🍏 Or find this episode on Apple Podcasts
comedy noir, female detective, audiobook short story
🎧 Listen now on Spreaker
📖 Audiobook available
click image
Ginny Greaves: The Case of the Disappearing Demeanour
The man had the kind of face you wanted to slap, not hard necessarily, just repeatedly.
He stood in Ginny’s office doorway with a limp hat in his hand and an expression that suggested he'd just been accused of something, and was considering whether or not to own it.
"Hey, lady, You're Ginny Greaves?" he asked, in a tone that implied he had expected someone smaller, more feminine, and perhaps with fewer cigarette burns on the desk.
Ginny didn't look up from her crossword.
“Depends who’s asking and whether they pay on time.”
He stepped into the light like a man auditioning unexpectedly for a role he didn't understand. His name was Preston Tibb, and Ginny took an instant dislike to him, possibly because he used the word “lady ” within thirty seconds of meeting her.
“I've been the victim of a theft,” he said.
“So has every tenant on this block, but it has its plus sides, tarts, contraband, syphilis,” Ginny replied, lighting a cigarette with a matchbook from the bar downstairs. She saw barmaid's phone number handwritten on the inside and maneovred a raised a brow and a wry smile.
“What’s your flavour, jewels, jilted love, or incriminating photos?”
He hesitated. “A diary.”
Ginny blinked. “A diary?”
“Yes, a private journal. Gone. Vanished. My thoughts, my plans, my...poetry.”
Ginny stared at him flatly. “You write poetry.”
He straightened. “I dabble. It's mostly metaphors about loneliness and power tools. It's profound.”
She would’ve declined the case on principle, men who used the word “profound” to describe their own work were best avoided. But there was something in his eyes. Not sadness. Not fear. Something worse.
Humiliation.
Two days later...
The trail led Ginny to a seedy café called The Loitering Spoon, where the waitress wore a hairnet like a crown and served passive-aggression with a side of eggs.
The diary, it turned out, had not been stolen for its contents. No one wanted Preston's views on hydraulic wrenches or free verse inspired by plumbing.
No, this was personal.
Then came the red Herring: Miss Velma Vex
All signs pointed to Velma Vex, Preston’s ex-girlfriend and part-time pretender to the poetry scene. She hosted salons in her flat, where half-drunk intellectuals spoke in italics and misused Freud. She was a personality devoid lush who fawned over lyrics and syntax, but only if they were produced by eligible batchelors.
Ginny confronted her over lukewarm martinis. Summer was busy boiling us in a heatwave that meant sweat dripping and tobacco smells were spilling into the streets.
Velma shrugged. “I didn’t take his diary. I skimmed it once. It read like Allen Ginsberg fell asleep on a socket wrench.”
Ginny believed her. Velma had far too much pride to quote poetry that unpolished. Besides, Preston Tibb was declared bankrupt and had suddenly lost his looks.
The Twist: A Man Named Clive
The thief turned out to be Clive, Preston's best friend, business partner, and, as it happened, secret saboteur.
Ginny caught him in the act of reading Preston’s diary aloud at an underground cabaret, claiming it was his own tragic opus. The audience were surprisingly engaging, probably due to the enigmatic delivery that the content.
She interrupted the performance mid-verse, took the stage, and announced. "This man should be arrested,
He hesitated. “A diary.”
Ginny blinked. “A diary?”
“Yes, a private journal. Gone. Vanished. My thoughts, my plans, my...poetry.”
Ginny stared at him flatly. “You write poetry.”
He straightened. “I dabble. It's mostly metaphors about loneliness and power tools. It's profound.”
She would’ve declined the case on principle, men who used the word “profound” to describe their own work were best avoided. But there was something in his eyes. Not sadness. Not fear. Something worse.
Humiliation.
Two days later...
The trail led Ginny to a seedy café called The Loitering Spoon, where the waitress wore a hairnet like a crown and served passive-aggression with a side of eggs.
The diary, it turned out, had not been stolen for its contents. No one wanted Preston's views on hydraulic wrenches or free verse inspired by plumbing.
No, this was personal.
Then came the red Herring: Miss Velma Vex
All signs pointed to Velma Vex, Preston’s ex-girlfriend and part-time pretender to the poetry scene. She hosted salons in her flat, where half-drunk intellectuals spoke in italics and misused Freud. She was a personality devoid lush who fawned over lyrics and syntax, but only if they were produced by eligible batchelors.
Ginny confronted her over lukewarm martinis. Summer was busy boiling us in a heatwave that meant sweat dripping and tobacco smells were spilling into the streets.
Velma shrugged. “I didn’t take his diary. I skimmed it once. It read like Allen Ginsberg fell asleep on a socket wrench.”
Ginny believed her. Velma had far too much pride to quote poetry that unpolished. Besides, Preston Tibb was declared bankrupt and had suddenly lost his looks.
The Twist: A Man Named Clive
The thief turned out to be Clive, Preston's best friend, business partner, and, as it happened, secret saboteur.
Ginny caught him in the act of reading Preston’s diary aloud at an underground cabaret, claiming it was his own tragic opus. The audience were surprisingly engaging, probably due to the enigmatic delivery that the content.
She interrupted the performance mid-verse, took the stage, and announced. "This man should be arrested,
he just rhymed ‘loneliness’ with ‘power strip’. I rest my case.”
The audience looked confused. They were all five martinis in and the heat was stupefying.
Ginny told them she was arresting him for the bad poetry in the hope they would all improve by next week.
Preston Tibb returned to Ginny’s office three days later with a thank-you envelope and a revised opinion of female detectives.
Ginny accepted both, leaned back in her chair, and muttered,
“Even fools deserve justice. Especially when they can’t rhyme for toffee.”
She lit a cigarette, crossed ‘preposterous’ off her crossword, and waited for the next dingbat with a mystery to waltz in.
© 2025 Sarnia de la Mare for Tale Teller Club Publishing
Ginny told them she was arresting him for the bad poetry in the hope they would all improve by next week.
Preston Tibb returned to Ginny’s office three days later with a thank-you envelope and a revised opinion of female detectives.
Ginny accepted both, leaned back in her chair, and muttered,
“Even fools deserve justice. Especially when they can’t rhyme for toffee.”
She lit a cigarette, crossed ‘preposterous’ off her crossword, and waited for the next dingbat with a mystery to waltz in.
© 2025 Sarnia de la Mare for Tale Teller Club Publishing
