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"Charming . . . The mix of books, cooking, and an engaging whodunit will leave cozy fans eager for the new installment." —
Publishers Weekly

"Move over, Cabot Cove. Lorna Barrett's new cozy creation,
Murder Is Binding
, has it all: wonderful old books, quirky characters, a clever mystery, and a cat named Miss Marple!"

—Roberta Isleib, author of

"A mystery bookstore in a sleepy New England town, a cat named Miss Marple, a nasty murder, and a determined heroine make Barrett's delightful debut mystery everything a cozy lover could want and more. Bravo!"

—Leann Sweeney, author of

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervi sion. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

BOOKMARKED FOR DEATH

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2009 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 1-4406-9828-7

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

I don't work in a vacuum—at least I hope I don't. Therefore, I'd like to say a public thank-you to my writer chums who've been so generous with their time and expertise. My friend and fellow Berkley Prime Crime author Sheila Connolly is wonderful when it comes to brainstorming. She shared some pictures with me that were the inspiration for two of the subplots within the book. (To see them, check out my Web site—where you can also sign up for my periodic newsletter: Lorna Barrett .com.) She's a great pal and a wonderful critique partner.

Thank you to Sharon Wildwind for sharing her medical knowledge, as well as tidbits on a half dozen other subjects; to Hank Phillippi Ryan for her tips on reporters and how they behave; and to Sandra Parshall and the rest of my Sisters In Crime chapter, the Guppies, for answering so many of my questions—at all hours of the day and night. Jeanne Munn Bracken let me pump her for information on librarians, and her friend Richard Putnam provided local color. Marilyn Levinson, Shawn McDonald, and Gwen Nelson were my beta readers and gave me great input. Thanks, guys!

Crowded behind
a table with her two employees and her guest author, Tricia Miles, owner of the Haven't Got a Clue mystery bookstore, held the left end of the sheet cake and flashed her most winning smile. "Cheese," she called along with the others.

   "Oh, darn," Frannie Mae Armstrong said from behind her digital camera. As the only member of the Tuesday Night Book Club who owned such a camera, Frannie had been designated the group's official photographer for all signing events.

   Behind her, Tricia's older-by-five-years sister, Angelica, flapped her hands in the air, encouraging them all to smile brightly. Her grin was positively demonic.

   Tricia fought the urge to deck her.

   A sigh from her near right and the muttered "Get on with it" also grated on Tricia's nerves.

   Historical mystery author Zoë Carter turned her head and sighed as well, her patience waning—not with Frannie but with her assistant, who shifted from foot to foot. "Kimberly, please!"

   Kimberly Peters, a skinny, bored, twenty-something in a wrinkled gray suit, ran a hand through her shaggy strawcolored hair, and sighed.

   Frannie laughed nervously, pressed the button, and the flash went off. Tricia's facial muscles relaxed as Frannie studied the miniature screen on the back of the camera.

   "Oh, Mr. Everett, you must've blinked. Let's go for another one." She moved the viewfinder back against her eye.

   In his late seventies, William Everett was Tricia's oldest yet newest employee. He gave her an anxious glance.

   "Do you mind?" Tricia asked the best-selling author.

   "Of course not," Zoë said patiently. "I'm here for all my fans."

   "Say cheese!" Frannie encouraged in her strongest Texas twang.

   Dutifully, Tricia, Zoë, Mr. Everett, and Tricia's other employee, Ginny Wilson—at twenty-four the baby of the group—complied. The flash went off and Frannie inspected the results. "Perfect!"

   A round of applause from Angelica and the members of the Tuesday Night Book Club greeted her announcement. Zoë's talk had gone well, if not spectacularly. Though she'd spoken in little more than a monotone, the twenty or so shoppers who'd crowded into the narrow bookstore for what was the last stop on Zoë's first and only national book tour had listened politely. Most of them had also picked up more than one copy of the book—for friends, family, and, in some cases, to put away and never be read. Signed first editions could be valuable, even for Ne
w York Times
best sellers like Zoë Carter.

   Stoneham's master baker, Nikki Brimfield, and her assistant, Steve Fenton, took charge of the eats table, assembling napkins, plates, and plastic cutlery.

   Zoë sat down behind the stack of books on the larger of the two tables, away from the frosting and punch, and picked up her gold Cross pen, ready to sign. Kimberly leaned back against a bookshelf and folded her arms over her chest, looking aggrieved.

   Frannie was the first in line, clutching three copies of Zoë's last book, Foreve
r Cherished
. She thrust her free hand forward, shaking Zoë's arm so forcefully the petite woman was nearly pulled from her chair. "I sure am glad to meet you at last, Miz Carter. I'm the receptionist over at the Chamber of Commerce. My boss, Bob Kelly, has spoken to you a number of times."

   "Uh, yes. I believe I remember him," Zoë said, with a hint of scorn in her voice.

   Frannie missed it. "I just started reading mysteries a few months back, after meeting Tricia," she said, flashing a grateful smile in Tricia's direction. "Of course, my very favorite author is Nora Roberts. What a storyteller, and you're guaranteed at least three books a year from her—not counting the ones she writes as J. D. Robb."

   Kimberly rolled her eyes. "That hack? A reader can get dizzy from all that head hopping. And her prose—? Don't get me started."

   Frannie's jaw dropped, and Tricia stood by, both aghast at this assault on one of the romance genre's icons.

   "Kimberly, why don't you go outside for a cigarette break?" a tight-lipped Zoë suggested.

   "It's cold. And, anyway, you know I'm trying to cut down."

   "But—but—" Frannie sputtered around the wad of gum in her mouth. "But I like Miz Nora's books. And millions of other people do, too."

   "There's no accounting for taste," Kimberly said. She indicated the bright green palm fronds on Frannie's long Hawaiian shirt over a turtleneck and slacks. "And what's with the getup?"

   Frannie looked down at herself. She longed to retire to the Aloha State one day, and her attire was the closest she could get to it while living in the great state of New Hampshire. "Getup?" she echoed, puzzled.

   But Kimberly had already forgotten about her and rummaged through the handbag hanging off her shoulder, turning up a crushed pack of smokes. She moved away.

   Frannie's jaw tightened, her mouth a thin line. She glanced down at the books still cradled in her left arm.