Today we welcome back the lovely and uber-talented Catriona McPherson who has stopped by to share a bit about her soon to be released book, SCOT’S EGGS. Catriona is an Agatha, Anthony, Lefty, and Macavity Award-Winning Author.

And Kirkus Reviews says this book has it all: “a loopy, lovable Northern California crew … a baffling double murder … a brisk, clever whodunit”

We can’t wait to hear about this latest book in the Lexy Campbell Last Ditch series. Take it away, Catriona! 

As Scot’s Eggs opens, it’s Easter morning and Lexy is finding out – yet again – that she’s not needed on the nest.

I love writing the Monster-of-the-Week plots, each one more ludicrous than the last, but even more than that I love writing the long arc of the character development for the Last Ditch Motel crew. Especially Lexy. I had her falling in love at Valentine’s and then marrying at the Midsummer Solstice, so it would have made sense to have her pregnant at Easter, season of fecundity, effulgence and general burgeoning.

But these are comedies, so instead I’ve made her beginning to worry that she’s left it a bit late and it might never happen. What’s funny about that, you might be asking. Well, for a start, Lexy’s best friend Todd has no boundaries. Here’s a scene from early in the book. Lexy is in the shower and Todd is . . . visiting:

‘And . . . don’t get all uppity and start telling me I’m overstepping,’ Todd said, ‘but I don’t think you should assume it’s you. I’ve seen Taylor’s underwear. I mean, I tried to block it out for crimes against style but also it’s not healthy. So I’ve put some super-drapey satin boxers in his top drawer and removed the offending items. But still, you should send him to have a sperm test.’

‘He’s twenty-nine,’ I said. ‘I’m thirty-seven. And what on earth made you think I’d see this as over-stepping?’

‘Oh,’ said Todd. ‘Well, good. I just never know with you. But to your main point. Investigating your fertility is invasive and expensive. Given that your cycle is regular and you’re tuned into it, and given that Taylor can find out how his guys are after ten fun minutes with a magazine, it makes sense to dot that i first.’

‘And you’re basing the notion that my cycle is regular on . . .’

‘The fact that I gave you a link to an ovulation app months ago and you would have told me if it wasn’t.’

‘Right,’ I said, turning off the water. ‘No overstepping there.’

Also, I’ve got a lot of experience of infertility, and black humour was essential to counteract the hormones and disappointment. My God, those hormones. There was a time when my dad and I were taking exactly the same cocktail, he to treat prostate cancer and I to get to a baseline and let the doctors start with a clean slate. We were each as touchy and weepy as the other. If my mum and my husband hadn’t been able to laugh they’d have beaten us to a pulp and gone out drinking. In the end the treatment kept my dad healthy for over twenty years. Me? Nine rounds of IUI/IVF after which I had no kids and no money. See? Black humour is the only way.

But the thing I really needed jokes for was to do battle with people’s cluelessness. Some of it was kindly meant. “Get yourself a great big rose quartz crystal” was one I’ll never forget. “Okay,” I said. “And do I still need Neil? Or will the crystal do everything?”

“Oh my God, I get pregnant if he looks at me across the room!” was harder to believe came from a helpful place. How did I deal with that one? Once I said, “Ah well, nobody gets everything.” And then left them wondering what I thought they lacked. Another time when I said nothing at all in response to a near stranger gloating about her good luck and my bad, she followed up with “Sorry. I just say whatever I’m thinking.” “Not me,” I told her. “I’m not saying anything close to what I’m thinking, right this minute.” Someone else at the party choked on their drink trying not to laugh, which helped.

Isn’t it weird? The only other thing I’ve come across that makes people boast about their superior fortune is insomnia. Ever noticed that? If someone says they have trouble sleeping, it’s the cue for someone else to say, “Oh I’m gone as soon as my head hits the pillow. I could sleep on a knife.” It’s a wonder no one ever asks them to prove it.

Imagine if that happened with breast cancer. “I’ve just had a double mastectomy.” “Ho-ho, not me. Look at these puppies!” To quote Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, “People eat blood sausage, Rita. People are morons.”

But the most frequent clueless remark encountered when you’re childless not by choice is . . . Can you guess? I’ll give a clue. I seriously considered writing a little etiquette book called Yes, We’ve Considered Adoption. It was wild the number of women – always women – who truly believed they’d solved a fertility problem for me, five minutes after meeting me at a party or other event. I composed a range of responses:

“Adoption? Oh my God! You’re a genius. Excuse me, I need to go and tell Neil.”

“We did adopt once but they were ugly so we sold them.”

“We failed the screening process.”

That last one was particularly ideal if their children were running around. And you know what really stewed my prunes? If there were men present, the subject never came up. In fact, Neil has never been asked a follow-up question to the “Do you have kids?” opener in his jammy wee life. Hmph.

Anyway, I found it just as much fun to write Lexy’s conception woes as I thought I would. All I need to do now is toss a coin and decide whether it’s going to work out for her or if she’s going to go down the same road as me. I must admit, it wasn’t fun and chuckles right to the end. Maybe I’ll knock her up. It’s nice to be in charge, I must say.

A bit more about the book:

It’s egg-hunt season, but Lexy’s spending Easter hunting a killer!

Not even Cuento’s Easter bonnet parade can distract Lexy Campbell from fertility woes and missing tourists Bill and Billie Miller. The Millers’ vintage Mustang has been abandoned, its interior covered in blood.

Is this a double murder, and if so, where are the bodies? Why were the Millers spending the night in their car? Did they pitch up at the Last Ditch Motel only to be turned away? Are they really dead? Trinity for Trouble are on the case!

As they start to identify the guests staying at the motel the weekend before Easter – including a Goth and a barbershop singer on stilts – disturbing evidence comes to light. Can Lexy see though all the deception to unmask the truth and save the Last Ditch?

Reminder: The book comes out December 2nd but is available for pre-order now. 

And bit more about Catriona:

Catriona McPherson (she/her) was born in Scotland and immigrated to the US in 2010. A former linguistics professor, she is now a full-time fiction writer and has published: preposterous 1930s private-detective stories about a toff; realistic 1940s amateur-sleuth stories about an oik; and contemporary psychothriller standalones. These are all set in Scotland with a lot of Scottish weather. She also writes modern comic crime capers about a Scot-out-of-water in a “fictional” college town in Northern California sneezedavissneeze.

Catriona is a proud lifetime member and former national president of Sisters in Crime.

For more about her and her books, check out her website at:  www.catrionamcpherson.com