MYSTERIES & MOTIVATION

by Yolanda Renée

Edgar Allan Poe, considered the Father of the mystery genre is one of my favorite authors. His first mystery The Murders in the Rue Morgue is the book where he introduced Detective D. Auguste Dupin.

He continued to use Detective Dupin in The Mystery of Marie Roget, and The Purloined Letter. But more importantly, he shifted the focus from the situation to the study of the criminals the motivation?

Understanding motivation is the reason I write the mysteries.

If I were to write my top ten favorite mysteries. I’d have to start with Poe’s three, from there I’d move on to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes Series, and then the Agatha Christie’s mysteries.

To pick just one is near impossible and if you add to that the fact that Gone with the Wind is one of my favorite books. It doesn’t add up because GWTW isn’t a mystery. Unless you consider the fact that this book covered several decades, had numerous plot twists, (OMG how much does this woman (Scarlet) have to overcome. I mean wasn’t that the mystery – a dilemma.). Besides, it was superbly written. To me, that’s what puts it up there with some of the best stories ever told. It kept me turning the page. I’ve always admired the author; Margaret Mitchell and I aspire to write such a tale!

Getting back to motivation, when I wrote Cypress, Like the Tree, it was important that the motive was clear, but it was also crucial that there be several suspects.

Here’s an excerpt for your enjoyment:

“Then tell me, Mata Hari.” Cypress leaned even closer. “If you didn’t convince one of these men to kill the bastard, which one do you think did it?”

I sucked the wetness from my finger, brought the glass to my lips, and gazed into his dark brown eyes. I couldn’t believe what he was saying, and yet…. I shook my head dismissively. “No, that doesn’t make any sense. Why would any of those men kill Bill? They don’t even know me.”

He sat back in his chair. “Maybe they do. Maybe they don’t. But I’d bet my last dollar it’s one of them. That is if it isn’t you.” He stood. “Whether you did it, or one of your admirers did it for you, I promise I will get to the bottom of it.”

“You’re wrong.” I faced him. “You’re wrong about me, and them. Have you investigated his girlfriends? Maybe there’s a jealous husband or boyfriend.”

“We’re checking, but I’ve talked to all these men, and they all said your husband deserved to die.”

***

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Mysteries and the Minor Characters

By Rebecca M. Douglass, author of "The Tide Waits."

I thought today I might introduce a couple of the characters from "The Tide Waits," and talk a little about what went into writing them.

The story is set in an unspecified historical period, but when I first met the characters, they were a bit disconnected from the real world. So I ended up with Lira, a female bartender and general problem-solver for a small fishing village. I like writing strong female characters, so I went with the woman who came into my mind: a bartender who can toss unruly drunks out on their ears, then turn around and outwit the people who would destroy the peace of her village. There's an element of fantasy in the story, not because anything magical happens, but because Lira hasn't been burned as a witch!

The story is Lira's, but I wanted to set her off against characters who were unlike her, perhaps blunted by lives spent fishing. The one who wandered into my story was Huw, who fishes alone because he's too old to go out on the boats with the others. Imagine my surprise when Huw turned out to be far more important than he looked at first!

On reflection, I should have known. Minor characters in mysteries so often are more than they appear. Huw is no exception--so I found myself having to learn his history and personality, not just handing him a body and moving on.

Huw's an old man now, but one thing we learn quickly is that he wasn't always old--and he knows the sea and land around the village and the Goblin's Head inside and out, perhaps better than anyone else.

 

 Excerpt:

The incoming tide made it a tricky scramble around the base of Goblin’s Head, but not impossible.

Like most of the villagers, Huw had been atop the sea stack many times. But this time he didn’t mount the steep, half-scrambling route up the rock. He had climbed it enough times in his youth, like all the others who had helped to carve the path, whistling at the danger to prove their manhood. More than one had died for that proof. Climbing around the base on the rocks the Goblin had shed wasn’t a whole lot safer.

Death had visited Goblin’s Head once again. Huw reached the body that sprawled on the rock, and took in the rough homespun pants and coat before lifting the man’s shoulder to look at the face. He knew the man.

Decades of gutting fish and mourning those lost at sea had hardened the old fisherman. What he saw made him regret his breakfast, but experience won and the meal stayed put.

He moved from rock to rock with deliberate speed, not haste; to injure himself here would mean death as the incoming tide swept over the rocks. On this morning, he was safe until about a half hour after the sun rose—and that sun now lit the top of the Head.








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Rebecca M. Douglass