Barty Butterfield's Serene Smiles

Bartholomew 'Barty' Butterfield hummed a jaunty tune, adjusting the bow tie on old Mrs. Higgins. 'Now, Doris,' he murmured, tilting her head slightly, 'we agreed, darling, a touch of rouge, not a full clown face. And that sapphire pendant? A bit much for eternal rest, don't you think? It clashes with the mahogany.'

Doris, predictably, said nothing. Barty sighed, reaching for a small brush. 'Honestly, some people just don't put in the effort, even in death.' He worked meticulously, smoothing her grey hair, which, he noted with a tut, had a surprising amount of static for a woman who hadn't moved in three days.

His biggest challenge was always the 'serene smile.' Some folks just wouldn't cooperate, dying with grimaces or, worse, expressions of utter bewilderment. Doris was leaning towards bewildered. Barty tried a few gentle manipulations. Nothing. He stepped back, hands on hips. 'Alright, Doris,' he declared, pulling out a tiny, almost surgical-looking tube of superglue. 'If you won't smile on your own, we'll give you a *suggestion* of a smile. Just a whisper of contentment. Nobody needs to know the true nature of your final thoughts, do they?'

He applied a tiny bead to the corners of her mouth, holding it for a precise ten seconds. 'Perfect,' he whispered, admiring his handiwork. 'Subtle, dignified, and utterly convincing. Just like the deceased wanted, probably. Now, about those hands... do we go clasped over the chest, or a more casual, 'just resting after a long journey' vibe?' He paused, tapping his chin. 'Let's go with clasped. It gives a better opportunity to showcase the rings. And honestly, Doris, you spent a fortune on those, it'd be a shame to waste the sparkle.'