The Betrayal of Ebony Makepeace (Brad Culley Mysteries Book 2)

Book summary

In the midst of familial chaos and criminal intrigues, Ebony Makepeace seeks independence from Bradley Culley's tumultuous life, while secrets about his mother's death threaten their strained relationship.

Excerpt from The Betrayal of Ebony Makepeace (Brad Culley Mysteries Book 2)

In what couldn’t be worse timing, my phone rang as I negotiated the traffic congestion, which was, sadly, now part of my daily grind. A glance at the display on the dash showed it was my personal assistant, Ferdinand. I let it ring. Nothing he said to me would get me to the office any quicker. But he persisted, calling three more times before I answered.

‘Were you asleep?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘While I am here running the show?’

‘And you do a marvellous job running the show, Ferdie.’ He hates being called Ferdie. But I pay him extremely well, so he can put up with my foibles now and again.

‘The coroner has released your father’s body. The funeral director wants you to call in, to see her ― to plan the funeral.’

‘You told her my calendar was free this morning, didn’t you, Ferdie?’

‘Of course I did. It is. Who else can do this last thing for your father? I told her you would be there around eight-thirty. See ya.’

Pangs of guilt at how my father died played with anxiety in my gut. They had a wonderful time while I wrangled my emotions and the traffic. These days, I hated myself for having been so ready to blame him. I took his psycho behaviour at face value, eager for him to be the villain. Eager to point the finger at a soft target. My brother Steven was the true psycho. But my self-loathing changed nothing. I would organise a fitting farewell.

Ebony should have been with me to discuss arrangements, but I didn’t want to turn the car around to go back and pick her up. Ebony and I lived in my place in Altona. Her decision. I preferred my townhouse in South Melbourne. Its location suited me: I could walk into the CBD of Melbourne if I felt so inclined, get to work quickly and, with easy access to Southbank, had my pick of great restaurants. But she liked the beach and had developed a fondness for a local café. And the local writing group she’d joined made her happy. After what my family put her through, it wouldn’t kill me to suffer living by the beach.

***

The funeral director’s premises were on a pleasant, tree-lined boulevard on the northern side of the city, where the tram line ran up the middle of the road. Further from the city than I would have liked. But Ferdinand, bless his heart, picked one that had a rainbow on its website. Externally, the building looked like a large Edwardian house. Inside, the ultra-modern, contemporary setting screamed wealth. I wondered how much wealth I’d be parting with.

Angela Blackwood was an impeccably presented older woman. She held out her hand and welcomed me, said she was pleased to make my acquaintance in such sad circumstances and showed me into her office. I thought my office was sumptuous; hers was next level. Two charcoal grey fabric couches that did not look shop bought ― I made a mental note to ask her where she had them made ― hugged the walls. Her large mahogany desk took centre stage. I noticed how tidy she had it, and a picture of my messy one flashed through my mind. Inoffensive artwork hung on the walls, which were painted a light grey; one of those colours that would take offence if you called it grey. It would see itself as Wooded Gum, or some other equally irrelevant name. The grey carpet appeared two or three shades darker than the walls, and they complemented each other well. An impressive space. Two armchairs that matched the couches sat on either side of a gas log fireplace. I hate pretend fires. This one, however, was the best I had seen, and I could almost smell the wood burning. She indicated I should sit in one of the chairs. Not as comfortable as it looked.

‘Nice fire,’ I said, no doubt impressing her with my wonderful command of the English language.

‘Thank you. It’s handy when we still get the odd cold day at this time of year. Spring is quite unpredictable, isn’t it?’

I nodded. I didn’t really want to engage in a conversation about the weather.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I took it out, saw it was Ebony, and put it back without answering.

‘Do you need to get that?’ Ms Blackwood asked.

I shook my head. ‘No. All good. Let’s get on with the arrangements.’

Ms Blackwood ran a barrage of funeral things past me: the coffin, the type of service, the music, the video. She asked me who would speak, and who would be responsible for the eulogy. Would we have a presentation of my father’s life? How many mourners did I think would attend?

I shrank into the uncomfortable armchair and wished the fire would swallow me up.

‘Ms Blackwood, your attention to detail and your passion to do the best for the deceased is clear, but it is too much for me at the moment. My father’s death is the tip of the iceberg. I’ve had a difficult year. My assistant Ferdinand will call you. He can handle the arrangements on my behalf.’

Ms Blackwood stood up, waited for me to do the same, and reached out to shake my hand. ‘I completely understand, Mr Culley. There is a lot to consider. I’ll wait to hear from your assistant.’