May 23

Rosemary closed the closet door as softly as could be and then slowly and silently backed up until she felt the back of the closet against her back. Finally, there in the secluded and hopefully, safe, place she allowed herself to breathe. She wouldn't be surprised if her heart was quite literally beating out of her chest. And in her hand there was a solid mound? What on earth? Oh, the cheese! She'd meant to slip it into the icebox, but the men had arrived and she had absently held onto it, even here in the closet. At least she wouldn't starve to death here in the closet. But wait… no seriously, the cheese would be better than just a snack… if she remembered right—It had a small knife stuck in it. Please oh please? She felt down the large wedge of cheese, her finger meeting the handle of the small knife that had been stuck unceremoniously in it. She sighed in relief. It wasn't much, but she did have some kind of weapon. And a hiding spot. See, even in terrible situations there was always something to be thankful for.

She slowly sank to the floor, amongst the various boots and shoes the closet held. Just above her head hung a number of coats on the rack, including Lee's fancy tartan plaid jacket. She soaked in the scent of it. In an odd way, she felt comforted, like maybe she wasn't all alone in a closet with two strange men in her home. Her belly turned over at the thought, then squeezed in that odd fashion it had been since this morning after she ate the casserole. My, would she ever get relief?

The voices grew as the men came closer, their boots stomping unceremoniously over her freshly mopped kitchen floor, through the dining room, and then over her beautiful new rug she presumed. She tried not to wince thinking of it. True Mounties would not stomp uninvited on a nice fashionable rug. True Mounties would not invade a person's icebox without permission, let alone leaving all those items out to rot! Something was incredibly suspicious about these two Mounties. If they could actually be called Mounties.

One voice mumbled something about… dessert?

The other, a deeper voice, cursed.

The voices came closer until it felt like they were standing right outside the parlor closet door.

"This is what I needed in the first place. Let that be a lesson to you," the deep voice said.

"Sorry, boss. It was just with the amount of tools in that barn I had no idea which one you wanted. I didn't want to keep bringing you the wrong tool. Your temper can be a bit—"

"Dimwit." The boss spat.

She heard scuffling and a groan as if one of them was squatting or kneeling on the floor.

"This here is the machine," the boss said, his voice lower to the ground, "and doggonnit, if I have to saw up every nook and cranny of it to find it, I will."

Machine? What machine? The parlor mostly held their settee, which although it could be sawed up was not considered a machine. What else could be considered a machine? The stenograph? Oh please don't let it be here stenograph… but what kind of person would saw a precious hunk of metal? Perhaps there was something else, something of less import they were about to destruct. A machine… the only other thing in the room that could qualify—The sewing machine?

"I still cannot believe our luck—" the deep voice of the boss said, "you overhearing that posse of ladies like that."

Posse? What was he talking about? Goodness sakes, couldn't they just conveniently say all the details in their conversation she was wondering about? That's how it always happened for the spies in the crime novels she read in her spare time. The bad guys would both spell out all the details so that the main character as well as the reader would have a full explanation of why the crime was committed. But here, in the closet, clutching the cheese wheel, there was no hope for full explanation. She listened on.

"Yes we was sure at the right place at the right time. Those ladies, just chirping over those tables of sewing notions and such. It was like they led us right to the treasure."

Something niggled at the back of her mind. Tables of notions. Somehow the man had overheard a group of ladies? Why, he couldn't have meant her and her friends, could he? They definitely did qualify as a posse of sorts when all together. But they hadn't been together like that since…. Edmonton. She about dropped the cheese with the realization, but instead dug her fingernails into the soft concoction to keep it from clattering to the floor. Yes, now it was coming back. The large, rough men who had been there when she ended her phone call to Lee. They kept circling the tables near them. It sure gave her the goose bumps at the time— as if her and her friends were being observed. It just had to be what they were referring to. The man, could he be one of the country bumpkins? Perhaps the one with the horrid tobacco stained teeth? She shivered. And the boss… who was he?

The boss grunted. "Hand me that smaller screw driver."

She heard the bumpkin pick up a tool, but he must have lost his grip on it for it promptly fell to the ground with a clink.

"Idiot."

"Sorry."

There was shuffling. Then groaning.

"Dad-blasted machine," came the boss's voice, "I don't think it's going to come apart. Old piece of junk."

She heard the scraping of the machine against the floor as it was pushed away. My, what a temper.

"So we get to saw it open?" The bumpkin sounded eager to destroy something. "Let me just remove this here official jacket. I wouldn't want to muss it up or nothin'." She heard the bumpkin unbuttoning what she presumed to be his red serge shirt. How the men had landed those uniforms was sure to be an outright theft or misdemeanor of some sort. They were as far away from true Mounties as possible.

The boss muttered, probably out of annoyance at his minion. "You'll end up sawing off your hand you will. I'll do the sawing— you keep the look out."

"Okay boss."

A few moments passed with the sounds of the saw against the beautiful chestnut wood of the sewing machine. Dottie's beautiful, treasured sewing machine. The last thing she had from her husband, Silas. Something niggled at the back of her brain. Silas… and criminals? What had the story been? Gowen had told them that day in the sheriff's office, right after Rosemary was threatened at the Dress Shop. Wait… Kirill? He was a criminal. Could he be the boss? Her heart pitter pattered. She did not want to have a run in with such a thief. But Kirill was captured. In jail. Did he escape? Or was the boss someone else? Did he have a partner?

"Hey boss?" The bumpkin's voice rose above the sawing.

"What now?"

"I'm going to go grab another one of those sandwiches. That mustard was something tasty."

She froze. Would the bumpkin see the wheel of cheese was missing? Or what about the dropped meat? And what of the car out front? One of them only had to peer out the window to see she had left it there, the door halfway open for what she thought would be a quick return. But the bumpkin was not so bright. Perhaps he'd miss the most obvious clues. She could only hope.

She heard shuffling around in the kitchen.

"Boss… you seen that cheese?"

The boss cursed in frustration.

"That's okay boss. I know what will make you happy. They got a big can of coffee. I'll brew you up a cup. I know you live on the stuff."

Coffee? Had they left a pot on? No, they had drank every drop for breakfast. She vividly remembered Lee asking for a refill but there was none. Even the can, they had used the last scoop and now the tin was discarded in the trash bin. No, they didn't have any coffee in the house… unless they meant… She smiled a delicious smile. Could she be lucky enough that the criminals would help themselves to a generous serving of Bill's lethal criminal blend?

She covered her mouth for fear she'd giggle. They wouldn't make it but a mile or so on horseback before one or the both of them had to stop, their innards protesting in quite a horrific fashion. Oh she could only hope.

The sawing continued for a few more moments until she heard a piece snap loose and a grunt of victory from the boss.

"Now we are getting somewhere. It's gotta be in here." The boss muttered to himself.

What was in there? Something was in the sewing machine? It must be of some import to risk coming here, breaking into their home. Especially with a warrant on both of their heads, if it was who she thought it was. If only she could get a peek… a visual confirmation. It wouldn't take much of a gap in the door to see their faces. Perhaps if she just-

"Here you are." She jumped at the closeness of the bumpkin's voice just on the other side of the door and quickly shut her eyes. Had he heard her? Discovered her? Any moment he would whip the door open and she'd- "It's your turn for a break. Let me dig around in there while you enjoy your coffee," the bumpkin addressed the boss.

She slowly sucked in a breath. Her hiding spot was still intact.

"I'm the boss and I will say who gets a break and when." The boss grumbled, but he must have given in for the next thing she heard him say is, "Hmmm, strange aftertaste."

"It's from some kind of exotic can."

She put a hand over her mouth. The bumpkin had brewed the criminal blend of coffee. It was in the red exotic looking can in the kitchen! It could truly be her saving grace. If only she could see if the bumpkin was drinking any as well. If so, then they both would be doomed to the bellyache of the century. Even her and her meager little knife would be able to stand up to them in that condition.

"It'll put hair on a man's chest, it will." The boss said in-between gulps.

Oh, she wasn't sure about hair, but it would wreck havoc on his bowels, yes it would. She put her hands on her belly, as it jiggled up and down in silent laughter. Her laughter was cut short by a physical tightening in her belly, directly underneath her hand. She winced as the tightening spread to her lower back, causing her to breath spastically. With her free hand she squeezed hard onto what must have been a hanging coat sleeve right above her head, willing herself to be silent. But the pain… oh the pain. No, this was not indigestion. Something peculiar was going on. Her lower back felt like it was about to break in half and her front felt like she had a tight belt on, all the way up her belly. And the breathing… this strange chaotic breathing thing wasn't normal was it? It was almost as if she was in— No, it couldn't be labor, could it? It was too early, nearly a month out from her due date. She couldn't have her babies— here now. Not with the two thieves in the room.