Ginny Greaves, Private Eye Episode 2: “The Case of the Crimson Cravat” A comedy noir by Sarnia de la Mare

  

 Ginny Greaves, Private Eye

Episode 2: “The Case of the Crimson Cravat”

A comedy noir by Sarnia de la Mare

It was the kind of Thursday that started with a hangover and ended with a body, standard fare in Ginny Greaves’ line of work. The city lay in heat like a drunk under a sunlamp, sweating secrets through its alleys and air vents. From her office on the fifth floor of the Wilcox Building, Ginny had a decent view of nothing and better company with her .38, which she was cleaning with an intimacy usually reserved for lovers or stolen jewelry.

She lit a cigarette and stared at the blinking neon of the "Hotel Splendide" sign opposite, where someone was either being seduced or blackmailed, possibly both. 

Then came the knock. Taps like an SOS morse code, the kind that spelled drama in heels.

"Door’s open," Ginny called without looking up. "Unless you’re selling religion. Then it’s closed until the afterlife."

The door swung in, and in walked Lola Love, a vision in red silk and poor judgment. She had lips like war crimes and a perfume that should have been classified as a controlled substance.

"You Ginny Greaves?" she asked, voice dripping with the kind of trouble they usually bury in a shallow grave.

"That’s what it says on the frosted glass," Ginny said. "Who wants to know?"

"I’ve got a cravat," Lola said. "And a corpse. And not necessarily in that order."

The body was lying in the morgue like it was waiting for a second opinion. Doc McSwain lifted the sheet with theatrical flair.

"Strangled," he said. "With this."

He held up a red silk cravat, still knotted like it meant business.

"Imported," he added. "Very upscale. If you’re going to get murdered, might as well do it in style."

Ginny took it from him, sniffed it. "Perfume. Chanel No. 5 and… something else. Guilt."

"Know the guy?"

"Only by reputation. Barry Lionel Love. Rich, unpleasant, and possessed of a wardrobe that could strangle a small town."

Doc raised an eyebrow. "Wife brought you in?"

Ginny nodded. "Lola Love. Silk dress, loose morals, tight alibi."

The trail, as always, started lukewarm and went cold fast. Ginny followed it anyway, through a fencing academy in the East End, a florist with suspiciously blood-red roses, and a burlesque club called The Velvet Glove, where she slapped a toothy saxophonist until he coughed up a name and an address.

At one point, a mime artist tried to block her path in a silent protest.

“Outta the way, Marcel,” Ginny said, brandishing her self confidence like a judge’s gavel. “I’ve had coffee, cigarettes, and a retainer. Don’t push your luck.”

The mime dude yielded just in time.

By midnight, Ginny was standing in the marble foyer of the Love mansion. Lola met her on the stairs, red lips trembling just enough to win an Oscar.

"You’re early," she said.

"You’re guilty," Ginny replied. "Let’s not pretend either of us came here to flirt."

Lola laughed, but it cracked halfway. "You think I did it?"

"I know you did. What I don’t know is whether it was premeditated or just a spirited bit of scarf-play gone wrong."

"You’ve got no proof."

Ginny reached into her pocket and pulled out a soggy monogrammed tag, retrieved earlier from the gut of the family’s overfed Pekingese.

"L.L., nice embroidery Lola Love, and a nice clue. My guess is, he was drunk and touchy feely, maybe took a liberty. Husbands should know their place, right? Shame about the dog’s taste for accessories, but very helpful in the forensics department."

Lola stepped back, hand reaching behind her for something.

“Don’t,” Ginny said, pulling her .38 like it was muscle memory. “Guns don’t make you innocent, Lola. They just make your trial more interesting.”

There was a long pause, the kind in movies where music swells and someone dies. But no music came. Lola dropped the derringer into a crystal ashtray and sighed like a woman giving up a dream.

"Fine," she said. "He was going to cut me off. Said I spent too much for a broad who'd stopped putting out. Said I embarrassed him. That everyone knew."

"You embarrassed him? The man wore capes to brunch."

"Exactly," she said. "He had it coming."

Ginny shrugged. "Most people do in the in the end."

The sun was coming up as Ginny walked the long stretch back to her office. The sky was painted in hope but the wind the wind promised more trouble by lunchtime. She lit a cigarette and pulled her collar up against the breeze.

Another job done. Another sociopath in silk heading for a date with the justice system.

She didn’t smile. She never did. Smiling was for the innocent and people who didn’t carry brass knuckles in their handbags.

I don’t do happy endings, she thought. I do invoices.

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by Sarnia de la Mare

In a future where code meets consciousness, one being begins a haunting transformation. Renyke—an AI on the edge of humanity—awakens to emotion, sensory overload, and the fragile beauty of connection. Guided by the enigmatic Flex, their deepening bond explores intimacy and friendship, neurodivergence, and the complex world of feeling through an autistic spectrum lens.

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