“What was it Fred used to call me?” Aunt Bernice sat down on the stairs, forehead perplexed. “What was it—you know, darling, whenever he saw me in that apricot gown, with the white gloves up to my elbows?  It was a darned great phrase…”
Not noticing the ghost, Aunt Bernice sat and wrung her hands. Finally, her face brightened with recollection.  “I remember! Murder in orange.  Old Fred used to say, ‘You look just like murder in orange, Berny.’” She gave a trumpeting laugh.  “And heaven knows, he was right.”
The ghost glared long after she left the room.