Escape the Potluck

I drink my matcha. I need to be well caffeinated for this assignment. It’s not every day I’m asked to do something like this; only once every four months or so.

My Maine Coon, Kristina circles my legs, purrs and talks. I tell her cats don’t drink tea, that she doesn’t want any, but she doesn’t believe me. Ever the skeptic.

My phone chimes with a text from my friend, Stella. She says, don’t forget to bring your little red journal. We have to report everything. We’re in this thing together.

I text back, of course not. But I think to myself. I need to “forget” to bring it anyway. I keep it under lock and key all the time. There’s no reason for me to take it. She’s only up to no good. I wish we hadn’t been partnered on this case, but Duncan de Seckcee insisted.

Oh yes, I should tell you a little about my sort of boss. I met him at a birthday party for my ex, Mathias. (Mathias and I , though exes, are close friends, and get along better now than when we were married.) Anyway, Duncan walked up to me, smiled, held out his hand and said, “Seckcee.” Before he could say anything else, I laughed out loud. Then he said it again, “Seckcee.” Then, “Duncan de Seckcee.” I shook his hand, and we proceeded to discuss gardening and our favorite kinds of cheese. It was a weird conversation. The first of many we’ve had in the six years since.

You see, Duncan is kind of a spy; well, as much of a spy as one can be when many people know that one is kind of a spy. I take occasional assignments from him. Lucrative assignments. Assignments that enabled me to quit my boring job as a boring insurance customer service rep. And these things I do for him are legal, though sometimes they have a nefarious feel to them. I love that nefarious feel. It’s like I’m Agent 99. But I must say that Duncan is a lot smarter than Maxwell Smart. He’s hotter too, but that’s beside the point. We’ve never had a thing, but if the opportunity arose, it wouldn’t be a negative.

This evening, Stella and I are attending a potluck together. We don’t have far to go. It’s happening in an apartment three floors up from mine. Stella lives two floors down from me. I call her my friend, but she’s really not. She was in a few of my classes at Portland State twenty five years ago. We were more acquaintances than friends. Two years ago, I ran into her at the mailboxes here, and we learned we’re apartment building neighbors. Six months later I found out she also works for the de Seckcee family, but usually for Duncan’s sister, Veronica.

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I’ve about a half hour to go until the potluck. I don’t want to be the first one there. My special carrot cake is ready to go. I always bring some kind of a dessert to these things. That’s all I’m taking. I’ll lock my bag in my safe with the little red journal that Stella wants so badly for me to bring, and a twenty page dossier on Agent 123-January. I know this dossier by heart, but I can’t afford to have it stolen. One twenty three is the reason for this potluck, though she doesn’t know it. She thinks it’s in celebration of Agent 267-Garth’s 40th birthday. I hope she shows up. But even if she doesn’t the plan should go over fine.

I need more caffeine and fix another cup of matcha. I might be out very late. I wear my favorite chartreuse chiffon dress. It’s vintage, 1973. If tonight goes well, this isn’t an average potluck, after all, I’ll have reason to celebrate. Why not dress up? A reapplication of my hibiscus pink lipstick, and I’m ready. I go to pocket my phone. This dress has one convenient, hidden pocket, and it chimes with another text. My heart sinks to my lime green Mary Jane pumps. It’s from Duncan. He says,

“Don’t go to potluck! Stella is planning to kill you. Get out of your apartment! Pack backpack with enough for two days. Bring Kristina, her necessaries, and the red journal. Will pick you up in 15 minutes in front of PO.”

Well, this is a surprise. Not the last second change of plan, that’s usual for Duncan, but the news of Stella’s mission. I mean, I said we’re not really friends, but this is insane. But I must pack. I reread the text. Dunc isn’t known for short ones.

I go to put Kristina in her carrier, usually difficult, but she breezes right in. Odd. I have to take a small suitcase because I can’t fit all she needs and two days worth of my my own necessities in my backpack. The post office is across the street. I don’t think I’ve ever changed so fast. From my dress to jeans, a Technically Dead book club T-shirt and my blue sneakers in less than a minute. I retrieve the red journal from my safe, lock the compartment back up tight, and replace my fake Degas Pink Dancers. I tell Kristina everything will be fine, but it’s as if she knows it, and we’re off. I take the elevator twelve floors down to the lobby, jog to the front doors, and make a beeline for Duncan waiting in his black VW Beetle across the street. He waves to rush me to get in. I say, where to, Dunc? And he says, to my sister, Myrna’s Joan Lake cabin. I’ll explain on the way…

To Be Continued..