Megan Edwards is the author of the forthcoming novel A Coin for the Ferryman. Her other books include the travel memoir Roads from the Ashes: An Odyssey in Real Life on the Virtual Frontier, the humor book Caution: Funny Signs Ahead, the award-winning Copper Black mystery novels Getting off on Frank Sinatra and Full Service Blonde, and the award-winning novel Strings: A Love Story. Edwards holds a B.A. in classics from Scripps College and an M.A. from Claremont Graduate University. She has lived and traveled extensively in Europe and spent nearly seven years “on the road” all over North America. Now at home in Las Vegas, Nevada, she is working on her next book.

For more information, visit MeganEdwards.com and connect with Megan on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Goodreads.

“Edwards makes an assured fiction debut. This amusing mystery stars aspiring journalist Copper Black, a contributor to a Las Vegas newspaper, who must navigate a multitude of personal and professional hurdles…Copper learns enough secrets to make deadly enemies before emerging bruised, battered, victorious, and primed for new comic adventures.”— Publisher’s Weekly

“Copper’s debut has enough pizzazz to make readers want to try just one more roll of the dice.”—- Kirkus Reviews

“This is a novel that has action, drama, comedy, suspense, a few surprises and paints a colorful tapestry of modern Las Vegas.”- The Good Men Project

“‘Getting off on Frank Sinatra’ is a wild romp through Sin City through the eyes of the main character, Copper Black, who finds herself knee deep in a murder mystery.”– Francine Brokaw, The Daily Herald

“The setting of the story, in fast-paced Las Vegas, is an excellent choice for this mystery/thriller, considering the tendencies toward loose living, crime, love gone bad, and people who live on the edge. An enjoyable read, characters are easy to like and one wants to take Copper under their wings and guide her along..”– Carol Hoyer, Reader Views

***** “Copper Black is not your typical Vegas girl, and this is not your typical cozy mystery! Copper Black is an up-and-coming journalist, who is quick-witted, smart, and has delightful spunk … and she has just uncovered the murder of the decade! This was an immense joy to read, and I just could not put it down! You have a fan for life,”– Amanda Goodpasture, NetGalley

“With a narrative highlighted by light violence, and a fish-out-of-water protagonist stumbling over clues, Edwards’s “Getting Off on Frank Sinatra” proves to be a nimble beginning for this crime series.”– Gary Presley, Foreword Reviews

“From its sly title to its high-energy ending, Getting off on Frank Sinatra is a delightful romp rooted in Las Vegas’ intoxicating history. In this sunny crime drama, Edwards captures the fun of residing in the nation’s most improbable small town.”— Laura McBride, author of We Are Called To Rise

“A must read for all mystery and crime novel readers, Megan Edwards’ new novel (is) “Getting off on Frank Sinatra.”–Judy Shields, The Hollywood Times

“Full of plot twists, historical and unknown facts about Las Vegas like the neon signs junk yard, “Getting off on Frank Sinatra” is an entertaining mystery that will have you chuckle and on edge.”– Hampton Rhodes, zootscoop.com

A zany, fun, action-packed tale that will keep you laughing and turning the pages. The magic of Las Vegas and its cast of characters are on full-display and will completely charm you. Getting off on Frank Sinatra is entertainment worthy of Sin City, America’s entertainment capital.”– Deborah Coonts, author of The Lucky O’Toole Vegas Adventure Series.

“Megan Edwards views her adopted city with a journalist’s eye and an insider’s understanding of what makes us tick.”-— Brian Rouff, Author of Money Shot

“Megan Edwards spins a brilliant tale filled with sharp humor and characters who will lead you on a quintessential Vegas adventure. I cannot recommend it highly enough.”— Oksana Marafioti Author of American Gypsy: A Memoir

“A fun Las Vegas ride!”— Doug Elfman, Author/Journalist, Las Vegas Review-Journal

Chapter 1:

My life in Las Vegas improved dramatically when I started getting off on Frank Sinatra. That’s what I tell people. Then, while they’re still trying to figure out how to react, I continue.

“I’d like to get off on Dean Martin, too, but I just can’t. And in case you’re interested, Mel Tormé is too short, Hugh Hefner’s a dead end, and I can never remember whether Jerry Lewis goes both ways.”

The truth is, I can never even remember where Jerry Lewis is exactly, but I know there’s a street named after him somewhere on the west side. Hugh Hefner is really just a driveway next to the Palms casino, and Mel Tormé can claim only one block near the Fashion Show Mall. Frank Sinatra, on the other hand, really takes a girl places. When I-15 is jammed, I leave the red lights to the tourists and slip off to join the taxis and locals zipping unimpeded up the back side of the Strip. Dean Martin serves almost the same purpose on the other side of the freeway, but he didn’t rate an exit. So Ol’ Blue Eyes is my man. When life in the fast lane slows to a crawl, I know I can count on Frank for relief.

In fact, getting off on Frank Sinatra saved my life the time a crazed maniac in a jacked-up Ram pickup tried to push me off the freeway. If Frank hadn’t been right there offering a quick getaway, bits of my DNA might still be clinging to the embankment just north of Russell Road.

Now that I think of it, Frank Sinatra also helped me out the day I found my first dead body. It was the hottest day of the millennium, and I had not only discovered the bloody corpse of a local philanthropist, but I’d spent more than three highly stressful hours with a homicide detective who was trying to decide whether I was capable of mutilating a woman’s face and strangling her with a drapery cord. A traffic jam on the way home might well have turned me into a genuine psycho killer, but there was good ol’ Frank waiting to fly me to the moon. Or at least get me up to Flamingo without committing a felony.

I should never have found that body, let alone recognize that it belonged to Marilyn Weaver. Yes, that Marilyn Weaver, the founder of the most prestigious school in Las Vegas and the city’s best-loved altruist. I had met her only the day before, and I had met her son just that afternoon. How I ended up snooping in her bedroom, looking inside her closet, and entangling myself in a high-profile murder investigation is a perfect example of that plentiful Las Vegas commodity: bad luck. I’m going to call it bad luck, at least. Because if I don’t call it bad luck, I’ll be stuck agreeing with what I know my family and friends think: It was David’s fault.

Before my rendezvous with murder, David Nussbaum and I were as perfect a pair as Barbie and Ken. Like them, we were designed to complement each other. I’m blonde, and he’s dark. He’s Jewish, and I’m a WASP. We do have some things in common, of course. We both come from commuter towns north of Manhattan, and we both went to Princeton. I still think it’s ironic that we met in Las Vegas instead of on the East Coast, and until everything flipped upside down, it was my favorite coincidence. The day I hooked up with David was the day I smelled the roses, saw the birds, and heard the music. The morning he turned twenty-eight, I still lived in paradise.

By midnight, I’d moved to hell.

Trade Paper:  $15.00 US / $20.50 CDN ISBN:  978-0997236903 — First Edition:  March 2017
ePub: $9.99 US / $13.60 CDN  ISBN: 978-0997236927
Audiobook: Unabridged 10 hours/44 minutes, Em Eldridge, Narrator
$26.00 US / $35.53 CDN  ISBN:  978-0997236910