Ginny Greaves Private Eye

Private Investigator Ginny Greaves , a lipstick lesbian who never mixes business and pleasure The Brotherly Love Band It was ten past gin o’clock on a Thursday and I was two bills behind rent when trouble swanned into my office in designer heels and a moral compass that pointed directly to the gutter. She had diamonds on her ears, guilt in her eyes, and the kind of pout that suggested she kissed too much or too often, or probably both. “You’re Ginny Greaves,” she said, like she wasn’t impressed but was willing to pretend if I solved the case. “That’s what the door says, unless someone’s replaced the lettering with ‘Ask Me About My Childhood Trauma.’” I leaned back in my chair and gestured to the seat opposite. “What’s missing, sweetheart? Husband? Poodle? Self-respect?” I watched her hips as they tried to hypnotise me, but I wasn'e falling for this broad. Those hips were a warning. She sat. Crossed her legs like a lethal weapon. Lowered her voice to a scandalous whisper. “My  ring....

  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 vis...

  “The Case of the Vanishing Violinist” a Ginny Greaves Short by Sarnia de la Mare They say trouble walks in wearing heels. In my experience, trouble also occasionally shows up barefoot, crying about a lost Stradivarius and asking if you have oat milk for their flat white. My name’s Ginny Greaves. I’m a private investigator by profession, a cynic by default, and a semi-qualified bartender by necessity. I run my operations from a dusty office above a Polish nail salon in Lower Clapton. The sign on my door says “Discreet Inquiries.” It should say “Cash First, Questions Later,” but I’m told that lacks finesse. It was a Wednesday. Rain hit the window like it owed the glass money. I was nursing a hangover the size of Derbyshire when she walked in. “I’m Allegra. Allegra Witherspoon,” she said, dripping water and entitlement all over my Persian rug (which I definitely didn’t steal from my ex-landlord’s flat after a misunderstanding involving rent arrears and a mislabelled lasagne). ...