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? Jessica Fletcher is a bestselling mystery writer who has a knack for stumbling upon real-life mysteries in her hometown of Cabot Cove, Maine, and on her travels. Barbara Early coauthors this volume of the bestselling series. 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