A reporter once asked me what a typical day in the life of J.B. Fletcher was like, and the question took me aback. Life hasn’t afforded me many typical days since my first novel, The Corpse Danced at Midnight, was published. (I think my story would still be stuck in a drawer somewhere if my dear nephew Grady hadn’t conspired with a girlfriend to get it in front of a publisher. To be honest, some days I don’t know whether to thank him or blame him!)

The life of a best-selling author has certainly been one of adventure, and I’ve treasured the time I’ve had to travel, visit my relatives around the world, and make many new friends along the way. But I’ve also spent countless nights moving from hotel room to hotel room, being whisked from media interviews to books signings to mystery conferences to exhausting publisher-hosted cocktail parties, where I was expected to mingle and be gracious, witty, and entertaining despite being dead on my feet and sometimes unsure of which city I was in at the moment. And then, just when I think there’ll be time for a restorative bath, a cup of chamomile tea, and a good night’s sleep, by some cruel trick of fate, someone finds a body and screams. My good friend Mort Metzger, the sheriff back home, has jokingly called me a murder magnet. I’m not sure I agree with his assessment, but it would go a long way in explaining why death seems to follow me around.

I treasure those days when I’m in Cabot Cove, where the residents and I, by mutual unspoken agreement, have decided to make little fuss over my minor celebrity and allow me to put J.B. aside and be just Jessica: former school teacher, community volunteer, and skilled purveyor of some of the best iced tea and clam chowder (or as my friend Seth says, chow-dah) in town.

Here, a typical day might start with a brisk bicycle ride up on the ridge overlooking the coastline. There’s something about the salt wind ruffling my hair, the call of the seabirds, and the relentless advance and retreat of the white-capped tides that centers me, quiets the noise, and at the same time inspires me. More than one of my stories began as a seed of inspiration carried in by that sea breeze.

Afterward, I might pedal into town. I’m afraid I’ve become quite a regular at Mara’s, a local eatery down by the docks, where the blueberry pancakes—made with fresh Maine blueberries, of course—reign supreme. I can usually find a friend or two—often Mort or Seth or Dan—willing to shoot the breeze or share some of the local gossip. I might stop to haggle with one of the local fishermen over the catch of the day, then put the spoils of my effort—that night’s dinner—into my wicker basket and return home to slog away on my next novel, which always seems to be due long before I can comfortably complete it.

Or that’s the plan, anyway.

Sometimes death follows me even here.

Snowy with a Chance of Murder: Murder, She Wrote Mystery, Book 60
Genre: Cozy Mystery
Release: March 2025
Format: Print, Digital
Purchase Link

In a nod to Rear Window, this newest entry in the USA Today bestselling Murder, She Wrote series finds Jessica Fletcher coping with an injury that leaves her homebound—and a murder just outside her window!

Jessica Fletcher has taken a nasty spill on the ice, leaving her in a wheelchair for several weeks. She tries to work on her latest manuscript but finds herself distracted by a new neighbor moving in across the street. There’s good reason for her to be distracted, because soon after unpacking his sparse belongings, Mr. Rymer is out in the front yard, building somewhat risqué (read: naked) snow sculptures.

While Cabot Cove debates whether the sculptures are a protected form of art or a public display of lewdness, someone starts destroying them at night. Rymer doesn’t seem upset. He just makes new ones. No need to get the police involved over a little snow, he says. Especially when there’s plenty more of it and a blizzard in the forecast.

The morning after the storm, Jessica looks out the window to see a new sculpture across the street—and the body of Mr. Rymer half-buried in the snow. Can Jessica catch a cold-blooded killer from her chair by the window?

About the author
Barbara Early earned an engineering degree, but after four years of doing nothing but math, developed a sudden allergy to the subject and decided to choose another occupation.

Before she settled on murdering fictional people, she was a secretary, a schoolteacher, a pastor’s wife, and an amateur puppeteer. She and her husband live in Western New York State, where she enjoys cooking, crafts, classic movies, campy vintage television, board games, and spending time with her two granddaughters. Before teaming up with Jessica Fletcher, she wrote the Vintage Toyshop Mystery series and the Bridal Bouquet Shop Mysteries (as Beverly Allen).