'Til Death Do Us Part by Amanda Quick Page A

embellished with depressing scenes of crypts and headstones. An entire shelf was filled with elegant little bottles made to catch and hold the tears of those who grieved.
    There was also a great deal of black-bordered funeral stationery arranged according to the various stages of mourning—the wider the borders, the more recent the bereavement.
    One wall featured empty picture frames decorated with weeping angels and skulls and skeletons. They were designed for postmortem pictures of the deceased who was often posed with the living. Calista did not care for the modern habit of summoning a photographer to take a picture of the dead. It was, however, a popular practice and more than one photographer made a living with the business of death.
    Mrs. Fulton’s fingertip stopped halfway down a page. “Ah, here we are. One patented safety coffin bell inscribed with the initials
C
and
L
. Ordered by a Mr. John Smith.”
    Disappointment splashed through Calista. She glanced at Trent and shook her head ever so slightly. There was no John Smith on her list of rejected clients. The name meant nothing to her.
    Nevertheless, she told herself, it was a name; a starting point, perhaps.
    â€œIs there an address?” Trent asked.
    â€œNo, I’m afraid not.” Mrs. Fulton snapped the journal closed and put it back under the counter. “The bell was paid for in cash so there was no need for an address.”
    Trent took a card out of a small case and placed it on the counter. “If you think of any other information about Mr. Smith, please feel free to send word to this address. I promise that there will be a large gratuity for further details.”
    Mrs. Fulton picked up the card and studied it closely. “Are you the author of the Clive Stone novels by any chance?”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, yes,” Trent said.
    â€œHmm. I’m reading
The Affair of the Missing Bride
in the
Flying Intelligencer
. I must say, I rather like the character of Wilhelmina Preston.”
    â€œThank you,” Trent said.
    â€œI do hope you don’t kill her off in the end.”
    â€œIf I do, I promise you that she will be buried in a J. P. Fulton patented safety coffin with a bell.”
    Mrs. Fulton flushed with pleasure. “That would be excellent for my business.”
    â€œSomething to keep in mind should you choose to assist us in our inquiries,” Trent said. “One more thing, what about the coffin?”
    Mrs. Fulton looked taken aback. Clearly she had not expected the question.
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œYou said the bell Miss Langley received only works with your specially designed safety coffins,” Trent said. “I would like to know if this John Smith also purchased one of those.”
    Mrs. Fulton managed a brittle smile. “As I recall, the customer wanted the bell first so that he could give it to his dying fiancée while she was still on this earthly plane. He thought it would comfort her to know that if she was accidentally buried alive and woke up in her coffin she would be able to ring the bell for rescue. J. P. Fulton bells make a very thoughtful gift for the nearly departed.”
    Calista could scarcely breathe.
    â€œHas Smith returned to purchase the coffin?” she asked.
    â€œNot yet, but I’m expecting him any day. He assured me that it wouldn’t be long now before it was needed.”

12
    â€œM RS . F ULTON WAS lying,” Trent said.
    An invigorating sense of anticipation heated his blood. Something was amiss at the mourning goods shop. He was certain of it.
    Calista had been gazing reflectively out the window as the cab rolled forward down the street. But at his words she turned quickly to fix him with an intent expression.
    â€œDo you really think so?” she asked.
    â€œI can’t be positive,” he admitted. “I was trying to read upside down because we were on the opposite side of the counter. I couldn’t