Ginny Greaves: The Case of the Disappearing Demeanour by Sarnia de la Mare

Ginny Greaves didn’t like Preston Tibb the moment he walked in. Something about his poetry made her want to chain-smoke her desk fan.
But when his stolen diary turned up at a noir poetry cabaret — things got personal.
🎧 Click play to hear Ginny’s driest case yet, betrayal, deception, and metaphors about socket wrenches.
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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
The case of the disappearing demeanor. 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 Greeves,

(00:20):
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 pressed in TIBB,

(00:42):
and Jinny 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 match book from the bar downstairs. She saw
barmaid's phone number hand written on the inside. And manioverta

(01:05):
raised a brow and a wry smile. What's your flavor, jeweles,
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, Jinny stared at him, flatly, You
write poetry, he straightened. I dabble. It's mostly metaphors about

(01:27):
loneliness and power tools. It's profound. She would have 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 Jinny to a seedy
cafe called the Loitering Spoon, where the waitress wore a

(01:49):
hair net 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 hydraulics, 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

(02:11):
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 bachelors. Ginny confronted her over lukewarm Martini's
summer was busy boiling us in a heat wave that

(02:33):
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 Alan Ginsburg 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,

(02:57):
a man named Clive the Thief turned out to be
Clive Preston's best friend, business partner, and as it happened,
secret saboteur. Jinny 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

(03:19):
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.

(03:41):
Preston Tibb returned to Jinny'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

(04:02):
waited for the next dingbat with a mystery to waltz
in Saksa twenty twenty five, Sarnia de Lamar for Tale
Teller Club Publishing