SAFELY BURIED Chapter 2: Smell of Death

by John Pesta

This is the second chapter of the serialized mystery novel "Safely Buried." New installments appear every Sunday. To see all chapters in sequence, click here.

“Peee-uuuu,” Paula said with a cringe and a shiver, “what died in here?”

The rotten smell filled my nose and mouth and seared my eyes. I tried to blow the dirty air out of my mouth before it reached my throat and lungs. I felt as if worms were already inside me.

Paula raised her top over the tip of her nose, exposing her midriff. “I’m going to open the windows,” she said. “Leave the front door open too, okay?”

She staggered into the living room, which lay to the right of a wide stairway that led to the second floor. I followed her to the tall windows. The high-ceilinged room contained only a few pieces of furniture, none of which seemed to belong in the old house. In one corner was an L-shaped black sofa with overstuffed seats and back pillows. A reclining chair with cup holders was parked too close to a giant flat-screen TV. A poster of the Grateful Dead hung above the fireplace, and a shaggy muddy green rug covered about a third of the floor, where several empty beer bottles lay amid sections of the Campbellsville Gleaner, my employer.

I got one of the windows open and poked my nose against the screen to grab a breath of clean air. Just to be saying something, I said, “Sometimes in these old houses rats and mice die in the walls.”

AUGUST MORNING

by Maureen O'Hara Pesta

SAFELY BURIED Chapter 1: A Woman in a Cast

by John Pesta

This is the first chapter of the serialized mystery novel "Safely Buried." New installments appear every Sunday. To see all chapters in sequence, click here.

It was ten at night. I had just come off I-65, and my high beams lit her up from behind. She was walking along the road between dark, endless cornfields, and her right leg was in a cast. She wore denim shorts and a yellow tank top that didn’t quite reach the shorts. Without crutches, she moved as fast as she could on the gravelly shoulder. She would take a long step with her good leg, stiffly swing the cast forward the same distance, and immediately start the next step. Tilting jerkily, she looked as if she would fall with every stride. I crossed the centerline to give her more room to fall. Just as I was about to pass her, she glanced over her shoulder and stuck out a thumb.

I thought her car must have broken down back up the road. But if that was the problem, why hadn’t she stayed there instead of striking out for Campbellsville, eight miles away? I was tempted to keep on going—I didn’t make a habit of picking up hitchhikers. But there she was, nearly helpless. How could I leave her out here in the middle of nowhere?

CITY GIRL

by Maureen O'Hara Pesta

READING MATTER

by Maureen O'Hara Pesta

MASKED MAN

by Jesse Pesta

CONDENSED LIFE HISTORIES

by Maureen O'Hara Pesta

WAIT

by Maureen O'Hara Pesta

APOSTOLOS THE LANDLORD

by Abigail Pesta

Another day, another charming letter from my landlord.

"I noticed that you have flowerpots on the windowsills -- make sure you don't leave rings of dirt behind," this one read.

The little notes were arriving with increased frequency, ever since I told him I'd need to break the lease. I had a good enough reason: I was being transferred to Hong Kong by my employer; my time in London was up. To soften the blow, I'd even found him a brand-new tenant for the apartment, so he wouldn't lose a single cent of rent.

Still, he couldn't quite wrap his brain around it. He thought I was getting away with something.

WHAT WOULD BUDDHA DO

by Abigail Pesta

Can there be a more enlightened way to start the new year than by going to a Buddhist brunch?

My friend Cecile invited me to one on New Year's Day, and I said yes right away. It sounded like the perfect chance to regain some dignity after a night of drinking, lunacy and self-reproach. Plus there would be finger food.

I didn't know what exactly to expect at Cecile's party. But one thing's for sure: A Buddhist brunch raises the stakes on the hostess gift. Lots of opportunities for bad karma.

THE MYSTERY OF THE HAT

by Abigail Pesta

I met Emma at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Houston, and we sat for a few minutes on a bench outside the deserted basketball court. It felt like the coldest day of the year. The black city sludge in the gutter was frozen rock solid. Overhead, the branches of a tree -- hopelessly tangled with plastic bags -- were whipped by the bitter wind.

But none of this mattered to Emma, because she was in love and wanted to spend the afternoon telling me about it.

She looked radiant and pixie-like, wearing a striped knit cap with a fuzzy ball swinging on the end of a piece of yarn. "I am so in love!" she declared.

I, on the other hand, had spent the morning composing angry mental letters to an old boyfriend. Perhaps it made me a less-than-ideal sounding board for Emma. But here we were.

WARPLANE

by Jesse Pesta