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) 📕

“But was it? Or was that just what he told you? To throw off suspicion maybe?”

“You know, you’re not bad at this. Are you a secret mystery reader?”

He looked embarrassed. I’m not sure why, he knew I read them. Maybe he thought they weren’t appropriate for a high-flying banker. Maybe that’s why I never got far at work. The thought depressed me slightly but then I remembered that, actually, I hated my work and didn’t want to spend even more time at it. Temping enabled me to take plenty of time off. The thought of being able to spend as long as I liked here rather than only being able to spend a week here once a year was enough to lighten my spirits back up.

“We mustn’t forget Georgios. He works for Melani but he’s also her cousin and Grandma says he’s due to inherit the taverna. Certainly he’d be out of a job if it shut.”

“Ok, next.”

“Hmm, I think that’s it for now. I guess there are others in the village that Adrianna would be assessing, but that’s all I know of yet.”

We finished our beers then walked slowly back along the beach. When we got to the track leading off to the car park, we came to a halt.

“Well, this is me,” Matt said.

“Really?” I replied. “I thought you came from Kalamaki.”

“I did. But before I came from there, I went to there.”

“You mean you climbed over those rocks twice? Blimey!”

He laughed. “They’re not too bad. It’s the flip-flops that make them dicey. If I’d had my climbing shoes with me, I’d be hoping over them like a mountain goat. Well, like a slightly more stable human perhaps.”

“Ah yes, I remember, you’re a rock-climber, aren’t you? Is that why you’re here? I’ve seen people climbing in the gorge.”

“There is some fantastic climbing in this area.”

“Where are you staying?” A plan was beginning to form in my mind.

“Matala.”

“Brilliant! Could you possibly give me a lift to Pitsidia? It’s on your way and that takes a chunk off my journey. Sivas is an easy walk from there.”

“Yes, of course. But I can take you all the way, it’s not like I have anywhere in particular to be this evening.”

“Are you sure? That would be fantastic.”

“No problem.”

We made our way to the car park and Matt led me to a white jeep with a rental sign on the driver’s door. I was expecting a rock-hard seat and air-con via open windows, but the inside was surprisingly comfy and, within a minute of Matt starting the engine, I felt the cool breeze of a very efficient air-con system.

Just after we’d turned onto the main road, a man walking up ahead of us turned to look and then stuck out his thumb in the age-old gesture.

He looked Greek, with dark hair and olive skin, but he wasn’t dressed for the weather and definitely not for walking in the heat of the day. He was wearing a fawn-coloured suit, the jacket looped over his arm, and a white shirt. His plain grey tie was still fastened securely at his neck and he was dragging an expensive looking carry-on suitcase behind him.

“Do you mind?” Matt asked me. “He looks like a man in need.”

“Please do. There but for the grace of Matt Butler, go I.”

Matt slowed down and pulled to a stop as we reached him then lowered the window. “Where are you headed?”

“Sivas. Do you know where that is?” His English was accented but perfect.

“Yes, in fact we’re headed there now. Hop in.”

That was easier said than done, however. The jeep had only two doors, so I hopped out and quickly found the lever to lean my seat forward. Looking in the back, one of the seats was folded down to increase the luggage space and the other, though upright and ready for a passenger, was tiny. I looked at the man. He was easily six foot to my five foot five if I stretched, and so I quickly hopped into the back and pulled the front seat back into position. He climbed in with a nod of thanks to me, and we set off.

There were brief introductions – his name was Spiros Thalassa and he was from Athens – then he regaled us with a tale of an incompetent taxi driver who had first taken him to Siva in the north, then, after some discussion of where exactly Sivas was, to Matala; after which they had argued about the extra cost and Spiros had been unceremoniously dumped by the side of the road.

We listened sympathetically, and then Matt inadvertently asked the killer question.

“What brings you to Crete?”

There was a brief pause of uncomfortable silence. “Well, my wife was here on business and she died.”

“Oh my Gosh!” I caught myself just in time, and managed to say, “I’m so sorry for your loss,” instead of “You’re the victim’s husband, I must put you on my suspect list.”

“I think I knew your wife,” I said, “Briefly that is. Adrianna was it?”

“Yes, that’s right. Do you have property in Sivas?”

“My grandmother does.” For some reason, I decided not to mention that we were in the taverna when Adrianna died. “Do you have children?”

“No. My wife… that is, we decided against children. Two careers in the family made it difficult. Of course, I’m glad of that now. Less complications.”

“Complications?”

“Well, er… with the travel here, and grief I suppose.”

I was pondering this rather strange turn in the conversation when Spiros’s phone rang. He looked at the screen briefly and, with a mumbled “excuse me” answered it. He spoke soothingly in Greek whilst the person on the other end was not being soothed at all. I