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

“This,” said Grandma with an arched brow, “is my granddaughter. Jet meet Georgios, Georgios meet Jet.”

“Ah no. Granddaughter? Not possible. You are far too young to have any but the tiniest grandchildren!”

Grandma laughed and batted Georgios playfully on the arm.

“Georgios is a terrible flirt,” she informed me.

“Not to be silly – I am very good flirt,” he said, laughing with her. “What table you want? Any of them, I will move whoever is sitting there for you.”

“Now you’re being silly,” said Grandma. “That empty one at the back will do nicely.”

Georgios took us to the table and handed us thick menus with a flourish before spotting another couple, tourists by the look of them, peering into the taverna. He hurried off, promising to be back to take our order soon.

Grandma plonked her menu down unopened and immediately started to talk.

“You see that Greek family over there? With the three teenage girls? That’s Tassos and his family.”

“Tassos?” I knew we had talked about a Tassos that afternoon, but I was struggling to remember much.

“The local inspector. The one who hasn’t got the business in Sivas. You can see he looks a bit sour.”

I looked across and saw a man I guessed to be in his fifties, dark hair streaked with grey but practically bald on top. He must have been quite short because the woman next to him was a whole head taller whilst seated. She looked very well turned out. Blond hair piled high on her head, a large gold necklace about her throat and clothes that looked expensive to me – although most clothes cost more than the ones I wore; a temp’s income doesn’t stretch to much other than Primark, even in banking. Two of the three daughters were clones of the mother, but the third looked more like her father. Although dressed similarly, she looked morose and slouched at the table. I could hardly blame her, with her mother and sisters.

Grandma followed my gaze. “She’s the one most likely to follow Tassos into the business but they’re all destined for university. At least if their mother gets her way. And if Tassos can afford it.”

As I looked, my gaze was caught by another man, sitting alone. He was extremely thin with grey hair cut short against his head and quite startling blue eyes in his tanned face. There was no food in front of him, just an almost empty wine carafe and a glass. As I watched, Georgios approached him and said something. There was a bit of arm waving, but I couldn’t hear what was said and then Georgios left and went across the road to the kitchen. The man got up, threw a few euros onto the table, and left.

“That’s odd,” I said, “To see a tourist alone at dinner, I mean.”

“Oh, that’s not a tourist, that’s Hans.”

I laughed, “Hans doesn’t sound very Greek. He doesn’t look very Greek either.”

“That’s because he’s German. He moved here a couple of years ago. Retired, you know. His wife died not long after so he’s alone. We all thought he’d go back to Germany, but he stayed.”

“We?”

Grandma looked at me as though I were mad. “The locals, of course.”

“Ah, yes, of course.”

“He’s settled in well though. Eats out most nights and is scrupulously fair with the tavernas. A different one every night, in strict rotation. Keeps the money flowing and everyone’s happy.”

“He didn’t look very happy.”

“Well no, his house is illegal too.”

Just then Melani and Georgios came hurrying across the road, Melani carrying a flapping paper tablecloth in one hand and a set of cutlery in the other. They descended onto the recently vacated table and Georgios hefted it up and moved it to the very front, by the road. He then shuffled two tables out of the way – interrupting the diners seated there – to make a prime space for the empty table. He then whisked the used tablecloth off for Melani to sweep the new one into its place and lay the cutlery down and then both rushed back across the road, completely ignoring the grumbling diners who had been so unceremoniously moved.

“I didn’t think he meant it, about moving people off a table so we could have it. Does this happen often?” Melani and Georgios had looked frantic rather than welcoming during the move, and I can’t imagine the inconvenienced diners would be returning after tonight.

“Not like that. Sometimes in high season they get more tables out or move them around to accommodate a large party. But I’ve never seen them actually move people whist they’re eating before.”

Then it all became clear. Melani came into the seating area with Adrianna and showed her to the now prime table. Adrianna looked around, as though deciding if this position were adequate, and then sat down, took out a cigarette and began to smoke. Georgios appeared from nowhere with an ashtray and a menu, which he placed reverently on the table in front of her, and then disappeared again. Melani stayed, speaking to Adrianna and gesturing towards the specials board. She was practically bowing and scraping but Adrianna picked up the menu and ignored her. Melani gamely finished her spiel and then came over toward us, notepad in hand.

“What would you like?” Melani was tight-lipped, nothing of the friendly, cheerful lady I had seen this morning.

“Melani,” said Grandma, “was that really necessary? Do you think alienating your customers will help?”

Melani gave Grandma a hard look and then, with a sigh, she visibly relaxed.

“I don’t know. But what else can I do?”

“Surely there’s someone you can appeal to. A higher authority?” I asked.

“Ahh, you are in Greece, my sweet. I cannot afford to appeal. It would be