Family Feud
Barbara Boswell
Contents
One
“Mr. Halford will see you now, Mr. McGrath.” The smoothly polite tone of Miss Phyllis York, Arthur Halford’s secretary, was perfunctory and correct, betraying not a hint of distaste or disapproval.
But Garrett McGrath did not rely solely on what he saw and heard. He had the instincts of a street fighter, acquired from growing up in a series of tough neighborhoods. Those instincts had proven to be an invaluable gift that had always served him well. And though he was no longer fighting in the streets, he’d adapted his instincts to his chosen trade, the hotel business. Sometimes the two had a lot in common.
He’d learned early that smiling faces too often masked hostility and contempt, and Garrett sensed both behind the proper Miss York’s professional facade. Rather than resent it, Garrett admired the secretary’s loyalty to her boss and to her place of employment—the exclusive, exalted, five-diamond, five-star resort, Halford House. He valued loyalty, however misplaced.
And he knew that to Miss York, a longtime Halford House employee, he was probably about as welcome as a degenerative disease. The name McGrath was anathema to Arthur Halford and his brethren at the high-end of the hotel industry, for the McGraths owned Family Fun Inns, a chain of budget motels at the lowest end of the scale. The premier hoteliers’ usual policy of ignoring cheap motels for the masses had been severely challenged by Family Fun Inns, a wildly successful, recession-proof company that refused to be overlooked.
Family Fun Inns had a way of appearing in prime locations dominated exclusively by luxuriously elite resort hotels. The sight of the colorful motels, which resembled a crayon box with each door painted a different brilliant shade, inevitably evoked outraged squawks from high-end resort owners and their patrons. “A lethal weed choking the orchid” was the analogy the apoplectic Blue Springs Resort had issued when a Family Fun Inn joined them on their previously private island.
Garrett McGrath, chief weed, had built his career on encroaching among the orchids over and over again.
He’d worked hard in the beginning—eighteen-hour days, wheeling, dealing, planning, convincing, conniving—and his efforts had been very well rewarded. But lately, success had become too easy. Garrett recognized that he was bored, that he needed a challenge, something different.
Today was certainly providing it. Here he was, Garrett McGrath, commander in chief of the Family Fun Inns, being ushered into the plush executive office suite of the legendary Halford House, hallowed vacation spot of the rich and famous and those who were willing to pay the exorbitant fees to be near them.
His father would’ve loved it, thought Garrett. It amused him to speculate that perhaps the late Jack McGrath had a hand in it all from somewhere in the Great Beyond. The McGraths had a streak of mysticism mingled with a wicked humor, and this situation was rich in both. Garrett McGrath was here to buy Halford House, the very place that had refused to hire Jack and Kate McGrath as wait staff all those years ago because they weren’t considered worthy enough to serve the exalted patrons.
And Garrett was savoring every minute of it.
Obviously Arthur Halford, one of the most urbane and patrician hoteliers in the business, was not. The older man’s smile was decidedly forced and his expression became downright pained as he shook the hand that Garrett offered him. The steadfast Miss York hovered in the background, fixing Garrett with a look colder than ice.
“Today’s the day, Art,” Garrett said genially. “You have some papers ready for me to sign?”
“Mr. McGrath, I thought perhaps we would have lunch first, then meet with our attorneys for a final...” Arthur Halford paused and swallowed hard. “Perusal of the contract. Upon the—” this time he cleared his throat “—signing, I would like to invite you to join me in a celebratory glass of cognac.”
Cognac. Garrett’s eyes gleamed. He’d bet anything that Halford would rather serve him a shot of battery acid. Offering a celebratory drink of cognac was a nice touch. Classy. He’d have to keep that one in mind.
“I’d like to have lunch with you, Art, but do we really need the lawyers around? I didn’t bring mine. Besides, they’ve already picked apart the deal word for word. My general counsel can recite the terms by heart. I assume there haven’t been any changes since....” Garrett paused and stared hard at Arthur Halford.
The older man’s face was flushed, his gaze darting frantically in an obvious attempt to avoid eye contact with Garrett. What a terrible poker player Halford must be, mused Garrett—the required blank poker face, giving away nothing, was clearly beyond him. Old Art had just given away everything, particularly himself. The vigilant Miss York looked alarmed.
“I’m going to take a wild guess and assume that there have been some changes,” Garrett said flatly.
“Well, perhaps, but not exactly. Actually, y-you see—” stammered Halford.
“Don’t try any whitewashing or stonewalling, just give me the cold, hard facts.” Garrett’s smile abruptly disappeared. He could be charming when he chose, but the hint of a double cross brought his fighting spirit to the fore. “What’s going on, Halford?”
“Mr. Halford to you, Mr. McGrath,” Miss York said imperiously, glowering at him like a dragon protecting the castle. “I’m mercifully unaware of the milieu in which you normally conduct your business, but here at Halford House we do not use first names, as if in the schoolroom, nor just last names, as if in a locker room. In the executive suite, we use the
