by Sparkle Abbey

Today we welcome a very special guest back to the blog and she’s chatting about the latest in her A Last Ditch mystery series – Scotzilla.

Catriona take it away!

 

SCOTZILLA opens at a wedding and we find Lexy Campbell, protagonist of six previous novels about the Last Ditch Motel, whom readers know to be a pretty laidback sort of a person, in full bridezilla mode, breathing fire and turning the air blue because her daisy-style flower fairylights don’t have five petals, which would have been acceptable, or even four petals which would have been an outrage, but three. Three! Like that last-minute, I-don’t-really-care, sales-point gift-flower the orchid. Or like irises. Pond flowers. As if Lexy is supposed to get married under a web of stinking fish lights!

Chapter one was a lot of fun to write. Even more fun was going back to six months earlier at the start of chapter two and slowly charting the gestation of the monster and the rise of her friends’ dismay at what they’re witnessing, alongside the seeds of the murder plot.

I don’t even think I’ve made her over-the-top. Anyone who reads Carolyn Hax has seen brides this uncorked and I heard of a real life example where my niece offered to pass on her wedding reception fairylights to a friend, in a spirit of generosity and in recognition of how expensive weddings are. The friend burst into tears at the news that someone else was having fairylights at their wedding before she did. Ummmmmm.

Not every bride, mind you. Another niece of mine got married this summer and arrived at the venue only to discover she’d forgotten her veil. Enh, she got married without a veil. And yet another niece (I’ve got a fair few) proudly wore white shoes that cost a tenner because, and I quote, “They’re going to get wrecked and I’ll never wear them again.” That’s my girl.

I never wanted a wedding of my own, and I don’t regret not having one, but that’s not to say I don’t sometimes enjoy them. At a good wedding, I love the ceremony, the speeches, the catch-up with family, sitting out “All the Single Ladies” and getting up for “Solid as a Rock”, the cup of tea that’s served after a couple of hours of dancing, along with savoury and sweet pastries, the tiny wee baby boys in kilts, the post-mortem on the way home . . . (Who was it who said that in a happy marriage you never tear each other down; you tear other people down together? Not me.)

What don’t I love about weddings? Or – to put in another way – what makes for a bad wedding? Well, when you think one of the couple is making a mistake. That’ll do it. (I’d love to be at a wedding where someone objects, soap-opera style. Does it ever happen in real life?)  A terrible DJ who wants to look cool and won’t fill the floor is a bit of a drag (see above: Beyonce/Ashford and Simpson). If there are enough Scots to warrant ceilidh dances but not enough to form a critical mass of people who know what they’re doing; that’s frustrating. Getting stuck with really hard-work people who make no effort to have fun but won’t stop hanging around you. (Same reason I’d never go on a cruise. I would be in the next cabin to and the same table as a crashing bore with no boundaries. And they’d live in the next town when we all got home again.)

What don’t I love about weddings that I probably shouldn’t admit to? Home-made vows. Love the speeches for the toasts, but oh my God the throbbing emotion of a home-made vow makes my toes curl so much I could snap my dancing slippers. (Although, I immediately start to remember exceptions to this rule. A wedding last summer had the sweetest and funniest vows anyone ever spoke – things like “I will always drive you anywhere you want to go because you hate to drive”.) But, usually, home-made vows. Also – the photographer. The time it takes, the hanging about for everyone, the knowledge that no one is ever going to look at 99% of these pictures. Ever. And if there’s a videographer too? Guess.

So my nightmare wedding would be an ill-suited couple of Instagram influencers, who wrote rhyming vows, blew most of their budget on the photographer and videographer and are determined to get their money’s worth, saved a few pennies by letting a relative – huge fan of modern jazz – be the DJ, banned all children, didn’t allow speeches, and one last thing. Where is this hellacious event taking place? Where else? At a “destination”.

Unless anyone wants to convince me that destination weddings are a great idea. No? Tell you what then: let’s really get going on this calamitous event I’ve started designing. What else does it need?  I haven’t touched on the menu . . .

 

Here’s a little bit about SCOTZILLA

Lexy Campbell is getting married! But in the six months of planning it took to arrive at the big day, she has become . . . a challenge. Friendships are strained to breaking point, Lexy’s parents are tiptoeing around her, and even Taylor, her intended, must be having second thoughts.

Turns out it’s moot. Before the happy couple can exchange vows, Sister Sunshine, the wedding celebrant, is discovered dead behind the cake, strangled with the fairy lights.

Lexy’s dream wedding is now not just a nightmare: it’s a crime scene. She vows not to get drawn into the case, but the rest of the Last Ditch crew are investigating a bizarre series of goings-on in Cuento’s cemetery and every clue about the graveyard pranks seems to link them back to Lexy’s wedding day. Will the Ditchers solve the case? Will Sister Sunshine’s killer be found? Will Lexy ever get her happy-ever-after? Not even Bridezilla deserves this.

Thanks so much, Catriona, for stopping by. We love stories set in Scotland and we love Catriona! So needless to say, we already have our copy of Scotzilla!

Serial awards-botherer, Catriona McPherson (she/her) was born in Scotland and immigrated to the US in 2010. She writes: preposterous 1930s private-detective stories; realistic 1940s amateur-sleuth stories about a medical social worker; and contemporary psychological standalones. These are all set in Scotland with a lot of Scottish weather. She also writes modern comedies about a Scot out of water in a “fictional” college town in Northern California. SCOTZILLA is book number seven of what was supposed to be a trilogy. She is a proud lifetime member and former national president of Sisters in Crime.  www.catrionamcpherson.com

 

by Sparkle Abbey

Today we welcome a very special guest back to the blog and she’s chatting about the latest in her Dandy Gilver series – The Witching Hour. Plus let’s talk about in-laws…

Catriona take it away!

“Two houses both alike in dignity” says Shakespeare of the Montagues and the Capulets at the start of Romeo and Juliet. (Off topic, but “Juliet Capulet” has always bugged me; I’d have swapped their names in the edit.)

And I suppose two houses can easily be alike in dignity but not in much else. When you’re wee, you think your family is normal and quite possibly all families are similar to it. But when you grow up and especially when you join families in a marriage . . . Well, I can’t be the only one who reads Carolyn Hax in the Washington Post. Second only to destination weddings – a pox on all of them, right? – her column is full of in-laws as far as the eye can see.

As THE WITCHING HOUR (Dandy Gilver No.16)  opens, Dandy and Hugh are gearing up to meet a prospective daughter-in-law. They’ve weathered one dynastic alliance (and survived the awkwardness of a corpse at the engagement-do) but now in the spring of 1939 their younger son is bringing a girl home and his track record is  . . . not unblemished.

‘Cartaright?’ Hugh said. ‘Not Cartwright?’

‘Nor Carter-Wright,’ I assured him. ‘Teddy wrote it down for me to address the envelope.’

‘What address?’

‘London,’ I told him. ‘A 3F, I’m afraid. A flat. But north of the river. It’s so hard to tell these days. She could be anyone.’

‘Dolly Cartaright,’ said Hugh. ‘She sounds like a barmaid.’

‘I don’t care if she is a barmaid,’ I said. ‘Or a chorus girl, or even a . . .’ My imagination ran out.

‘An artist’s model,’ said Hugh. ‘Like What’s-her-name.’

‘I think she was a muse,’ I reminded him. ‘Although that might be the same thing, now I consider it at a distance. She was very . . . limber.’

Hugh rewarded me with a snort of laugher.

‘And I mean it. I don’t care. If she marries our son-’

‘If marriage isn’t too old-fashioned for her,’ Hugh chipped in.

‘And the call goes up for single men first-’

‘It won’t or only very briefly.’

‘-then she could pull pints of beer in the Atholl Arms for all our friends and I’d drive down to pick her up at closing time and offer a lift home.’

‘What friends of yours drink pints of beer in the Atholl Arms?’ Hugh asked me.

I rewarded him with a little snort of my own.

I remember meeting my in-laws. I was dressed all in black with a crew-cut and an attitude. They can’t have been thrilled, but Neil and I were only nineteen so they no doubt thought I’d soon be gone. Ha! How’d that work out?

I do remember a formal meeting of in-laws in advance of one of my sisters’ weddings. My mum prepared an elegant meal then my dad came home with a punctured tyre, brought his bike into the kitchen and turned it upside down in the middle of the floor. A lively debate ensued.

I also remember sitting awkwardly in the living room at home with a set of in-laws-to-be in advance of a different wedding when a knocking noise came out of nowhere and all four of us girls stood up and left the room. There used to be a door there, see, and the wall is hollow so, when dinner was ready, my dad would knock on the hollow bit instead of shouting through the house. Seemed perfectly normal to us; looked like The Village of the Damned to strangers.

Then there was the fact that my dad didn’t drink either coffee (normal for Brits born in the 1930s) or tea (outlandish for Brits born anytime) so when visitors, including prospective in-laws, came and orders for hot drinks were taken, he was missed out and passed over. It wasn’t until someone said “Your mum looks so innocent but she rules with a rod of iron, doesn’t she?” that any of us realised the impression being given of a downtrodden and thirsty husband.

But that’s nothing, when it comes to food and drink and new alliances. I’ve got an American pal, Jewish, from Boston (these details are because I have no idea where her norms come from!), who married a Turkish bloke and, upon meeting her prospective family-in-law, politely cleaned her plate making yummy noises. Her mother-in-law-to-be replenished her plate. She cleared it. It was replenished. It was cleared. It was replenished. It was cleared. Only when the bloke started paying attention, which was thankfully before his mother had to send out for more food or his fiancée burst, did he say, “Oh yeah, babe? She’s gonna keep filling your plate till you leave something on it. And, anne, she’s trying to show she likes the food by eating it up.” Relief all round.

My sister’s mother-in-law is no longer with us so I can tell tales of her legendary and misguided culinary confidence without causing upset. You’ve heard the expression “a plain cook”? Well, this lady took it to soaring heights. She once opened a storage jar in my sister’s kitchen, saw muesli, pondered a while, recognised the rolled oats in the mix and made porridge with it. (I realise that this story is very British. The US equivalent would be making grits with granola.) Another time, she looked in my sister’s crisper drawer and found a head of broccoli. She thought Well that can’t be right and put it straight in the bin.

All the weird and even annoying clashes of family norms become funny stories in the end, eh? I’d love to hear yours, Stiletto Gang. Can you remember meeting your in-laws? When did you realise you were in-laws? What’s the equivalent for single people? I know there’ll be one.

Here’s a little bit about The Witching Hour

It’s the spring of 1939 and Dandy Gilver, the mother of two grown-up sons, can’t think of anything except the deteriorating state of Europe and the threat of war. Detective work is the furthest thing from her mind. It takes a desperate cri de coeur from an old friend to persuade her to take on a case.

Daisy Esslemont’s husband Silas has vanished. It’s not the first time, but he has never embarrassed her with his absences before. It doesn’t take Dandy and her side-kick, Alec Osborne, long to find the wandering Silas, but when they track him down to the quaint East Lothian village of Dirleton, he is dead, lying on the village green with his head bashed in, in full view of a row of alms houses, two pubs, a manse, a school and even the watchtowers of Dirleton Castle. And yet not a single one of the villagers admits to seeing a thing.

As Dandy and Alec begin to chip away at the determined silence of the Dirletonites, they cannot imagine what unites such a motley crew: schoolmistress, minister, landlord, postmaster, park-keeper, farmworkers, schoolchildren . . . Only one person – Mither Golane, the oldest resident of the village – is loose-lipped enough to let something slip, but her quiet aside must surely be the rambling of a woman in her second childhood. Dandy and Alec know that Silas was no angel but “He’s the devil” is too outlandish a claim to help them find his killer. The detecting pair despair of ever finding answers, but are they asking the right questions?

Thanks so much, Catriona, for stopping by. We love stories set in Scotland and we love Catriona! So needless to say, we already have our copy of The Witching Hour. How about the rest of you?

Serial awards-botherer, Catriona McPherson (she/her) was born in Scotland and immigrated to the US in 2010. She writes: preposterous 1930s private-detective stories, including September 2024’s THE WITCHING HOUR; realistic 1940s amateur-sleuth stories about a medical social worker; and contemporary psychological standalones. These are all set in Scotland with a lot of Scottish weather. She also writes modern comedies about a Scot out of water in a “fictional” college town in Northern California. She is a proud lifetime member and former national president of Sisters in Crime.  www.catrionamcpherson.com