By Bonnie Daly
It was well past midnight when I crawled underneath the covers. I had decidedly never been so comfortable in my entire life when the phone rang...
“Detective Ratcliff? This is Officer Shelby. Sorry to disturb you at this hour, but can you please meet us at 456 West Carriage Street? We’ve got a murder on our hands.”
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
I sighed, groaned, seriously contemplated staying where I was, then threw off the covers and got dressed. As I drove across town, waiting for my car’s heater to wake up, I thought how much easier my life would be if murderers were considerate, well-mannered individuals who could wait till at least ten in the morning to do their dirty work.