Trading in Texas heat for Maine's tangy salt air, Natalie Barnes risked it all to buy the Gray Whale Inn, a quaint bed and breakfast on Cranberry Island. She adores whipping up buttery muffins and other rich breakfast treats for her guests until Bernard Katz checks in. The overbearing land developer plans to build a resort next door where an endangered colony of black-chinned terns is nesting. Worried about the birds, the inevitable transformation of the sleepy fishing community, and her livelihood, Natalie takes a public stand against the project. But the town board sides with Katz. Just when it seems like things can't get any worse, Natalie finds Katz dead. Now the police and much of the town think she's guilty. Can Natalie track down the true killer before she's hauled off to jail...or becomes the next victim? Murder on the Rocks is an Agatha Award nominee. "MacInerney's debut is an agreeable entry into the crowded field of culinary cozies, complete with the obligatory complement of artery-clogging recipes."― Kirkus Reviews "Sure to please cozy readers."― Library Journal "[An] appealing debut―this is a new cozy author worth investigating."―Publishers Weekly "...It may be old-fashioned to describe a book as charming, but MacInerney's writing is evocative of the most delightful, comfortable cozies of old, with just a soupcon of modern wit. Murder on the Rocks is a delightful escape for mystery fans. Check in for a stay at the Gray Whale Inn and you'll want to return often."― Bed and Breakfast America In addition to writing, USA Today bestselling author Karen MacInerney teaches writers' workshops and drives a mean carpool. Her book Murder on the Rocks was selected as an Agatha nominee for Best First Novel. When she's not working on her next book or chauffeuring children, she loves to read, drink coffee, attempt unusual recipes, and hit the local hike-and-bike trail. Karen lives in Austin, Texas, with her two children and a rabbit named Bunny, and she escapes to Maine as often as possible. The alarm rang at 6 AM, jolting me out from under my down comforter and into a pair of slippers. As much as I enjoyed innkeeping, I would never get used to climbing out of bed while everyone else was still sleeping. Ten minutes later I was in the kitchen, inhaling the aroma of dark-roasted coffee as I tapped it into the coffeemaker and gazing out the window at the gray-blue morning. Fog, it looked like―the swirling mist had swallowed even the Cranberry Rock lighthouse, just a quarter of a mile away. I grabbed the sugar and flour canisters from the pantry and dug a bag of blueberries out of the freezer for Wicked Blueberry Coffee Cake. The recipe was one of my favorites: not only did my guests rave over the butter-and-brown-sugar-drenched cake, but its simplicity was a drowsy cook's dream. The coffeepot had barely finished gurgling when I sprinkled the pan of dimpled batter with brown-sugar topping and eased it into the oven. My eyes focused on the clock above the sink: 6:30. Just enough time for a relaxed thirty minutes on the kitchen porch. Equipped with a mug of steaming French-roast coffee, I grabbed my blue windbreaker from its hook next to the door and headed out into the gray Maine morning. As hard as it was to drag myself out of a soft, warm bed while it was still dark outside, I loved mornings on Cranberry Island. I settled myself into a white-painted wooden rocker and took a sip of strong, sweet coffee. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks was muted, but mesmerizing. I inhaled the tangy air as I rocked, watching the fog twirl around the rocks and feeling the kiss of a breeze on my cheeks. A tern wheeled overhead as the thrum of a lobster boat rumbled across the water, pulsing and fading as it moved from trap to trap. "Natalie!" A voice from behind me shattered my reverie. I jumped at the sound of my name, spilling coffee on my legs. "I was looking for you." Bernard Katz's bulbous nose protruded from the kitchen door. I stood up and swiped at my coffee-stained jeans. I had made it very clear that the kitchen was off-limits to guests–not only was there a sign on the door, but it was listed in the house rules guests received when they checked in. "Can I help you with something?" I couldn't keep the anger from seeping into my voice. "We're going to need breakfast at seven. And my son and his wife will be joining us. She doesn't eat any fat, so you'll have to have something light for her." "But breakfast doesn't start until 8:30." "Yes, well, I'm sure you'll throw something together." He glanced at his watch, a Rolex the size of a life preserver. "Oops! You'd better get cracking. They'll be here in twenty minutes." I opened my mouth to protest, but he disappeared back into my kitchen with a bang. My first impulse was to storm through the door and tell Katz he could fish for his breakfast, but my business survival instinct kicked in. Breakfast at seven? Fine. That would be an extra $50 on his bill