Read Online Doyle After Death by John Shirley - Free Book Online Page B

Chauncey?”
    â€œI 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. Some others come over from the other side recently, besides me?”
    â€œOh yes, indeed, two yesterday evening. A rather dotty Jamaican fellow shot in a robbery. Oh and a lady—­a nice young lady from Minnesota, the victim of a drunk driver. Of course millions die, but relatively few come through Garden Rest. They all have their destinations.” He cleared his throat. “Right. Here for an orientation chat, are you? Cup of tea?”
    â€œI just had some coffee but I can always use some orientation, especially when I’m . . .” I started to say hung over, but remembered that, blessedly, I wasn’t feeling one, since a hangover couldn’t happen here. “I’m really here to ask about Morgan Harris.”
    â€œOh—­that! Well, come in, come in . . .” I had to duck my head to get through the low doorway. He ushered me to a dim, musty hall with exposed rafters within reach overhead, and age-­darkened brick walls.
    As he closed the door behind me, I said, “Funny how lived -­in the buildings here seem.”
    â€œWell, I’ve been here a long time, and before me—­oh, was that a bit of humor? ‘Lived in?’ ” He gave a polite smile. “Flash of wit, ah? Most amusing.” He led me down the hall to a sitting room where a tea ser­vice was laid out on a low table by a cold fireplace. “I expect you’ll get the lecture from the major about how we’re not ghosts , per se, we’re living ­people, and all that.”
    â€œGot that one already,” I said, as we sat on a small, creaking blue velvet sofa, and he reached for the tea. “And about how we’re ‘aftered.’ I just might start a committee to work up a better term than aftered. ”
    â€œMight you!” Mayor Chauncey seemed pleased as he poured himself some tea. “Good-­ oh! Don’t care for the term myself. Brummigen has us all but indoctrinated with it but the term hasn’t quite the mellifluency one would like. Doyle wanted to go with re-­spirited , but that’s yet more awkward, seems to me.”
    â€œRe-­spirited sounds like recycled , as if we’re all old pop bottles.”
    â€œDon’t know the term recycled .”
    â€œI think the term became commonplace in the mid 1970s.”
    â€œAh. I passed on in 1972.” His lips compressed and his eyes went out of focus, for a moment, as he remembered his death. “Yes. Leukemia, don’t you know—­thankfully cancer is something we don’t have here.” He brightened, and rubbed his hands together. “Well! I’ll find us some volunteers and we’ll sit on your committee soonest!”
    He seemed to be perfectly serious. Me, I hadn’t been serious about the committee. But it might be useful at that. “Ah—­okay. Let me know.”
    â€œSure you won’t have some tea, nice crumpet? I expect you call them English muffins. Almost tastes like one. Not my main morning meal, of course, but soothing.”
    â€œNo thanks, you go ahead. Mr. Mayor—­”
    â€œOh, do call me Winn. It’s Winnie, you know. I was born in 1926, the year Winnie-­the-­Pooh came out. My mother was rather too keen on Winnie the Pooh. I prefer Winn. Just save the ‘Mr. Mayor’ for that committee.”
    â€œWinn—­Major Brummigen thinks the remains we found might be those of Harris Morgan. Since Morgan’s been missing. The major said they were about the right general shape. Doyle thought so, too.”
    â€œDoyle is a wise man—­wiser now than in his earlier life. Did you ask the Lamplighter for confirmation as to the identity of the remains?”
    â€œNo—­would he know for sure?”
    â€œThe