By Bob Tedder • Although my reading tastes tend to be eclectic I have never immersed myself in the mystery genre. I have sleuthed with Sherlock, conundrumized with Christie and pondered the poetic puzzles of P.D. James. Yet I rarely find myself haunting the mystery section of any book establishment. So, when offered a gratis copy of Herb Yates’ “Murder in Marthaville,” my initial reaction was “Murder where? Herb who?”
At the risk of sounding trite, the book turned out to be a fun read. For those Mt. Gilead residents who know David Wilder or have ever been to Richmond County, “Murder in Marthaville” provides a must-read familiarity.
Wilder, Mt. Gilead’s most venerable citizen, was the author’s roommate during their undergraduate sojourn in Chapel Hill. Local readers therefore are allowed to bask in the one degree of separation from the actual author. Moreover, those familiar with Richmond County cannot help but appreciate Yates’ spot-on description of one of the area’s most recognizable landmarks: “As we rounded a curve, an eerie sight loomed up – on the right – a massive, dilapidated structure of charred red bricks, half covered with vines and surrounded with overgrown weeds.” At this point any reader harboring geographic doubt as to the book’s setting realizes that Marthaville can only be Rockingham, N.C.
Aside from the allure of local interest does the narrative warrant attention? Yes, but why? Well, there is that murdered pastor. The funeral draws the arrival of a friend from New York who just happens to be a private investigator. The book’s narrator, who is the PI’s accomplice, possesses a background which ensures the duo is not totally welcome at the crime scene. Understandably, there is is the usual cast of Southern characters and suspects. There is the powerful sheriff, the local know it all, the pretty widow, the banker with big plans and even a collection of fathers none too pleased with their daughter’s piano teacher. The book is fast – dare I say hard-boiled – and has a sardonic style that explains rather than mocks.
I am sure the mystery savant will figure out “whodunnit” way before I did. Nonetheless, even if you identify the murderer stick around and feel the August heat and humidity of Yates’ descriptive prose. Unless you drink a lot of coffee this is not a one-visit read, but that’s OK. You may take the Speckled Paw’s copy with you and enjoy your second cup at home.