I’m a few days into my ankle recovery post debridement/spackling, parked on the couch with my foot elevated, and I’ve rediscovered one of life’s great truths: Murder She Wrote is perfect television.

Sarah got us started on this about a year ago, and now we’re back for another round. There’s something about being stuck in one place that makes you crave the familiar, and nothing is more familiar than watching Jessica Fletcher ride her bicycle through Cabot Cove while another body turns up at the lobster bake.

Look, I know the premise is statistically absurd. Whether she’s in Cabot Cove, Manhattan, or a cruise ship in the Caribbean, bodies drop the moment Jessica Fletcher arrives. Her friends, relatives, publishers, and casual acquaintances have an alarming mortality rate. If I saw her walking toward my hotel lobby, I’d check out immediately and update my will from the airport. The woman is a traveling harbinger of death.

But that’s part of the charm.

The formula is ironclad: someone dies, everyone’s a suspect, Jessica notices something small that everyone else missed, and by the end of the hour, justice is served. No cliffhangers. No season-long arcs where you have to remember what happened eight episodes ago. Just a complete, satisfying story wrapped up in 45 minutes. Modern prestige TV could never.

And then there’s Angela Lansbury.

The woman is doing something remarkable in this role. Her Maine accent walks this perfect line between authentic and theatrical—it’s just affected enough to be charming without tipping into parody. She plays Jessica with such warmth and intelligence that you completely buy that everyone in town trusts her, that sheriffs across America consult with her, that murderers keep confessing to her over tea.

I have a particular soft spot for Doc Haslett, the local medical examiner who’s probably seen more bodies than any small-town doctor should. He and Jessica have this easy rapport that makes Cabot Cove feel like a real place where people actually know each other (even if they do keep killing each other).

One thing that surprised me on the rewatch is how much the show evolves over its twelve seasons. The early episodes have this cozy, almost sleepy quality—very much a small-town mystery vibe. But as the seasons progress, Jessica starts traveling more, the production values shift, and the mysteries get more elaborate. It’s still the same show, but it grows. Not many series can sustain that across 264 episodes.

So here I am, ankle elevated, tea in hand, watching a woman in sensible shoes solve murders while the Maine coast rolls by in the background. It’s comfort TV in its purest form. No stress, no ambiguity, just the reliable satisfaction of watching someone very smart figure things out while being unfailingly kind to everyone around her.

Recovery’s going fine. Murder She Wrote helps.