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

“You have a beautiful house,” I said.

“Thank you,” he smiled for possibly the first time since I met him. “I designed it myself. Both floors are the same area, but the top floor is set back, giving the balcony at the front and this covered patio at the back. I can sit in sun or shade as I wish depending on the weather.”

“And is the floor area measured on just the building, or does it include the patio?”

“Just the building, that is the beauty of it. More living space, less cost.”

“Very clever.” I wondered whether Adrianna had agreed with that or if the fee Hans had to pay was for much more than just a half metre on the bathroom and a metre on the kitchen.

Hans took a cookie and started munching.

“Mmm, delicious,” he said, “But…”

He peered into the cookie where his teeth had bitten into it.

“Is that a… a peanut?”

“Yes,” I paused as a horrible thought hit me. “You’re not allergic, are you?”

“No, no. But if I was, you might already have killed me.”

My stomach did a somersault. I wasn’t sure whether to be horrified or relieved. He was right, of course. And peanut allergies were not that rare. I resolved to be more careful in future.

“I’d have thought anyone with a serious allergy would have asked first,” I said with a little shudder.

“Yes,” he said, looking at his cookie, thoughtfully. “You would think so.”

That rather killed the mood, so I didn’t stay much longer. Just finished my coffee, made my excuses and left.

As I walked home, I decided it had gone pretty well. I needed to find out about the house area and whether it really did exclude the patio. If not, maybe Hans had been lying about the “few hundred euros” and had a much greater motive for murder. I had no idea how to find that out but maybe Aristede would.

The thought of him dampened my mood. We had been getting on so well until he accused my grandmother of murder. Now I wasn’t sure how I felt about him, or how he felt about me. Could I talk to him about what I was finding out? Or would he just dismiss me as delusional about Grandma? Or, worse, think I was trying to obstruct justice. Maybe he would toss me in jail. No, I needed to work this out for myself.

I decided that the visit had gone well enough that it was worth repeating. I had enough cookies left that I could take some to Spiros and see if he would be as hospitable. I knew where he was staying from when Matt and I dropped him off after giving him a lift from Pitsidia. Decision made, I picked up my step.

* * * * *

The small complex of rent-rooms was quiet when I arrived, plate of cookies in hand. The entry was through a stone arch with beautiful wrought-iron gates that stood invitingly open. Six doors faced into a large courtyard with a bougainvillea in full bloom planted in the centre in what looked like it might have been an old well. Spiros’ room was to the left, in the corner and I went up and knocked, fixing my face into a neighbourly smile.

No answer. It was unlikely he just hadn’t heard me given how small the rooms were, but I knocked again, a little louder, just in case.

 Still no response. I looked around the courtyard. No-one and nothing stirred and, from where I stood, I couldn’t see the street outside. I hoped that meant no-one in the street could see me, although I hadn’t seen anyone out and about on my way here. I gently tried the handle of Spiros' door. To my utter amazement, it opened.

I hesitated. This wasn’t breaking and entering, the door was unlocked. And if anyone found me here, I could say I was looking for paper to write a note to leave with the cookies. With my mind made up, I entered the room.

Clearly there was either no housekeeping or they hadn’t been yet. The bed was unmade, covers thrown half onto the floor. Spiros’ suitcase sat opened in one corner only partly unpacked. Folded clothes sat neatly in the bottom with socks and t-shirts laying crumpled on top of them.

I looked round for somewhere to set the cookies and was delighted to see a stack of papers and a laptop on the chest of drawers that sat just behind the door. I set the cookies down and picked up the pile of papers.

I started to quickly flick through them. The top ones were all in Greek and I couldn’t read them let alone understand them. Then bingo. A print-out of an email. The header was in Greek but the message itself was English. I just had time to see who it was addressed to and to read the first line of the message before the door opened.

Spiros and I jumped in unison. The papers flew up in the air and scattered around the room, slowly floating down to earth as we gazed at each other.

“What is this?” Spiros demanded and then, looking around the room, started picking up his papers.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, bending to help in the task and looking desperately for the English email. “I was, er, looking for some paper to write a note.”

I spotted the email just as Spiros grabbed it and we both stood.

I reached behind me and picked up the plate from the chest of drawers. “I brought you some cookies.”

“What? Why?”

“Oh, well, er.” I hadn’t really thought that through, I realised. He wasn’t a neighbour like Hans, I barely knew him.

“I’m calling the police,” he said. He had collected up all the papers and now fished a phone out of