Captive in Crete: The First Jet Wilson Cozy Mystery (Jet Wilson Cozy Mysteries Book 1) by Lyssa Stanson (phonics story books .txt) 📗

he replied. “I want only to reassure you at this distressing time.” He paused. “Of course, if I could tell the authorities that most, maybe all, of the affected parties are happy for me to act in this matter, that would be a great help.”

“I see.” She paused, poured herself a little more coffee and drank.

“I would, of course,” ventured Tassos, “charge slightly less than Adrianna. Given the circumstances.”

“Naturally.” Grandma looked up at the house, thoughtfully. “Mine is an old house. A very old house.”

Tassos followed her gaze, looking confused for a moment, then clearly caught her drift.

“Yes,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “I see that. I do indeed”

Grandma smiled. “Then you may tell the authorities that I would be happy for you to assess my property.”

* * * * *

After Tassos left, Grandma announced that she wanted to visit the kafenion. Having just finished two cups of coffee each, I was a bit bemused, but she explained that she was hoping to see Melani. Sure enough, just as we sat down, Melani appeared and plonked herself down beside us. I found myself wondering just how often this little ritual happened and determining not to let it spill over into an afternoon of raki again. I made a point of ordering extra water with my coffee.

Melani looked tired; there were dark circles beneath her eyes and her hair looked even more dishevelled than it had the previous day.

“How are you?” Grandma asked; her face softening as she took in her friend’s appearance.

“I am fine. All ok. Just a bit tired.”

“What time did the police leave?” I asked. We had left around 10pm but there were still a few people waiting to be interviewed. Some were even eating.

“Not until 2am. After they finished talking to everyone, they refused to let us close up, they were waiting for more men to arrive.”

“More men? What for?”

“To look for evidence.”

“Evidence of what?” Of course, I already knew the answer to that, I just didn’t want to believe it. Not on this beautiful island, not in the village where my grandmother lived.

“Murder.”

We sat in silence for a while whilst we absorbed this. Who could have done such a thing and how? It could only be poison, which would naturally…

“Oh my gosh, they don’t think that you had anything to do with it?” Grandma had come to the same conclusion at the same time as me.

“Of course they do. Her food came from my kitchen and how else could she have died? I am a suspect, Georgios is a suspect, my chef is a suspect. They have taken the remains of her meal away to test. I only hope it comes back empty. I cannot believe either of them could have done such a thing.

“Well, Georgios maybe.”

I almost choked on my water, “Georgios? You suspect Georgios?”

“Not suspect, no. I am just saying that he could have if he wanted to. But I am sure he did not want to.”

“He’s your cousin, isn’t he?” asked Grandma.

At that point, Hans walked by. He was dressed in long trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, despite the heat, and was wearing sturdy hiking boots. He carried a staff and had a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck. When he saw us, he changed direction and came over to where we were seated.

“Good morning ladies, a lovely day is it not?”

“Good morning Hans, I don’t think you’ve met my granddaughter, Jet? Jet, this is Hans. He lives in the next street over from me.”

“Delighted to meet you Fraulien, er, Jet, did you say? And how are you enjoying your holiday?”

“Well…” I didn’t know quite what to say to this odd question, then I remembered that Hans left the taverna just before Adrianna arrived. He didn’t know what had happened.

“You will not have heard, Hans,” broke in Melani. “Adrianna died last night. The police think she was murdered.”

Hans sat down with a thump. “Murdered? What happened?”

So we went through the events of the previous night, Hans interspersing occasionally with “mein Gott” or “ach” as we went. When we got to the point of Melani and her staff being prime suspects, he blanched slightly.

“But surely, without a motive… surely, they cannot really think…” he tailed off, no doubt thinking of the many hundreds of times he had eaten at Melani’s taverna.

“But Hans,” said Grandma, “you know as well as I do that virtually the whole village has a motive.”

“Pah! A few hundred euros, that’s not motive for murder.”

“Not for you maybe, and for some it’s much more than a few hundred!” Grandma suddenly looked embarrassed, no doubt realising she had just suggested that her best friend on the island had sufficient motive for murder.

Chapter Six – Tuesday afternoon

After that small faux pas, our little gathering quickly broke up. Hans went off on his hike and Melani went to the market to get supplies for the day. Grandma was keen to get into the hills and look for her precious Cretan Sea Pimpernel, but I was desperate to see the sea. We agreed to split up for the afternoon with Grandma dropping me at Komos beach which I could just about walk back from if we couldn’t co-ordinate our journeys home.

I had been on the back of Grandma’s motorbike before, but each time was a severe test of my nerves. I had changed into jeans and a leather jacket, putting my shorts, a baseball cap and a bottle of water into a rucksack. When I came outside, Grandma was dressed in a white denim boiler suit with the multi-coloured logo of some long-ago oil company on the back and “Stan” embroidered just above the breast pocket. I briefly wondered who Stan might be, but decided it was prudent not to ask. She had already turned the