The only 3-time winner of the Best Novel Edgar turns 87 today.
Forty years ago, I walked into a little convenience store in Austin, Texas, and pulled the book on the left off the spinner rack. (Yes, that very one. I still have it.) I opened it up and read the first paragraph:
I was never particularly keen on my job before the day I got shot and nearly lost it, along with my life. But the .38 slug of lead which made a pepper shaker out of my intestines left me with fire in my belly in more ways than one. Otherwise I should never have met Zanna Martin, and would still be held fast in the spider threads of departed joys, of no use to anyone, least of all myself.
Naturally I bought the book, then the ones preceding it, and I've read each novel since. I don't care who wrote the books. I've enjoyed every single one of them, and I plan to keep right on reading them for a while.