Waverley Vandergard and the Cook Off, Kill Off

By A.P Case

Waverley Vandergard is slowly realising that her life is a spectacular mess. Her career as a famous TV actress has been over for nearly a decade, forcing her to scrape a living acting in mediocre mystery plays.

Her agent barely calls, she has no money and no friends. She is cantankerous, rude, angry, and resigned to a future of penury and death.

Just as Waverley is ready to give up, the introduction of a new manager and a new opportunity on a celebrity cooking show breathes new life into Waverley's career and sense of worth.

However, all is not as it seems and before long events take a dark turn. A despicable death and a detective inspector that hates her guts leaves Waverley needing to use her vast experience of murder mystery plots to solve a perplexing riddle and to stay out of jail.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.P Case
• Release date: Jan 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393846987

Book preview

Waverley Vandergard and the Cook Off, Kill Off.

Chapter One

WAVERLEY VANDERGARD looked out of the car window and  surveyed the lights of the city as they flashed past in a blur of speed. She gazed at the ebb and flow of life in the city, and wondered how she had got here, how she had arrived at this moment, this evening.

The car sped through the traffic, it’s high performance engine growling and revving furiously and demanding a clear path for it’s journey. As she watched through the tinted window,  Waverley felt a kindred spirit with the commuters and residents of London making their weary way home after a long day’s work. She saw the strain on their faces as the cold wind bit and caused tears to flow from the sides of their eyes trying to remember a time when she had faced such hardship and toil. 

On this most special of nights, Waverley was determined to remain grounded, appreciative of her roots and thankful for the good fortune that had allowed her to fulfil her wildest dreams. The shops that had provided the area with life and prosperity were gradually closing down, metamorphosing into boarded up edifices, littered with fly posters and adverts for mobile phones and music concerts. Waverley perused the scene with a deep sense of sadness. Where was the sense of community? Where would people go to be part of a collective and to share their experiences and life choices? Her childhood had been full of challenges but also full of commonality and she felt very strongly that this had made her the success she had become. She feared for the younger generation and the trials and tribulations they would have to endure in order to survive. Above all else, Waverley was a people person.

The car ducked and weaved through the sides streets, screeching round corners and accelerating through amber lights, desperate to be on time. A few more turns and the car came to a sudden halt. Waverley took a deep breath and stepped out onto the red carpet, resplendent in Bulgari evening wear. 

Her arrival was met by a wall of ecstatic screaming people. Lights flashed continuously as she slowly made her way down the long strip of carpet, stopping for photos and answering banal questions thrown at her by intrepid reporters, looking for the next headline or showbiz secret. It seems like an age before a couple of organisers, wearing crisp, unassuming uniforms, approached and brought the questions to an end, escorting Waverley into the theatre, where she was to be the guest of honour. It was almost too overwhelming.

Waverley was ushered into the large reception area of the theatre. The decor of the theatre was old fashioned, but richer for it. The entrance was exquisitely kept, considering its age, with rich colourful carpets and pictures of previous productions gazing down on the myriad of theatre goers. Waverley spent a moment looking at some of the posters and couldn't help but reminisce over past performances and special times, shared with unique people. She wiped a small tear from her eye as she moved towards the centre of the theatre, which was overshadowed by a sweeping, ornate staircase that led to the stalls. Tonight, the staircase was full of people in evening wear, the great and the good, taking their seats for the evenings celebrations. The splendour of the furnishings and architecture in the Obelisk theatre had never looked so sumptuous, the air was alive with excitement and anticipation and she was the guest par excellence.

She had waited a lifetime for this night. Finally, all those  sacrifices and turbulent paths she had taken, all those risks and challenges she had faced in her long career had led to this,  accepted into the bosom of her peers and awarded the industry's highest honour, from British theatre's finest awards body, the Orchids and the renowned acclaim she had always craved. The Orchid Treasure award.

As she walked down the hallowed corridors of the Obelisk Theatre, she was inundated with well wishers and fans, eager to offer their expressions of affection and regard. By the time she arrived at her seat, Waverley's head was spinning and her pulse was racing. She was thankful for some respite by the time the ceremony began.

The evening was a heady mix of theatre-lands finest stories and participants, with the audience wowed by the west end performances and celebrations of the year’s most exciting and memorable moments. Eventually, three hours later, the event reached its climax; The lifetime achievement award. The awards host introduced last year's recipient of the Orchid treasure award, Sir Derek Jacobi, who strode onto the stage to the delight of the auditorium.

My most esteemed colleagues, ladies and gentlemen, it is my honour to present this year's lifetime achievement accolade, the Orchid Treasure award, and may I say, in my opinion there is no finer recipient than Waverley Vandergard, or will it soon be Dame Waverley Vandergard?

The room erupted in laughter and then applause. It had been widely rumoured that Waverley was to be honoured in the upcoming honour list for her career in the theatre and her charity work.

As we all know Waverley came to be a part of our lives with her astounding performance in the long running soap opera, 'Days and Nights' as maniacal social climber Debonair Devant. Her performance won her a record breaking five consecutive BAFTA awards and made her a household name. She has used this, I hate to say the word, 'celebrity' to make the world a better place, with her many charitable organisations helping people all over the world.

Loud applause rippled round the room. Waverley felt her heart skip a beat and didn’t know where to look. Embarrassment was etched on her face, somewhat uncomfortable with being the centre of attention.

But, ladies and gentlemen, I firmly believe that it is her body of work in the theatre which will provide her with her lasting legacy as a giant of the acting world. Her ‘Blanche Dubois’ and ‘Lady Macbeth’ will undoubtedly go down as her lifetime best performances and she continues to showcase her real affinity with people and understanding of the foibles of humanity and existence. I’m sure that there are more spectacular performances to come from this true chameleon of an actor and more wondrous stories to be told. It is my tremendous pleasure to award this beautiful and prestigious trophy to my friend, confidante and a paragon of true acting greatness... the wonderful, kind and vivacious Waverley Vandergard.

Waverley was hit by a roar of approval, and the spectacular applause momentarily took her breathe away. She regained her composure and began her descent to the stage. She had walked this theatre's aisle a thousand times but tonight it appeared to stretch on forever. When she finally reached the stage, she was nearly in tears. Sir Derek hugged her tightly and whispered encouragingly into her ear. She gripped the trophy between trembling hands and looked out into the dark.

Taking a deep breath, Waverley began to thank all those people who had loved her, been there for her and supported her in her quest to follow her dreams and make a difference.

... And I'd like to thank my agent who has been there for me all these years, helping me to reach far beyond my own humble expectations and demanding the very best from me,  and to my best friend Barrington Blade, who has always known the real me and always channelled me into trying to do the right thing, I’d like to say this:  you are a remarkable...

Suddenly an ear-splitting alarm began to sound. Waverely spluttered and looked around confused. Her disorientation was compounded by the peculiar reaction that greeted this kerfuffle. No one seemed to be affected in any way by the noise. As she looked around desperately, trying to find a way to halt the cacophony, the audience merely sat compliantly and stared back at her blankly.

Er.. Hello? Can anyone sort out the alarm? Is there anybody there?

Again, everyone in the room seemed to be oblivious to the high pitched din. Waverley had no idea what to do and was about to exit the stage to find a producer or stage hand, when a realisation suddenly hit her.

This is a sodding dream, isn't it?

It's a bloody dream!!

DAMN AND SHIT!

Chapter

Two

Waverley awoke violently with a guttural snort and grimaced as the effects of a cranium-crippling hangover announced its occupation of her body and mind. A cheap, white alarm clock screeched and break-danced on the table next to her bed. She scowled at the object before grabbing it, hurling it angrily against the wall. The clock shattered into several pieces yet continued to omit a low buzzing sound. This caused Waverley to scream in frustration, launch herself out of the bed, and continue to batter the unfortunate gadget with a shoe. Eventually, the clock ceased to work, leaving the bedroom blissfully silent. It was only at this point that she noticed the envelope attached to her head with sellotape.

She angrily pulled the envelope off, ripping the skin on her forehead in the process. Another scream echoed around the room, this time caused by pain, but with the same monologue of expletives and curses following soon afterwards. She stumbled around the desolation and destruction of what was left of her bedroom, found a bath robe and put it on. ‘What the hell happened last night?’ she thought as she stuffed the unopened envelope into her robe pocket and struggled to comprehend opening the curtains. It didn't take long for Waverley to decide that fresh air and sunlight were a bad idea, so she abandoned it completely, lit a fag and shuffled into the lounge which was in the same, sorry state as her bedroom. 

Empty bottles, overflowing ashtrays and takeaway boxes littered the room. A brown, oozing stain festered in the middle of the floor, giving off the most hideous smell, causing her to heave and nearly vomit into a nearby plant pot. Quickly staggering into the small kitchen to the side of the lounge, she grabbed the phone pressing 3 on her speed dial list. She waited for an answer, attempting to contact her long suffering manager, Janet, but to no avail. Fucking useless! she snarled, slamming the receiver down.

On the wall next to the phone was a list of emergency numbers, placed there previously by the much maligned Janet in an attempt to help Waverley function as a regular human being. Waverley quickly scoured the list and found a number for Dobson’s Cleaning Emporium.

Hello? Hello? Can you hear me? This is Waverley Vandergard. I have need of a cleaner today! Yes, I’ll wait, if I must.

She retrieved a mug from the cupboard above her head and slammed it onto the surface, proceeding to fill it with instant coffee and hot water. The aroma of the dissolving granules seemed to bring Waverley back to life and, unfortunately for the owner of the cleaning service, back to her old self.

Now listen here, I want someone here within the hour to sort out this flat. What do you MEAN It’ll have to wait until FOUR? Do you know WHO I AM? WELL?

The owner was having none of it and gave as good as he got. Soon Waverley was backtracking like a cornered fox on boxing day.

Well...yes I know I have used your company before and as a result you have my name on your files... yes, many times... yes, I am aware of the way you work... but it really smells in here...yes, I know that’s not your fault, but... yes, four o’clock is fine.

Waverley replaced the receiver, feeling thoroughly defeated and disgruntled, still surrounded by a suffocating, evil smell. She took a swig of the cheap coffee and grimaced, before finding a home for the remainder of the beverage in the nearby plant pot. This would be the first and last time she would buy instant coffee. Life was too short to put up with a substandard brew. Showering and dressing as quickly as she could, she grabbed the still unopened note and the mail that had recently arrived and marched out of the door. A short taxi ride later, Waverley arrived at Barrington’s Hair Salon, furious and highly strung. She had finally read the note.

She’s only sodding QUIT!

Would that be your poor, maligned manager then? asked Barrington, barely looking up from his early morning rinse and perm appointment.

Ex-manager! growled Waverley, as she marched purposefully towards the coffee machine, forcing a pod into it, and slamming the lid down. She proceeded to read out the rest of the letter in a strangled and hysterical voice

...It is my greatest pleasure to tell you to stick your job up your arse. An arse so tight, I’m surprised its not capable of producing as many diamonds as Tiffany’s. If only you could do that, you self satisfied tosser, we might be rich. You are a despicable, cantankerous failure and I’m fed up of trying to find you work only for you to fuck it up merely by opening your diabolical mouth. You treat people with contempt. I’m surprised you haven’t been ostracised by the entire planet and forced to live on an island, where your only companion is a deflated volleyball, with a face painted on it, using the blood of whatever poor creature has bludgeoned itself to death after spending five minutes in your company. This made Barrington splutter with mirth, causing Waverley to look at him contemptuously.

The prattle of conversation in Barrington’s hair salon had quietened down, as the gaggle of old ladies hushed up to hear the saga unfolding in front of them. Waverley was manifestly unaware that her diatribe had an audience in raptures and continued regardless.

She said I was a harridan! continued Waverley vehemently.  She said I treated her like the hired help and have no respect for her or the job she does! exclaimed Waverley, How wrong can you get, the useless bitch!

Barrington had noticed the irony, but held his tongue anyway, a skill learnt in the thirty or so years that he had been friends with Waverley. She had always been the same, since the heady days of working on the soap opera ’Days and Nights’. They had started on the same day, her as acting talent, him as wardrobe and hair styling. As newbies, they had stuck together and a friendship had begun. By the end, he was the only one left still prepared to speak to her.

What on earth made her lose her mind in this way? I’m her most prestigious client! The goose with the golden gun, or some such shit wailed Waverley.

You don't remember much about last night, do you babes? enquired Barrington.

Waverley cantankerously slurped her black columbian coffee and snorted incredulously, which translated as ‘no, she hadn't got a clue’.

Barrington felt it was time to shed light on the previous evening’s exploits. You quaffed a titanic amount of vodka and prosecco and lambasted poor Janet for a full hour. You savaged her abilities as a manager, her choice in men, in shoes, in clothing and even her attempts at having a personality. I’mnot surprised that she quit observed Barrington reproachfully.

Barrington’s insight had jarred Waverley, who suddenly started to recall flashes of the evening, causing her to recoil with embarrassment. She was careful not to show this weakness to Barrington or associated pensioners who had all continued to hush their conversations to listen in on the events of the evening. It was never good to let your guard down, especially around the gossipy clientele of Barrington’s Hair Salon.

Waverley gulped down a large mouthful of coffee and perched by an open window, lighting another fag and inhaling