ByMartha Culver

Martha Culver resides, wives, parents, works and Twitters outside of Boston. She is obsessed with classic British mysteries and and occasionally blogs about them (and other stuff.)

  1. It’s after midnight on a Saturday night in mid-August in upstate New York. My husband signals and turns right onto the ramp to I-87 South. I’m in the passenger seat, trying to sleep and failing miserably. I haven’t drunk any coffee, but adrenaline courses through my veins like caffeine. Just go to sleep already, I tell myself. You have to drive soon. Sleep. Sleep.


    My sister finally gets through at 11.  We…