Free Deep Dish by Mary Kay Andrews Page A

minute.
    “Poor baby,” she crooned, putting her hand up against the screen. The dog licked her hand through the screen, and her heart melted.
    She looked around. Nobody was in sight, and clearly, this poor penned-up creature was in dire straits.
    “Did the bad man go off and leave you all alone?” she asked, in a singsong, babyish voice.
    In response, the dog hurled himself again at the door. He stood up, a little wobbly-legged this time.
    She tried the door, but it wouldn’t budge. She grasped the handle again and yanked, hard.
    The door flew open, and the dog shot out like a rocket.
    “Whoa!” Regina cried. The dog ran over to one of the pine trees, lifted his leg, and relieved himself, taking what seemed to her at least five minutes.
    “Poor thing,” she said again. “I’ll bet you were about to explode in there.”
    When the dog was done, he trotted over to Regina.
    “Good boy,” she said encouragingly. “Come on. Let’s get you back inside.”
    The dog cocked his head to one side, and she could have sworn he winked at her. She took a step forward, one hand extended, as though she had a delicious treat to offer him.
    When she was within a foot of the dog, she reached out to grab his collar, and without warning, the dog took off.
    “Hey,” she called, as he zoomed across the asphalt. “Come back!”
    He appeared to be headed straight for the double doors leading to the Vittles set, and he was barking his head off, as if to tell his master he was coming home.
    One of the doors opened, and the dog ran inside.

Chapter 13
    T ate was demonstrating his grandmother’s method for seasoning a cast-iron skillet.
    “BoBo, pull the camera in as close as you can get on that,” Valerie instructed. “Tate, turn your wrist and look into the camera.”
    “I’m not double-jointed, Val,” Tate griped.
    Just then, a medium-size bundle of white-and-brown fur burst onto the set, propped his front paws on the kitchen counter, and snatched the basket of hush puppies that had just come out of the deep fryer.
    “Son of a bitch,” BoBo hollered as the dog streaked past, spilling the boiling hot fritters all over the floor.
    “Moonpie!” Tate yelled, dropping the skillet.
    “Cut!” Val screamed. “Cut, damn it.”
    Beside her at the editing table, she could swear she heard Zeke, the silent assistant, snigger.
    “Tate, get that damned dog out of here,” Val ordered.
    Having managed to corner the English setter beneath the set’s rustic kitchen table, Tate was holding out a bit of fried shellcracker, trying to lure the dog out.
    “I didn’t let him in,” Tate said. “Last time I checked, he was locked up safe and sound in the trailer.”
    “Well, somebody let him in,” the producer said waspishly. “And he’s just destroyed the swap-out for the hush puppies.”
    “Get the girls to fix some more,” Tate said, just as waspishly. “It’s only cornmeal and buttermilk, for Pete’s sake.”
    “Connie?” Val’s head swiveled in the direction of her prep cook. “How long will that take?”
    The heavyset black woman wiped her face with the edge of her white apron. “It’ll take a while. We don’t have any more cornmeal. I’ll have to send somebody out to get some more.”
    “For Christ’s sake!” Val snapped.
    “Here, Moonpie,” Tate called softly, attempting to wedge his body under the table. “Come get the nice fish. You love fish. It goes great with hush puppies.”
    The dog chewed happily on the basket that had contained the fritters and edged backward, away from his master.
    “Do dogs like fried fish?” Zeke asked.
    “I don’t know,” Adelman said. “Tate, does that dog of yours like fried fish?”
    Tate groaned as he stood up. “Only if I fix it.”
    Without warning, the dog chose that moment to dash out from under the table, where BoBo, who’d been backing away from the set and the dog, promptly tripped over him, sending his heavy camera clattering to the concrete floor. Moonpie