Beth has the kind of organized mind that solves Sunday crossword puzzles in pen and considers jigsaw puzzles a legitimate form of meditation.

A early-retired massage therapist in her mid-thirties (you'd never guess it to look at her), she's usually found in comfortable yoga pants and oversized sweaters (massage therapist casual, she calls it), with blonde hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and an actual magnifying glass on her desk (for examining details, obviously).

She's the friend who remembers everyone's coffee order and also notices when something's just slightly... off.

Her workspace looks like a detective's dream: murder boards with red string connecting clues (for her current book, she swears), reference books on forensics sitting next to aromatherapy guides, and enough sticky notes to wallpaper a small room.

There's always herbal tea brewing, usually something calming like chamomile, because writing about murder requires a certain zen.

She writes cozy mysteries because she loves the puzzle—not just solving it, but constructing it piece by careful piece. Her protagonist, Dalai Winters, is a massage therapist and amateur sleuth who notices things other people miss: the tension someone carries in their shoulders, the lie hidden in a nervous gesture, the story bodies tell when mouths stay silent.

Beth chose a massage therapist sleuth because she understands that profession's unique perspective. Dalai literally has her hands on people's secrets, their stress, their stories. People talk during massage sessions—really talk—and Dalai listens with her hands and her heart. It's the perfect cover for an amateur detective who's too curious for her own good.

Her mysteries aren't cozy in the traditional sense—they're more complex, more layered, with plots that twist like a pretzel and red herrings that actually make sense in hindsight. She's been told she might be "over-thinking" the cozy category, but Beth can't help it. Her brain doesn't do simple; it does intricate, complicated, beautifully messy puzzles where every piece matters.

Her deal breakers: obvious culprits, solutions that rely on coincidence instead of clues, and amateur sleuths who miraculously know more than trained professionals for no logical reason. Her sleuth earns every discovery through observation, intuition honed by her profession, and good old-fashioned detective work.

Beth plays Pictionary with the intensity of someone solving a murder (she always wins), does escape rooms for fun (and has strong opinions about poorly designed puzzles), and keeps a journal of "interesting people" she meets who might become characters. Her friends have learned not to tell her secrets unless they want them showing up in a book—with names changed, of course.

She writes mysteries for people who love puzzles, who appreciate a plot that respects their intelligence, and who understand that sometimes the most interesting mysteries are the ones wrapped in the seemingly ordinary.

Dalai Winters represents everything Beth believes about paying attention: the devil's in the details, bodies don't lie, and the truth is always hiding in plain sight—if you're patient enough to find it.