Red Gardenias

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"There s a burglar downstairs," Ann Fortune said.

"A burglar?" William Crane sat up in the colonial four-poster, blinked his eyes in the light. "A burglar?"

"He didn t send up a card," Ann said.

Crane modestly pulled the patchwork quilt about him. "Let him burgle." Ash-gray, like cigarette smoke, his breath hung in the air. "It isn t our house."

"Everyone thinks it is."

"Do we care what a burglar thinks?"

"Yes." She tried not to smile, but her sea-green eyes crinkled at the corners. "You have to go down and shoot him."

"Oh, very well," he said. "I ll go down and shoot him in the leg."

He swung his feet over the side of the bed. The air was very cold near the floor. He put his feet back under the covers.

She watched from the bedroom door. "Well?"

"You re beautiful," he said.

"Aren t you going to shoot him?"

"Beautiful, blonde… and bloodthirsty!"

"Not so loud. You ll frighten him."

"I hope I do."

"You re a fine, brave detective. I thought — " She hesitated for a halved second. "Hear him?"

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