Part of me wanted to turn right around, march back there, and address Mortenson face-to-face, berate him for his crude assumptions. Part of me wanted to crawl into bed and disappear under a blanket, ashamed anyone could think so ill of me. I was uncertain and confused, but as I walked, the emotions settled into a low, simmering anger. At the end of my walk, ascending the boardinghouse steps, I was only angry.
I thought of my father. Making his living as a professional actor and small-time con artist, he was given to broad pronouncements and aphorisms, which he delivered in his most formal, pompous voice. I had followed his rules and codes as a child, but once away from his influence, I realized they’d done me far more harm than good. Yet, like a broken clock, he was right on occasion. Find your emotion and use it, Kate. I only had to decide how to use the anger, to turn it to my advantage.
I entered the house and shut the door behind me. Mrs. Borowski was in the back kitchen, an apron over her blue serge skirt and her blond hair pulled back in twin plaits. She bent over the knife-scarred worktable, a pot of potato filling at one hand and a huge wad of white dough at the other. I didn’t bother asking if she needed help. I washed my hands at the sink and sat down next to her, brushing my palms with flour, and pitched in.
“You do not need to,” she said without looking up, “anymore.”
There was never enough money, even when Charlie was alive. For years, I’d been squirreling it away in jars and pockets, and thank goodness. Even that had run out in June. But after her housekeeper quit suddenly, Mrs. Borowski had agreed to let me keep the room a few more months in exchange for my help cleaning and cooking. Since I was barely competent at either, it had truly been a magnificent gesture on her part. I owed her more than money.
“I’ll make the ones I eat,” I said. “You know how much I love your pierogi.”
“You flatter me.”
“A bit,” I said. “In hopes you’ll make them more often.”
She made a grunting noise of dismissal, but I knew she enjoyed the compliment. I thought I saw a trace of a smile on her round, warm face.
“So I’ll have another check for you tomorrow,” I said. I’d signed over my first two paychecks in their entirety as well. After this one, I’d start earning for myself.
“Thank you. Employment is going well?”
I sighed as I pinched dough into a ball and flattened the ball into a circle. She’d made five pierogi in the time it took me to get started on one. “Well enough.”
“That is good.”
“Although…” I spooned a dab of filling onto the dough and brought the edges together, pinching them to enclose it.
She tapped the back of my hand with a thick finger. “Harder,” she said. “And remember the water. Or it will leak.”
Dipping my fingertips into a small bowl of water on the table between us, I corrected my technique.
“Is there a problem with the work?”
“Not exactly. There’s a…” I searched for the right word. “A rumor.”
“About?”
“Someone in the office suspects I’m involved with the boss. In a love affair.”
She made a gruff noise. “You are not, of course.”
“No.”
“Then you shouldn’t worry. Truth will out.”
“Yes, but it makes me angry.” As I gave voice to the emotion, it grew. “If one thinks so, I’m sure many of them think so. It’s insulting, and it’s wrong. If they think he hired me just to make love to me, they’ll never accept me as a detective.” To my surprise, I could feel tears prickling behind my eyes. I hadn’t realized quite how upsetting it was to be doubted. I’d wanted the job for the money, but now that I had it, there was more. I wanted to do the job and be respected. Besides, if it became too much trouble to keep me, no doubt, Pinkerton would let me go.
“Then prove yourself.” Her voice was dispassionate, though I didn’t doubt that she cared. She was just calmer. I needed to emulate that still core, I realized. I felt too strongly. Always had, though I’d learned to hide it from the beginning.
“I know. And I will. But Pinkerton hasn’t put me on a case.”
“Have you asked him to?”
I considered it as I wet my fingertips and sealed the filling inside another dumpling. “Well, no.”
“Dear, sweet Kate,” said Mrs. Borowski. “Don’t you know this? You have to ask for the things you want.”
“That’s how I got the position!” I said. “I didn’t just sit on my hands, did I, and wait to be saved?”
“No. But now you need to do the work. And I think I have some things that might help you.”
She stood and dusted the flour off her hands, then rinsed them in the sink, and I followed suit. She motioned for me to follow her, out of the formal dining room and down the narrow hall, to a door I’d never seen opened. She unlocked it with a key from her belt.
We had to duck to enter, but inside was a surprisingly large storeroom. It smelled stale, with a whiff of mouse droppings. One wall was lined with shelves, and the highest shelf held a series of nearly identical boxes. Mrs. Borowski traced her fingers on each box as she walked by, her wide hips swaying. Each box was labeled with a room number and a date. She pointed to one, high up, and said, “That one.”
The room was 2B, and the date was three years in the past. I was not tall, but I was the taller of us two, and I understood I should reach up for the box. Loose, light things slid around inside, and I set it down at her feet. We crouched down together, and she lifted the lid.
At first, all I saw were a woman’s delicate undergarments, a tangle of clearly expensive silk and lace. There must have been a dozen different pieces or more, each lovelier than the last. My breath caught at the fragility of a gorgeous edge of French lace, a pink so pale it was barely a color. She moved aside the corsets and pantalets, gently but firmly, and retrieved a beautiful pair of wrist-length gloves, an eggshell silk.
“These. I doubt she’ll come back for them. Part of a disguise one day?”