In a nod to 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?

Autorentext

Jessica Fletcher and Barbara Early

Klappentext

"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 risquâe (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?"--

Leseprobe
Chapter One

I stared at the luggage lying open on my bed and pondered what I might have to remove if I was to have any hope of closing them. The multiple evening gowns strapped into my garment bag seemed excessive, especially since cruises had become more casual of late, but the Mystery Lovers Cruise always included a formal dinner, which I'd agreed to keynote this year.

And if this cruise had a captain's table, well, I was considered enough of a celebrity to receive an obligatory invitation. The more noteworthy celebrities at the table would ask me a polite question or two about my books. Then I'd sit quietly, eating my dinner, sipping my tea, and nodding occasionally while they told exaggerated stories of their own exploits, trying to one-up the others. Not that I would mind. I'm an excellent listener, and I've gleaned a few good plot ideas from such dinners. Minor celebrities with overinflated senses of self-importance always make such excellent murder victims. Fictionally speaking, that is.

For author presentations, of course, wearing one of my tailored jackets always bolsters my confidence. To save space in my luggage, not to mention my stateroom, I deviated from my well-used packing list and paired the blazers with colorful sleeveless dresses that I could also wear alone while relaxing on the deck with a good book, soaking up the sun and the sea breezes, or, during our stops, meandering through streets lined with quaint shops and open-air markets. But accessories soon ate up that freed space: scarves, belts, brooches, earrings, necklaces, hats, sunglasses, and-oh, I needed my navy pumps and a bag to match. I headed back into my walk-in closet.

After several trips down the stairs, my well-traveled burgundy luggage stood in a neat formation just inside my front door, and I peeked to see if my taxi had arrived. I stifled a sigh when I noticed that the stiff wind coming off the coast had drifted some of the shoveled snow back onto my steps and front walk. Yes, agreeing to go on a cruise in the February of a particularly snowy Maine winter had been a wise decision, and I was also looking forward to the two days of pre-cruise relaxation that Susan Shevlin had talked me into when booking my trip. "You don't want to cut it too tightly," she'd advised, drawing on her years of experience as Cabot Cove's best travel agent. "One canceled flight or missed connection and you could miss the cruise. And I know of a lovely resort not far from the port . . ." Although part of me would miss the brisk New England air, my blazing fireplace, and my cozy cardigans, getting out of Cabot Cove and into some tropical sunshine would surely boost my spirits, not to mention my vitamin D.

The taxi pulled up and I grabbed the largest of my bags, knowing that Demetri, my driver and longtime friend, would see me struggle with it and come to my aid. I waved as the door of the blue Subaru Forester popped open, and I took a step forward.

My foot failed to find solid purchase and instead slid hard to the right. I shifted my weight to the other foot, but not before my right ankle and knee bent awkwardly, and then the other twisted, and then gravity-assisted by the added weight of my luggage-pulled the rest of me down, driving my hip, then elbow, then head into the concrete steps. I slid down, my head jarred as it made contact with each new step, and then everything went black.

"Mrs. Fletcher! Mrs. Fletcher!" Demetri shook my shoulder a moment later. At least I thought it was only a moment later. I raised my eyelids, and the world went from all black to a dismal gray circle broken only by Demetri's blurry face hovering over me. "It's all right, Mrs. Fletcher. I called an ambulance. It'll be here soon." He squeezed my hand with his gloved one.

Squeezing back was the only motion I dared to attempt, my hazy brain starting to receive mingled messages of pain and cold from the rest of my body. "Thank you, Demetri."

No captain's table for me, I thought, and then I closed my eyes again.

I remembered bits of the ambulance ride, then the fluorescent ceiling lights speeding by during the quick gurney ride down the hospital corridor. As the fog began to lift from my brain, I determined that the lights had probably been switched to LEDs a long time ago to save money. An insignificant detail to some, but as a writer, I’ve learned I have to get such minutiae right or I will hear about it.

Then came hours of waiting, assessment by various specialists, X-rays, MRIs, more assessment, more waiting, and then finally a nurse wheeled me into a private room at Cabot Cove Hospital. The pain had thankfully subsided, but I suspected that had to do with one of the beeping machines at the side of my bed.

Seth Hazlitt, squinting at my chart on his tablet, strode through the door soon after my arrival. Seth had trained in the era of clipboards and paper charts, and the tablet seemed almost anachronistic in his hand, but the familiar bow tie and lab coat were comforting. Also unchanged were his close-clipped white hair and the glasses perched on his broad face. And his expression of concern.

"I have good news and bad news, Jess. More good than bad. That spill could have been a lot worse. All that bike riding and walking have paid off. No broken bones."

"That's a relief." I tried to shift in my bed a little, but pain shot through my arm.

Seth rushed over and adjusted my bed upward. "Better?"

I nodded, then gingerly sipped water from the cup a nurse had left on my tray table.

Seth waited until I finished. "Then there's the bad news. You managed to sprain both ankles badly on…