If I could have dinner with any fictional character, I would absolutely choose Jessica Fletcher from Murder, She Wrote. Not a superhero. Not a wizard. Not someone with a dragon or a secret kingdom. Give me J.B. Fletcher, mystery writer, world traveler, Cabot Cove icon, and the woman most likely to solve a murder before dessert while still being polite enough to ask if anyone wants coffee.

Jessica has become my latest television obsession, and honestly, I feel very good about this life choice. She lives in a charming Maine town, writes bestselling mysteries, knows an alarming number of fascinating people, and somehow ends up traveling everywhere from cozy coastal corners to grand European settings. I am especially fond of her Irish adventures, because if Jessica Fletcher is going to investigate something, I would prefer there be stone cottages, misty scenery, and possibly a dramatic family secret involved.

What I admire most about her, though, is not just that she can spot a clue in a room full of red herrings. It is the way she thinks. Jessica notices everything… the pause before someone answers a question, the detail nobody else thought mattered, the small contradiction hiding in plain sight. Her mind works like a well-organized writing desk, except every drawer contains both compassion and a motive.

She is also kind in a way that feels both gentle and practical. Jessica does not simply sweep into people’s lives, solve their problems, and leave dramatically. She listens. She encourages writers. She helps friends feel seen and cared for. She nudges people toward being better versions of themselves, even when one of them is clearly lying about where they were between 8:15 and 8:40.

Dinner with her would be a gold mine. I imagine she would have stories from publishers, police stations, book tours, seaside inns, grand old houses, and mysterious relatives who appear exactly when the plot requires them. I would ask about writing, travel, friendship, and how she manages to remain so calm when the evening takes a sharp turn from “lovely roast chicken” to “there has been an incident in the library.”

Of course, there is one tiny concern… Jessica Fletcher’s dinner parties do have a troubling habit of ending in murder. This is not ideal. I would still accept the invitation, but I would sit near the exit, avoid touching any suspicious envelopes, and make sure my alibi was airtight before the salad course.

Still, for one evening with Jessica Fletcher, I would risk it. She is an invaluable fountain of life, circumstance, kindness, curiosity, and stories. And if the worst happened, at least I would be in excellent company. After all, when murder is written into the menu, I can think of no better dinner guest to have at the table…