SELLA DORE: The "A" List

From the unpublished book "SELLA DORE — Mysteries of Many Kinds" by A.S. Kaswell, as transcribed by Marc Abrahams

[Read the INTRODUCTION to the series “SELLA DORE: Mysteries of Many Kinds”]

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The “A” List

"What a bunch of assels", Sella Dore screamed to herself, savoring the quantity and the concept.

I had no need to ask her "What's an assel?" Anyone who spends time with Sella Dore notices that she treasures her favorite words, especially the ones she invents.

"Are you wondering 'What's an assel?', Kaswell?" Sella demanded of me, with the obviously guilty innocence that has made generations of adults hate generations of a certain type of grammar school teacher. Not that Sella Dore would ever be offered or would accept a job as a grammar school teacher. But obviously she learned, back in her wiseguy pre-teenager years, from some masters.

"I had no need to ask you 'What's an assel?', Sella." I sighed. "Anyone who spends time with you— "

Sella cut me off, to offer a gift. A very Sella Dore gift: a moist slice of her continent-wide cake of hard-learned wisdom.

"An assel...," Sella began, instantly deepening into public announcement mode. "An assel is perhaps well described as being a melding of the concepts of bastard, blighter, bounder, cad, churl, creep, cur, dirtbag, fink, heel, jerk, jackass, louse, lout, rat, rotter, schmuck, scum, sleazebag, slimeball, stinker…" Sella paused. "Need I go on, Kaswell? You see the point?"

"I am familiar with the concept, Sella. And familiar with far too many examples inflicted all too personally on both of us."

We nodded, together. Solidarity am us.

"Yes, Kaswell, we could easily spend a thousand and one nights and days listing their names, should we choose to rile ourselves a thousand-and-onefold," Sella grimaced.

I grimaced.

We grimaced.

Solidarity.

"So many assels, Kaswell," said Sella.

"So many assels, Sella," said I.

"Make us some tea, Kaswell," Sella said.

It's our office ritual, usually performed several times, most days.

The three-story old office building wherein we spend our daylight hours contains many small enterprises, of widely varying kinds and quality. But to Sella and me, nothing in any of them is of more importance than the burnished stainless steel electric kettle that commands half the surface of my desktop. The kettle dependably carries out its duties in concert with the several mugs and two tea containers (one with fresh teabags, the other with deceased) whenever Sella or I need or want tea. Also whenever visitors, most of whom come seeking Sella's help in solving some tangle in their professional or private lives, want refreshment. Some visitors get lucky and get Sella's help. Some get only tea. Some get neither.

I made us two mugsful.

Then, again seated, tea in hand, I brought us back to the topic of the day.

"What brings the assels to mind, Sella?"

"I am glad you asked, Kaswell," Sella said, shifting into battle-analyst mode. "Did you see the news reports about last night's big-deal bigshots party-of-our-century? Uber-exclusive guest list. Top of the heap personages only. Fame, power, glamour, money, widespread professionally-promulgated envious gossip. An extremely exclusive and lavish evening expensively marinated with the most-worshipped musicians; the most piggishly powerful politicians; the most intensely, unaffordably-sourced, complicatedly prepared foods."

"The assles party," I said.

"The assels party," Sella gloated.

"The gala party," I whooped, "the high-toned gathering where every time a party guest returned from a trip to the bathroom, the aging-superstar musicians would sing 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!' "

"That's the one," said Sella.

"I was not there, " I said. "I was not invited.

"Nor was I," said Sella. "We can rejoice at having confirmation that we are not ourselves in the uppermost echelon of assels. What I'm asking you, though, is whether you, like me or I, instantly sussed who committed the murder."

"Murder?" I ejaculated. "There was a murder at the party, Sella? There was just *one* murder at that party? I'd assume that all those assels would murder each other. I would hope-against-hope so. Didn't happen? Who's the victim? Lowest assel on the totem pole… or highest?

Sella chuckled. Chuckled so much and so long that it was almost annoying. "Neither high-hatched nor low, Kaswell. Nor middle. The victim was not an assel. The victim was not even in attendance, strictly speaking.

"The body was found outside the giant window of the party ballroom. The nearly-disembodied body was on the ground, in ragged pieces, as if ripped by a hundred hands. There were, it seems, no witnesses to the murder.

"No witnesses, Sella?" I asked. "No witnesses?

Salla smiled at me. Not just smiled. Smiled at me, emphasis on the at.

"You will have a hard time believing what happened, Kaswell, because it involves grossly bizarre behavior. Coordinated behavior by oh-so-many people who don't cooperate with anyone, ever, unless they think it will gain them some sharp advantage. Make us fresh tea, and I'll tell you about it."

I made us fresh tea, coordinating and cooperating with our trusty electric kettle. I did it with no thought of gaining sharp advantage.

"Witnesses, Sella...?" I asked again, sipping my fresh tea.

"There were no witnesses, Kaswell," she replied, sipping hers. "The earth had been scorched in advance, you might say, to ensure that nobody — no uninvited or unpaid persons, that is — would be within even shouting distance of the assels party building.

"The exclusionary precepts were ballyhooed in advance. As a security measure to discourage party-crashers. And for the party guests to brag about, to flaunt their greatness, and to dispense despair to the lowly masses who were not invited to the party.

"You're lapsing into confusing phrasing again, Sella," I said.

"The neighborhood," Sella plowed on, "had been forcibly cleared — cleansed might be a more accurate term for it — a full two days before the party started.

"You're lapsing into confusing phrasing again, Sella," I said.

Onward plowed Sella. "Would-be gate crashers would be forcibly crashed against gates in a frenzied but arguably-legal ritual of exclusionary violence. Sturdy, tall, crashproof gates were emplaced — but the intimidation level was such that no would-be gate-crashers even approached them.

"You're lapsing into confusing phrasing again, Sella," I said.

Sella took that as encouragement. "A giant double ring of paid, very heavily armed guards — mercenaries, I think, would be a more accurate term for them — encircled the place. The guards were all stationed a full city block away — a full block away! — from the building, and were trained to keep watch on each other as well as on anyone who might try to intrude into the immediate neighborhood. The guards say they saw nothing."

"Crazy," I said. "I suppose some of the assels in the party have alibis?"

"Not just some of them, Kaswell," Sella said. "All of them. All the assels who attended the party have numerous witnesses to alibi them: all the other assels who attended the party. Same for all the staff and entertainers, same alibi. Because as you know, everyone — everyone! — once meticulously screened and admitted to the ballroom, was not permitted to exit before the party ended.

"So the assels are innocent," I lamented.

"Innocent?" laughed Sella. And laughed, and laughed.

"Huh?" I huhed.

"Ahem, Kaswell," Sella ahemmed. "Get down to basics. There was a party. There was a murder. Cui bono? Who benefitted? Who benefitted from the party? Who benefitted from the murder? And do those questions have the identically same answer? I ask you. Tell me. Cui bono, Kaswell?"

"The host of the party organized the whole circus for the purpose of committing a murder? That's spectacular," I enthused.

"No," said Sella. "You are exactly wrong, Kaswell. Yes, the party host immediately becomes Public Suspect Number One. But. But!! But!!! Think, Kaswell. Would the party host be so stupid as to not know that? For the host to escape investigation would require a beyond-staggering amount of complex coordination. It would be absurdly difficult for the host of this very special, highly, highly publicized, scrutinized party to commit this murder... and then evade prosecution and conviction. No, Kaswell, the party host was not the murderer."

"Well hey, Sella, who did host the party? Till now, that's been the big mystery. The party itself made that mystery central to its publicity, central to the allure. So..., who was the mysterious host? I guess — no, I assume — that the police found out, and then did arrest the host."

Sella was silent. For dramatic purposes.

After a moment, she smiled. At me. "You are partially right in that, Kaswell. The host was arrested, the host was stopped. But not in that way, and not by the police. Who did organize the party? Who was the host? Cherchez the host, Kaswell! Whose idea was the party, and for what purpose? Cherchez the host."

"Well?" I asked, confused enough to not immediately be able to think of any other word, other than "huh", which I did have the wit to reject in favor of "well".

"No mystery about it now, Kaswell. Everyone, you excepted because you didn't bother looking at any news reports today, now knows who the host was. It's in all the news reports. It's on everyone's lips, so to speak. Except yours.

"It should have occurred to you, Kaswell, that all the irresistible, expensive food and rare entertainment, the ballroom, the publicity, and all the rest, had to be paid for. Because of that, the mysterious host would never be able to stay mysterious for very long.

"I give up, Sella," I said. "I plead ignorance. Just tell me what happened, will you?"

Sella nodded her superior agreement. "The party started at nine p.m., Kaswell. By 9:30, some of the assels had already bribed the party workers and learned the secret, and bragging about it. By ten o'clock, the party guests all knew who the host was. By 10:30 the host was dead."

"And..." I said, mustering all my thoughts into a single word.

"And it's simple, Kaswell," Sella said, staring me smack in the eyes. "The party host was the murder victim. The murder victim was the party host."

"What?" I queried, still confused, but gaining insight enough to come up with a word other than "huh", "well", or "and". "

“Sella, please. Please. I do not understand. Please explain to me. Please."

"Of course, Kaswell," Sella sighed her satisfaction. "Let's start with basics. Is it clear to you, Kaswell, at least *why* the host conceived the *idea* of an assels party, and then organized one? And of course, took pains to stay anonymous?"

"No, Sella. I feel stupid. Tell me."