and we should acknowledge that."
"It's part of our Southern charm," she said waspishly. "We could all take to wearing straw hats and muddy boots."
Since he could remember when his father owned the local grill on this corner and the patrons who'd worn just that, Axell didn't comment. He'd learned more about human nature and running a business while polishing the counter downstairs than he'd ever learned at the university. Unfortunately, he'd never had his father's talent for being one of the "good old boys."
"Let me guess: Pfieffer is in ill health, doesn't have a will, and the whole family is counting the dollars that property could add to the coffers," he suggested.
Katherine shot him a hooded look. "I doubt there would be enough to trickle down to me, if that's what you're aiming at. No, I'm looking for the connection between me and the mayor, and the Pfieffer property has to be it."
"Not to mention that the governor and probably half the department of transportation likes looking at gorgeous blondes," he added dryly. "You really don't want to hear the reaction of the city council when you show up for one of our meetings wearing a miniskirt."
"Holm, you have ice water for blood." She swung on her high heel and started for the door. "Headley is downstairs, said he'd like to talk to you when you get a chance. Shall I send him up?"
Vaguely perplexed by her reaction but not particularly concerned, Axell nodded. One of these days he'd calculate the pattern that guided female emotion. Until then, he just accepted that he would seldom understand what set them off.
He'd straightened out an order with his New York wine merchant and decided on the best bid for new restaurant linen by the time Headley ambled upstairs.
Spreading his gray suit-jacketed arms across the back of the leather sofa, the newspaper reporter swung his gaze around the room in fascination. "So, this is the lion's lair, is it? Far cry from the old days."
"We all have our little rebellions," Axell replied mildly. His father's office had been windowless, stuffy, and cluttered with files that hadn't been opened since his first year of business.
Headley had almost single-handedly made Holm's Grill a success. Three decades ago, before the law allowed liquor sales by the drink, the reporter had adopted a seat at the corner of the restaurant counter where he could pull the flask of bourbon from his coat pocket and view the comings and goings of the town from the front window. A decade later, when the liquor law changed and the new mahogany bar was installed, Headley was their first customer. Every neighborhood bar needed at least one eccentric character to meet and greet regular patrons, and to provide a stability they could count on in their ever-changing worlds, and Headley was Holm's.
The front window and the tavern had long ago fallen beneath the treads of a bulldozer, but Headley lingered on, fifty pounds heavier than his youthful self, his full head of hair now a distinguished white. His nose for gossip hadn't deteriorated a bit.
"I can see that." The reporter focused his sharp blue gaze in Axell's direction. "Did you know the ABC board is investigating your liquor license?"
Oh, shit. Axell rolled his eyes skyward as he remembered the altercation the police had to break up last month. A perfectly harmless catfight between two country-club matrons over a man not worth either of their time had deteriorated into a brawl among the other patrons after a particularly drunken evening of race-car watching in the bar. On top of the robbery in the parking lot the month before, he could see the train of the law enforcement mind, especially if egged on by a concerned citizen, like the mayor. If they took his license, he'd be ruined.
"Was there some reason I ever agreed to serve on the town council?" he asked of the ceiling.
"Besides your civic duty?" Headley inquired with a touch of irony. "How about that zoning change you wanted to stop that seedy hotel down your way from reopening?"
"Yeah, the one the mayor owns." Axell sighed and returned his gaze to Headley. "Maybe I should run for mayor next time."
Headley whistled in appreciation. "Good idea. Hometown boy makes good with squeaky-clean record. Marry that ice maiden you keep as hostess, parade her to church on your arm with your little girl, and you're a shoo-in."
Headley had all but the marriage part right. Axell had learned the hard way that marriage