CriminalElement.com, a website hosted by my publisher, asked me to write a first-person account of my night at the Edgar Awards Banquet. Here it is.
In my imagination, mystery novelists spend long days writing in T-shirts and jeans (or maybe their underwear) pounding out the stories that keep the rest of us reading late into the night. But last Thursday, they waltzed into Manhattan’s Grand Hyatt Hotel in sharp-creased black tie and glittering gowns.
Harlan Coben looked right at home in a perfectly tailored tuxedo. Laura Lippman dazzled in a shimmering golden sheath. Tim Hallinan squirmed uncomfortably in his monkey suit, his black bowtie askew.
Heads turned as an elegant grand dame floated in. She was encased in a figure-hugging black dress that exposed one ivory shoulder. I managed not to wolf whistle.
“Who is that?” my daughter Melanie asked.
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