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) 📕

around her. Over her shoulder, I could see Aristede approaching the tall, dark lady and speaking low in Greek to her. Whatever he was saying seemed to be calming her down and, when she spoke back, she seemed to be mollified. Finally, she gave a nod and walked off down the track towards the road.

Meanwhile, Grandma’s hug had metamorphosed into a little jig, turning me slowly around so I lost sight of Aristede. Suddenly she stopped with her hug and said, “Oh my!”

Grandma is shorter than me but could still, just about, see over my shoulder and had clearly caught a proper sight of Aristede.

“I thought you were planning on staying single for a while,” she said, “But I don’t blame you for changing your mind.”

She let go of me completely and approached Aristede. “Sheila Jones, Jet’s grandmother. So pleased to meet you,” she said, extending her hand.

Aristede dutifully took it and then, rather than shaking it, he raised it to his lips and kissed it.

“Aristede Theodopulous at your service. I understand I’m a little late, but welcome to our island.” I had never seen my grandmother blush before but, clearly there’s a first time for everything.

“Won’t you come in for a cool drink?” she simpered. Well, I thought it was simpering, I’m sure she thought she was being charming. Grandma believes in “True Love” – especially for her grandchildren – and she’ll go to all sorts of lengths to make it happen. A cool drink was as nothing to what she might do next.

“Aristede needs to go,” I blurted out. “Er, he’s a terribly busy man and I can’t possibly take up any more of his time.”

I was expecting him to argue but he simply said “Yes, unfortunately I do have things that need my attention.” He made no move to go, however. He simply stood staring at me as though lost in thought. His deep brown eyes held mine until I felt myself go very warm. I thought he might kiss me, and my lips parted; my breathing increased. I felt myself lean slightly towards him but then the spell was broken. He held out his hand for me to shake it, said a brief “Goodbye Jet. Enjoy your holiday,” and set off back up the track.

Grandma and I both stood silently watching him go.

“Well,” she said at last, “I must say. Let’s go and get that drink then.” We made our way down the path and I took a seat under the pergola while Grandma went in for the lemonade.

As I sat, drinking in the scent of jasmine from a nearby pot, an old lady in black popped her head over the wall adjoining the next property. She rattled off a string of Greek, smiling at me all the while.

“Kalimera sas,” I ventured in my best Greek. I was just wracking my brains trying to remember how to say, “I’m English and I don’t speak Greek.” When she popped back down again, and Grandma appeared with two large glasses full of lemonade and ice.

I was expecting a grilling about Aristede, so I got my defence in first and asked about the tall, dark lady Grandma had been arguing with.

“Oh, that’s Adrianna Thalassa. She’s a housing inspector from Athens, though she grew up here. She’s legalising the houses in Sivas.”

“What do you mean, legalising?”

“Making sure the building matches the planning permission, and, where it doesn’t, setting the ‘fee’ to get it sorted. It’s the first step towards getting all the properties onto a new Land Registry.”

“What’s wrong with the old one?” I quipped as I sipped the refreshingly tart lemonade – home made of course, from Grandma’s own lemons.

“There isn’t one,” she replied. “With all the invasions and occupations, Crete is quite far behind the rest of Europe. I must take you to Vori.”

Grandma often goes off at a tangent. The question is whether to go with the flow or try to bring her back on track. I chose the latter.

“But you’ll be fine. You only bought the house a few years ago, it must be legal, or it would have shown up during the search.”

“That’s what I thought.” Grandma’s face turned grim. “It appears that it’s perfectly legal to buy and sell an illegal house. And that woman is trying to insist that my house is not legal.”

I looked around. The main house was a traditional village house with thick stone walls that had clearly been standing for decades, if not centuries. There was a small extension to one side that housed a modern bathroom and a shed to the other that looked almost as old as the house itself.

“I guess the bathroom is fairly new but how would there be planning permission for the main house? If there ever were records, I can’t imagine they would have survived.”

“No, there aren’t any, but there’s an exemption for anything that pre-dates 1935 which she agrees my house does. However, because the roof looks new, she’s insisting on treating it as a new build. Apparently, ‘they’ will check her findings by satellite pictures, and it looks new from above. Stupid woman!” Grandma fairly hissed the last words; I’d never seen her so upset. But then, I guessed there could be a lot of money involved and Grandma wasn’t rich.

I decided to change the subject, hoping she would calm down. “What’s in Vori?” I asked.

“The ethnological museum, I must take you there.”

“Is that the one with the ‘fascinating display of basket weaving’ on the second floor?”

“Yes, that one. But it’s ridiculous.”

“It is?” I can’t say as I was riveted by the idea of basket weaving through the ages but “ridiculous” seemed a bit excessive.

“Of course. You can fix your roof without needing planning permission. Surely the powers on high can understand that.”

“No pun intended, eh?” I quipped.