The Deceased's Last Laugh (and a Rather Stiff Upper Lip)

Bartholomew "Barty" Guzzle considered himself a connoisseur of the deceased. Not in a macabre, Hannibal Lecter way, but in the nuanced art of making the unmoving look utterly serene. His latest canvas: Mrs. Agnes Periwinkle, a woman whose life had been a masterclass in passive-aggression, culminating in a rather abrupt, yet stylish, encounter with a runaway garden gnome. In death, Agnes was, well, *stiff*. Very stiff. And faintly green. Barty, mid-embalming, noticed a small, intricately carved wooden box clutched in her rigor-mortised hand. "Agnes," he murmured, "even in the great beyond, you're clutching your pearls, aren't you?" With practiced ease (and a well-placed pry-bar), he opened it. Inside, nestled on a velvet cushion, was a single, perfectly preserved human finger. And a tiny, elegant note: "Dearest Harold, you always said you’d give your right arm for a piece of me. You’ll have to settle for a digit. – Agnes." Barty stared, then let out a wheezing, delighted laugh that echoed through the embalming room. "Agnes, you absolute fiend!" he gasped, wiping a tear from his eye. "Even in death, you're still cutting someone off. Jerry!" he bellowed to his assistant. "Get me a miniature velvet display case and a special delivery service. Harold's about to get the shock of his life, literally."