of Banff, Alberta, Canada, former husband of Michelle Coleman Hoffman. He is trying to locate his long-lost son. Contact me if you have any information.
After typing the message, Charlie reread it. The only thing missing was something identifying Charlie as an African prince with a hefty inheritance that he wanted to share.
He considered what Mrs B had said then added the word ‘please’ to the final sentence. After all, it never hurt to be polite.
Charlie pressed ‘send’, then announced “I’m going out, Mrs B. It’s time to utilise the fourth “P” of good detective work.”
Mrs B frowned. “And that is?”
Charlie smiled. “Pastries,” he said, then headed down the stairs.
When he got to Gwen’s café, he opened the door a little too hard. She looked up quickly.
“Sorry,” Charlie said.
He plunked himself down at a window seat and stared out into space.
Charlie heard the familiar sound of the espresso machine and milk steamer, then the glass door of the pastry cabinet sliding open and closed.
Gwen placed a latte andpain au chocolatin front of him, walked away then returned with her mug, taking the seat across from him. “What’s Declan done this time?”
“Nothing. I mean he’s done tons of things, but nothing wrong. He treats me like gold. He’s been really supportive of me getting my PI licence.”
“So what’s wrong?” Gwen asked.
“Me—that’s the problem. I feel like sometimes I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
