Page 21 of The Burnt (The Declan Hunt Mysteries #3)

Charlie had been sitting at his desk for hours.

He’d run internet image searches on the aged-up photos of Milo and so far he’d come up with nothing useful, unless Milo was a plumber in Iceland or a real estate agent in California.

Neither was the right age, but they did share similar facial characteristics.

“Where are you, Milo?” he asked his computer.

Charlie looked at the search results and his gaze settled on the real estate agent from California. Milo’s mother had moved back to California, maybe there was a link. Charlie pulled up his notes from Simon.

“Okay, time to move on. Michelle Coleman—let’s see what we can find out about you.”

The contact information that Simon had given Charlie was of no use. The phone number was disconnected and the address was now registered to a Tyrone Jennings.

The results of an internet search on ‘Michelle Coleman movie star’ came up quickly, though.

Michelle Hoffman, former glamour queen and starlet turned environmental activist, shares her trailer home with her two dogs, Dizzy and Bubs.

They live in the off-grid “settlement” of Slab City, three hours east of San Diego in the Salton Trough area of the Sonoran Desert.

The one-time up-and-coming movie actress, known as Michelle Coleman, was featured in such films as The Mountain and the ill-fated remake of Bus Stop in which she recreated the role of Chérie, made famous by Marilyn Monroe.

After the breakup of her third marriage with writer Mark Hoffman, she found her purpose in life—the promotion of a sustainable lifestyle.

That was definitely her. Charlie decided to send an email to the writer of the internet piece and see if he had any way of getting in touch with Michelle.

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 and pain au chocolat in 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.”

“I suppose that’s true of all of us,” she said.

“Yeah, but usually I’m really good at computer stuff, and I can talk to people—they seem to like me.

But this missing person case—I’m stumped.

I’ve run out of things to look for online and I’m not sure who else to talk to.

The kid I’m tracking has been gone for ten years, and the only person I’ve found who might be him, isn’t him…

unless he’s had plastic surgery, but I think that really only happens in the movies. ”

“So have you been to the scene of the crime?” she asked.

“I don’t think there’ll be many clues lying around after a decade.”

“Still, have you been out to the place where he was last seen?” Gwen persisted.

“Well, no,” he answered sheepishly.

“And the missing guy, did he live by himself?”

“Well, he lived with his dad, and it’s his father that’s trying to find him. There’s also a housekeeper that answers the phone…”

Gwen nodded her head. “You know, I’ve watched tons of detective shows on TV and I’ve learned a few things—housekeepers see and hear everything because their bosses don’t remember that they’re people too.

They’ve become just part of the furniture.

Okay, I’ve learned another thing—never watch murder mysteries with a cop.

They just don’t shut up about all the inaccuracies. ”

Charlie grinned. “Gwen, you’re a genius!”

He knocked back his latte, trying to stifle a scream as it scalded his throat, then picked up the pastry, gave Gwen a quick hug and ran out of the café.

Charlie bounded up the stairs to his desk and called Simon’s number.

“Griffin residence. How may I help you?”

“Yes, is Mr Griffin available? It’s Charlie Watts from Declan Hunt Investigations calling.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Watts, but Mr Griffin is unavailable at the moment. Shall I give him a message?”

“Am I speaking with Jasmine?”

“Yes.”

“Mr Griffin told me about you. I was actually hoping I could ask you a few questions, if you have time.”

“Well, I’m not sure if I—”

“I’ve been hired by Mr Griffin to investigate the disappearance of his son, Milo, ten years ago. I’ve already interviewed Mr Griffin, but if I could talk to you it would definitely help.”

A voice in Charlie’s head said, Did you visit the scene of the crime?

“Oh, and I was wondering if I could talk to you in person. Would tomorrow at one p.m. work for you?”

There was a pause at the other end of the line. “Mr Griffin did mention you. I don’t suppose it would be a problem, but Mr Griffin has a business appointment tomorrow, so he won’t be here.”

“That’s all right. Actually it’s you I’m interested in talking to you, if you don’t mind.”

“Well, I suppose that would be fine.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Let’s see if the TV murder mysteries are right.