On the door a small brass plaque read HIS HONOR, WINN CHAUNCEY MAYOR OF GARDEN REST The mayor himself, wearing an old-fashioned mayor’s sash over a blazer, answered my knock, looking hazily surprised but not unfriendly. Chauncey was a tall, gaunt man with lined red cheeks, and a long neck displaying a prominent Adam’s apple. He seemed to have settled on his mid-forties for his afterlife appearance, perhaps for the avuncular gravitas of it. He had a shock of white-streaked black hair, for the late 1930s, a yellow ascot, and shiny black shoes. The mayor looked me over, thick gray-black eyebrows bobbing. “Ah, one of the new chaps!” His accent suggested southern England. “Morning,” I said. “Are you Mayor Chauncey?” “I am, in point of fact, Mayor Chauncey, yes.” We shook hands. His long fingers seemed fragile, and warm. “Yes sir, I’m new. Nick Fogg.
