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Dietz took in the packed restaurant with satisfaction. The kitchen behind him bustled, metal clatter of utensils a percussionist’s dream. Roast pork, barbecue sauce, grilled corn and coleslaw teased the air in a medley of complementary aromas that ebbed and flowed like a musical cannon.
Picnic tables boasted Hog Hell red and blue checkerboard oilcloth. Tall plastic glasses of sweet tea (unsweetened for the unenlightened) sat at each place setting. But most guests of legal age were enjoying the complimentary beer.
Posters plastered rough barn-door walls and featured BeeBo, Felch, Sunny (in suitably revealing attire) and several of their dogs. He’d wanted a couple of the hounds present—some fans acted more passionate about the dogs than the people—but the health department killed that idea.
At the moment, Sunny “The Babe” Babcock flirted outrageously with Humphrey Fish. He’d arranged to have Fish sit at the head table with the cast, ostensibly for interview ease, but actually to keep an eye on the fellow. Sunny had very specific instructions, and so far, she’d followed the script to the letter and stroked Fish’s ego while deflecting any mention of problems. Sunny knew who wrote the checks.
Butterflies, not hunger, quivered his insides. He didn’t trust Grady. But he had no choice. At least Grady had the balls to get rid of the reporter’s body, and stop Felch from doing any more damage. “God bless the hungry little piggies,” he muttered, and then smiled and raised his hand when BeeBo entered the restaurant to loud cheers from the patrons.
Fish hopped from his chair and pumped BeeBo’s hand when he joined the head table. Dietz raised his eyebrows at Sunny, and she gave him a thumbs-up from across the room. She’d keep BeeBo from spouting off on the forbidden tangents.
They’d been lucky Grady saw the behaviorist talking with the reporter. Containing fallout from that bigmouth’s rumor had become a nightmare. His stomach rolled, and Dietz popped three antacid tablets. He didn’t want to know how Grady planned to keep the woman out of sight. They were in too deep now to be squeamish, and soon they’d be over the hump, as long as Grady showed up to finish the job.
Dietz had his own plans for some down time with the tasty babe-o-licious Sunny. Tonight set in motion all his future success. Dietz glanced at his watch. Another fifteen minutes until show time. Two big screen TVs gave everyone in the place a great view.
Dietz always was surprised at the cross-section of fans. Hunters should be the go-to demographic, but teenage boys—and even a few girls in the audience reflected the most recent polls. Here and there, well-dressed couples sipped their beverages of choice—mostly Lone Star—with a few overdressed people thinking “premier = evening attire” appearing mildly uncomfortable and out of place.
For the locals, this was the event of the season, though, and anyone able to snag a ticket to the limited seating made sure to attend. Dietz smiled. At least some plans worked.
By the time Felch went south, it was too late to cancel the watch party, even if he’d wanted. Besides, if the worst happened, Dietz had deniability. He hadn’t killed anyone, or stashed any bodies. He didn’t know any details. He was a producer/director/host of a reality show. The missing Felch was the bad guy here, and with any luck, he’d never be found. And if he were found, Dietz’d be properly shocked and appalled, and lay blame squarely where it belonged: on Grady’s shoulders.
Dietz had been a damn fine actor, after all. But so had Grady, and that made him wonder how much of the man’s story was true. He popped another antacid.
Grady entered the restaurant, and relief washed over Dietz as he waved him over. “You clean up good.” He wore the official show ski mask rolled up to perch atop his head. Grady wore the show uniform of camouflage hunter’s garb, with the blood-red hog silhouette outlined in DayGlow on the back of his jacket. Grady saw one sleeve of the new coat was torn and roughly stitched up. “Wait, is that makeup?” He peered closer at the man’s face. “What happened? Wait, I don’t want to know.”
Grady fingered the spot. “Best I could do on short notice. Got bit, but nothing serious.”
“She bit you? What the hell? You said everything’s under control! Did she see your face?” That was key. He didn’t want any more blood on his hands, but if September could identify Grady—and hence, the connection to him—all bets were off.
“Wore the mask like you said. Relax, nobody’s the wiser.”
“Counting on that.” He breathed in, out, in, out, waiting for his heartbeat to calm. “Okay, I’ll introduce you. Be the character. Remember, you love hunting and your hunting dogs are your life. The regular spiel. We good?”
Grady nodded, and a goober-grin lit up his face. “Juss fine and dandy.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and Dietz grimaced.
“Drawl is fine, but lose the drool. You’re not one of BeeBo’s hounds.” Dietz jerked his head toward the front of the screen. “Let’s get the others.”
Dietz made his way to where BeeBo held forth at the head table, entertaining the rest of the crew. He tapped the big man on his massive bare shoulder. BeeBo wore his signature camouflage pants and matching vest with a torn, stained—but clean—tee shirt, and he’d knocked the dirt clods off his boots. He also wore the official show hat, as did most of the crew members at the table. Sunny hadn’t put hers on yet, probably didn’t want to muss her hair. She’d cut the fingertips out of the blue gloves to show off her new manicure. Whatever.
“Hats on, everybody.” Dietz pulled one out of his pocket and pulled it onto his head. “We got two hundred of them, one for everybody in the restaurant.” The buzzing crowd started to quiet, sensing the evening entertainment was ready to begin. “Hope we have enough. Pass them out, BeeBo. You too, Sunny and Grady. And I’ll get this road on the show.” He embraced the rush that came with the virtual curtain rising, grabbed the mic at the front of the room and switched it on.
“Everyone having a great time?” The tentative response prompted a repeat of the question. “I said, having a GREAT TIME?” He flashed his practiced host smile when the room yelled back affirmative, and laughed out loud when a table of youngsters made pig-snorting sounds. Soon the whole room took up the noise. He held up a hand to quiet them. “Sounds like Hog Hell—music to my ears.” Cheers erupted and again he waited for the noise to fade. “I’m delighted you joined us tonight for a special evening, a watch party celebrating the renewal of Heartland’s very own reality show, Hog Hell. And your stars are here. BeeBo Benson.” He pointed, and the room cheered, while the big man’s moonlike face beamed with an ‘aw-shucks’ expression, clutching the trademark unlit cigar between his lips. “Sunny Babcock.” More cheers, mixed with wolf whistles as she struck a pose. “And a new cast member you’ll see more of soon, Vince Grady.” Grady doffed his cap and bowed, to polite applause. “Unfortunately, Randy Felch couldn’t be with us tonight.” Disappointed sounds and a few boos came from the youngsters’ table, and one of the adults shushed them with a stern expression. “Sorry. I’m disappointed, too. Called out of town indefinitely. You ask me,” he dropped his voice and stage whispered into the mic, “he got a call to Hollywood for his own show. But don’t tell, it’s a secret.” The room laughed, and Dietz knew he had them. Nothing better than when the crowd bit on every nugget, it fed their energy back to the performer. Magic.
“I hope you enjoy your own official Hog Hell gear. The cap and ski mask combo’ll keep your head warm and face toasty on those bitter cold days during a hunt. I can’t guarantee they’ll protect you from the flu, but it can’t hurt. Oh, and it’ll advertise the show, too.” He leaned forward. “I’m all about keeping locals working. Well, and me paid, too.” He laughed again at the happy response.
Most of the kids in the crowd immediately donned the ski masks, and a few of the adult men did as well. The ladies set the caps aside, but that was okay. He wanted as many men as possible out and about wearing the gear in the weeks ahead, to deflect any potential connection to the show if by chance Grady or Felch had been seen during their clean-up efforts.
“The fine people here at Hog Heaven have cooked up a great meal. Hmm, some lip-smacking food’ll be served any minute now. And I wanted everyone to know about our new project, a cooking show featuring more ways to roast up those tasty hogs, while getting rid of a problem that damages local economy. That’s right, High On The Hog cooking show airs right after the New Year, and our first featured restaurant is none other than your local homegrown talent here at Hog Heaven! C’mon out here, Louisa and Jim Sams, take a bow. The owners of Hog Heaven and hosts for tonight’s watch party!”
The middle-aged couple hurried out of the kitchen, smiling with embarrassed excitement at the applause and attention. Jim carried a cardboard carton, and Louisa held aloft a holiday themed cellophane-wrapped box like a candy sampler.
Dietz wished he’d thought to have them wear the official cooking show gear, instead of the stained bib-style aprons. The barbecue sauce dripped like blood. But there was nothing to do about it now.
“To help promote High On the Hog, we’re giving you a sneak preview taste of holiday gift sets we call Piggy Panache, gourmet samplers available for order right now—but you heard it first. It’ll be announced on the show tonight.” Jim began moving down the aisles, holding the carton for Louisa to distribute the meat samplers, one to each family. “Could I have a volunteer to help? The show’s about to start and I know our hosts want to get back into the kitchen to monitor the meal.”
A couple of the teenagers from the rowdy table jumped up to take the carton from Jim. “Thanks, fellows.” Dietz watched the distribution with interest.
As they received the Piggy Panache treat samplers, men in the crowd immediately tore open their packages to taste the various bacon, jerky, and sausage offerings. The ladies for the most part set aside the samplers with the hat. Dietz guessed many of the gift boxes would end up getting mailed to hard-to-shop-for relatives. “Before you leave tonight, be sure to have Mr. Grady get your name on the mailing list for future special deals. We want to give our Heartland family the first chance at trying out all the great new features.”
Dietz hoped they appreciated the samples. The website ordering information listed each package at $29.95 plus shipping and handling, a tidy profit for product that cost him less than $4, and that mostly for the processing and packaging.
He’d keep harping on the “homegrown” angle as long as it paid, but wanted to cash out sooner rather than later. Two potential buyers had already expressed interest, but would probably move the filming to Louisiana where there were better financial incentives for the industry. They had the funds to take Hog Hell to the next level, and he’d still get the income from the new cooking show, a helluva safer way to do TV. No more wading through pig shit, or waiting for someone to discover Grady’s clean-up attempts.
He switched on the big screen TVs. “And now, without further ado, enjoy the premier episode of this year’s Hog Hell!” Dietz cranked up the volume, set down the microphone, and took his place at the head table as Grady and BeeBo joined him. He patted Sunny’s luscious backside, and felt better than he had in a week.
The waiters moved between the tables with teaming plates of pork, sides of thick onion slices, potato salad, coleslaw, and grilled corn on the cob. Dietz held up his glass of beer in a silent toast to the TV screen as the opening credits rolled, and the rest of the table followed suit. His stomach rumbled, and he laughed. Butterflies gone, it was time to eat.
Dietz had the first fork of tender barbecue pork halfway to his mouth when the police burst through the door.
