Captive in Crete: The First Jet Wilson Cozy Mystery (Jet Wilson Cozy Mysteries Book 1) by Lyssa Stanson (best motivational books of all time .TXT) 📕

motorbike to face up the track towards the village and had the motor running. The ginger cat sat under the lemon tree, licking her paw and washing her face, studiously ignoring the fact that we were stealing her preferred seat. Grandma handed me a helmet and I climbed gingerly aboard. Once settled, I gave her a thumbs up and we set off.

Now may be a good time to mention that I’m scared of heights. I love mountains, just as long as I can stay far away from any edges, and I’m perfectly happy to walk down a hill. Just the thought of riding a bike down either, though, would have me breaking out into a cold sweat. My mind is incredibly good at conjuring up images of brakes failing or wheels locking or the whole thing just sliding out of control for no particular reason. And did I mention that Sivas is built on a hill?

Grandma rode slowly through the village – there was no alternative on the narrow streets – and knew me well enough not to speed up as we turned onto the road leading down the hill. I managed not to squeeze all the breath out of her by sheer force of will but realised I had been holding my own breath when we got to the bottom and I reflexively gulped in air. Grandma stopped at the turning and reached a hand back to pat my thigh. I wasn’t entirely sure if she was being reassuring or simply checking that I was still there.

The rest of the way was relatively flat. The bike picked up speed along the main road to Pitsidia and I started to enjoy the feeling of flying along, olive trees zipping past on either side of us. I am always surprised by the turn to Komos, it’s tiny and not well signed at all. I guess that’s why it’s not overrun by tourists even in peak season.

The road meandered downwards but at an incline too gentle to worry me, and I eagerly looked out for my first glimpse of the sea. When it came, it was as breath-taking as I remembered. Azure blue against a powder blue sky with not a cloud in sight. Small white highlights hinted at waves, but I was relieved to see they weren’t large. It could get quite windy at this time of year, making the sea dangerously rough, as the beach is long and relatively exposed. But today it was clearly going to be a perfect afternoon.

We pulled up in a dirt area used as a car park and I hopped off the bike. With a cheery wave, Grandma turned the bike and headed back towards Pitsidia.

I looked around until I found the small track leading down to the beach. There were sun loungers and umbrellas set up immediately to the left at the bottom of the track, with an open shower and a small toilet hut which I braved just long enough to change into my shorts. I stowed my jeans and jacket in my rucksack, turned right and started walking along the vast expanse of sandy beach.

As I walked, I was mainly focused on the sand around my feet. I am always on the lookout for pretty shells or shiny stones. Not much survives the rocks just beneath the waves but occasionally I find something. That day my attention was caught by a flash of purple. Crouching down, I picked up what looked like a pale purple snail shell. I had found one of these before and got overly excited thinking it must be a Murex Sea Snail shell. The Minoans farmed them to make the famous Royal Purple dye which was extremely rare – it takes thousands of snails to dye a single garment – and extremely valuable for trade. However, this was a common Janthina, beautiful but useless.

I cast it aside and straightened up, looking ahead towards the rocky outcrop separating Komos beach from Kalamaki beach. The rocks extend out into the sea and are difficult to climb over – I know, I’ve tried. As I gazed, a man was attempting the climb coming from Kalamaki to Komos and I stopped walking to watch.

His brightly coloured shorts and t-shirt identified him as a tourist. I was too far away to make out what he wore on his feet, but it certainly wasn’t hiking boots. He had made it over the ridge and was gingerly lowering himself down from rock to rock, carefully edging sideways now and again to reach a clearer route. A couple of times he slipped, and I gasped in sympathy, but he managed to stop himself falling each time. Finally, he got to the last level of rocks and stood up straight for the final hop down. He nonchalantly stepped down, and even from this distance I could see how proud of himself he was. The moment was shattered, however, when he immediately tripped over a large stone on the beach and fell flat on his face. A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it and I hoped I was far enough away that he wouldn’t notice. I resumed my walk as he picked himself up and started walking in my direction.

You know how it is when you’re walking directly towards someone. You don’t want to be rude and stare at them, but you don’t want to be rude and obviously ignore them either. But when is the right time to nod or say good morning? How long is it polite to maintain eye contact before and after the greeting? It’s a minefield. And changing route to pass them at a greater distance is no good either – too obvious. I settled for the look and look away method but as we got nearer, he started to look vaguely familiar. There was something about the flop of sandy hair coupled with an almost military upright posture