Jessica Fletcher has dinner with her old pal Harry McGraw and gets pulled into a puzzling murder case. Invited to deliver a lecture at the Boston Public Library, Jessica Fletcher excitedly makes plans to see local friends. Naturally that includes dinner at Gilhooley’s with PI Harry McGraw. Harry excitedly talks about his latest client, the CEO of Cure All Pharmaceuticals, who’s received anonymous blackmail demands and wants Harry to identify the culprit. Cookie, Gilhooley’s longtime bartender, also has something he wants to tell Jessica: he asked Harry to investigate his daughter Aileen’s boyfriend, who Cookie thinks is too slick by half, but now Harry is too wrapped up in this new case. While Jessica wonders how best to approach Aileen, the young woman stumbles into Gilhooley’s covered in blood. She just discovered her boyfriend’s corpse -- and quickly becomes the chief suspect in his murder! Jessica Fletcher is a bestselling mystery writer who solves real-life mysteries in her hometown of Cabot Cove, Maine, and in her many travels. Terrie Farley Moran coauthors this title. Chapter One One of the great joys of living in Cabot Cove, Maine, is that there are so many excellent options for me to get an hour of fresh air and exercise riding my ancient but still trusty bicycle. This morning I'd spent time pedaling on the outskirts of town along the path of a high ridge that never fails to offer spectacular views in every direction. When I reached the flagpole, my usual turnaround spot, I stopped to watch a fishing boat make its way out of the harbor, enter the cove that gave our town its name, and head out to the Atlantic. I took a few deep breaths, filled my lungs with fresh country air, and then set out for home. As I made a left onto Candlewood Lane, I saw the mail truck parked at the top of the next block, so I suspected that Lindy, our new mail carrier, had already been to my mailbox and, with any luck, had left me a letter from a friend, although I knew it was more likely that she'd deposited a few of this month's bills, or perhaps passed on by, leaving my mailbox empty. I hopped off my bike and pushed it up the walkway toward my front door. When I got to the mailbox, I could see the banner of the latest issue of National Geographic pushing the lid just high enough that the magazine appeared to be peeping at me. I pulled it out along with several envelopes and a flyer advertising a housewares sale at Charles Department Store. The first two envelopes were the usual household bills, but the third looked interesting. A medium-sized square envelope made of high-quality cream-colored paper, it was addressed to me in delicate handwritten calligraphy. I guessed it was an invitation of some sort. A wedding, perhaps? I flipped the envelope, and the return address was a pleasant surprise. The Boston Public Library Inside was a printed invitation that I found to be quite extraordinary. YOU ARE CORDIALL Y INVITED TO ATTEND AN AFTERNOON WITH MYSTERY WRITER J. B. FLETCHER AT THE BOSTON CENTRAL LIBRARY COPLEY SQUARE That was all. No date and no RSVP phone number. Fortunately I knew exactly who was behind this intriguing invitation. I stashed my bicycle in the shed and went into the house, tossed National Geographic and my bills on the kitchen table, opened my address book to the S page, and dialed the cell phone number of my old friend Marshall Stryback, the director of the Boston Public Library. When Marshall answered and heard it was me on the line, he began to snort merrily, then said, "My dear Jessica, it is so good to hear from you. I suppose this means you received my invitation." I could almost see him raise his bushy gray eyebrows as he mentally congratulated himself for getting my undivided attention. "I received an invitation of sorts-one that invites me, Jessica Fletcher, to meet the writer J. B. Fletcher. Neat trick there." I tried to sound as serious as I could manage given the silliness of the circumstances. Marshall laughed out loud. "It certainly caught your eye and got you to dial the phone. I was afraid you'd be on deadline or so immersed in research that a letter from me might go unnoticed, whereas a formal-looking invitation . . ." "Would be something I'd have a hard time resisting." After finishing his sentence, I gave a chuckle of my own. "The first thing I noticed is there is no date for the presentation." "And that, my dear Jessica, is because we are desperately anxious to have you come to Boston and speak with your adoring fans, so I want to personally accommodate your availability. If you are at all interested, and I sincerely hope that you are, I have a list of dates we here at the library think would be superb. None of them have major sports or entertainment events scheduled, so whatever date you choose should belong to you and you alone." An ancient memory flashed through my mind. When my first published novel, The Corpse Danced at Midnight, was released and I was invit