Greta's Greatest Gift

Nothing stood out about Greta. She lived in a little cottage with a welcoming glow in the windows. She seemed to lead a quiet existence. She kept her house tidy and did all her own chores. She was vivacious for an eighty-year-old, but not to the point in raised any eyebrows. She kept up the habit her mother had taught her, of baking a loaf of bread each day. She’d grown up in the Great Depression and she knew how to squeeze the best value out of a dollar. Her kitchen was simple, but it was always sparklingly clean. The aroma of bread browning in the oven filled the whole household. She had plenty of friends that dropped in for tea. She served them jam on bread and hot, milky tea. They never wanted to leave again; they were so taken in by her charming home and the warmth of her presence. It felt like a hug to an affection-starved soul.

Most of Greta’s friends were friends she had had for decades. They had grown up in that very town. People didn’t tend to move around as much then, unless they had an unavoidable reason to do so. She’d known them in every stage of life, and they had inseverable bonds; but one of Greta’s friends was new. She had only known Marsha for a year or two. She was notably younger than her and she inspired interest from the surrounding community, because no one could quite figure out why she was there. However, they knew just how predictably kind Greta was. They supposed she must have been a niece of hers or a more distant family member that didn’t bear any resemblance to Greta.

Marsha tended to arrive after dark more often than in daylight. She didn’t cause as much of a stir in the close-knit community whenever she did that. She could sneak into the cottage and talk to Greta in peace, shielded by the heavy, plush curtains. They talked all night, and Marsha often wondered when Greta slept and why she could do without it at her age. She had more energy than all the kids in the neighbourhood combined.

Marsha pulled an envelope from her bag. She opened it in a way that made Greta brighten with excitement. Their next assignment had arrived. Greta loved the firm. She’d built it out of her own imagination, and it performed well. She didn’t tell people she knew that she was a private investigator. She didn’t want the neighbours to know what she was up to. She knew all too well how nosy people could be and that was the kind of late-life career choice that would prompt questions. Greta was brought up to believe that you shouldn’t ask someone questions unless the person chose to bring the subject up first, but she noticed that many others hadn’t received that instruction. By the dim light of the fire, she opened the envelope and began to read. Her eyes were sharp for her age. She didn’t like having to play the part of the ailing pensioner. She was anything but vulnerable. She could have run circles around most of the police force, but being an elderly bread-baking neighbourly type that pruned plants and performed small acts of kindness allowed her to live two lives, and that suited her. She kept her privacy and people assumed that she was just a regular grandmother.

She skim-read the letter. It was from a lady that suspected her abducted sister was murdered by a family member, but the case had gone cold a long time ago. Greta sank back into her luxuriously soft cushions. She loved the supple seat on which she had got to the bottom of so many crimes and injustices. She spotted the details others missed; even skilled professionals that had badges and thought they had more brains than she did. She knew when to be quiet and when to observe. That was the secret of her success.

Marsha got up and added another log to the smouldering fire. She prodded it with the poker, and it flared up, roaring with satisfaction. Marsha felt the shivers leave her skin. She’d walked there on foot – for a mile in the depths of Winter. Once she got inside Greta’s cottage, she never wanted to leave again. It was deliciously homely, and she felt like she was spending time with her own cherished but departed grandmother. She’d had eyes like an eagle too and she spent a lot of time in quiet observation, but she could cut through a conversation with a single sentence. She was as sharp as a serrated knife. Marsha smiled at Greta as she watched her studying the letter. She read and reread it with a precision that people didn’t tend to approach tasks with anymore. Marsha worked in a secretarial role that bored her on a daily basis, so she’d sought out something exciting on the side. Little did she know she’d end up being the sidekick to an eighty-year old private investigator – and one that had solved plenty of cases abandoned by the police.

“We have to take this one on,” exclaimed Greta. “I can’t wait to sink my teeth into it.”

“Even though you have dentures?” Marsha teased.

“My dentures are sharper than most people’s original set,” she said, laughing to herself.

That sense of humour was what made working with her such a delight. She had the ability to switch from serious investigator to humorous friend to kind, old bread-baking grandmother, and she never got tired. Marsha hoped she’d be as vivacious at that stage of life.

The woman that had disappeared was only twenty years old and she was presumed missing by choice. The police had labelled her a runaway and given up on finding her years before. Greta turned the photo of the woman over in her hand, looking for writing on the back. No one really did that anymore, but someone had scrawled her name with a heart beside it. The heart had a jagged crack down the middle, and it was dated before the date of death. She was smiling in the photo; she had no idea what was coming to her then. Greta had always loved a good detective novel; the kind of thing you could dive into without budging an inch from your toasty armchair. Getting to solve real-life cases was her life’s dream and at the age of eighty, she realised, it was never too late to become someone else. She’d find the truth about the woman in the photo, and she thought she’d already found the first clue on the back of that photo. She decided to look into it the next morning, and then she’d make a loaf of her honey oat bread and finish the weeding.

“It’s miraculous – the amount you get down. I hope I’m as lively at your age,” her next-door neighbour would say.

“You have no idea,” she’d think to herself, and then with a smile, she’d offer them some of her best batch of bread.