“I’m sure it is.” Angie straightened up, and her attention went to a series of family portraits on the bookshelves behind the child. The images depicted a happy-looking family unit consisting of mom, dad, and daughter. Another frame showed a grizzled man with thick gray hair holding a fishing rod, his arm around a slight silver-haired woman with a huge smile.
Angie nodded toward the photo. “Is that your mom and dad?” she asked Sharon.
“Yes—the great detective and his stay-at-home wife.”
Angie’s gaze ticked toward Sharon. Was that a tone of resentment?
Sharon gave an apologetic shrug. “I don’t mean it like that. But you know, growing up as the child of a cop in major crimes—well, you probably don’t know. But I hardly saw him until his retirement three years ago. By then I was long grown, making a family of my own. Then eighteen months after he quit work, he died.” Hesitation entered her voice, and a darkness sifted into her eyes. “Sometimes you can spend your whole life waiting for the day you leave work, the day you’re going to start enjoying life, start living, start getting to know your family. But by then it’s over—it’s too late. You’re gone.”
“Wanna play?” Kaylee interrupted. “I got a tyrasaurus for you.”
Angie broke her gaze with the woman and glanced at the child on the floor. She was around the same age as Angie would have been when she’d been stuffed bleeding into that cradle. Same age as the little girl in pink who’d been haunting her in her hallucinations. A chill crawled down her spine. She shook the odd emotion. “Not now, Kaylee, thank you. I need to see your gran.”
Sharon pointed Angie toward a staircase. “My mom’s suite is downstairs.” She lowered her voice and said, “Her memory is not quite what it used to be—she gets confused sometimes. And frustrated if pushed to recall things. Please, whatever it is that you’ve come for, go on easy on her.”
Angie’s heart sank a little. “Of course.” She started down the wooden stairs. Behind her Sharon called out, “I hope you like scones—I could smell her baking all morning.”
At the bottom of the stairs, a door hung ajar. Angie knocked, then edged the door open a little wider. “Hello? Mrs. Voight—are you here?”
The tiny silver-haired woman from the photo popped out from around the wall. She wore an orange apron that was covered with giant purple eggplants.
“I’m Angie,” she said, stepping into the open-plan living area.
“Wanda. It’s good to meet you.” The woman offered Angie her hand. There was a hint of England in her accent, and her hand felt cold and frail, like the bones of a little bird. “Arnold would have been so thrilled at your interest in his old case. That mystery of the cradle child really got to him.” She undid her apron ties as she spoke.
“Do you know much about it?”
“Not really. Arnold didn’t discuss the details of his cases with me. He liked to keep me separate from all that dark stuff that went on at his work. I made you tea—do you like tea? Please, sit down.” Wanda Voight gestured toward a round table abutting a window that looked out over a small garden. On the table was a colorful cloth, atop which sat a teapot covered with a quilted cozy. Beside it was a plate of scones, jars of jam and cream, and a set of matching cups, saucers, and plates.
“I love tea, thanks.” Angie seated herself at the table. “You have a nice view from downstairs, too,” she said, taking in the pretty little envelope of lawn outside with its neatly trimmed edges, shrub border. A drooping yellow cedar stood sentinel over it all. Once a few pleasantries had been exchanged and tea had been poured and a hot buttered scone and jam had been set in front of Angie, she steered the conversation back to the topic of her visit, remaining careful not to angle in too directly—senior citizens did require a different level of tact when it came to interviews. They’d witnessed life in a different era. They generally needed to be made to feel relaxed, comfortable, warmed up with common interests. Angie explained again why she’d come. “As I mentioned on the phone, I’m looking into that cradle case for a close friend.”
“Are you a private investigator, then?” said Wanda.
“In a manner. At least in this capacity.” Angie set her cup on its saucer and leaned forward. “That case made the media. Ads and posters were sent out, yet no one came forward to claim the child, no distant relative, nothing. It must have been high-profile for a while?”
Wanda sipped her tea, thinking. “You know, it was the top of the news for a week or so, but then there was that big earthquake up in Alaska, and the angel’s cradle child story sort of got swept away by it all. On top of the quake, news broke about that Boeing going down in the Pacific. There was a team of Calgary hockey players on that plane, and it was all everyone was talking about.” She took another sip of her tea, then shook her head. “Arnie had nightmares about the cradle case. And when no one came for that little girl, and Arnie could do nothing more to find out where she’d come from . . . well, he had trouble letting it go. He was disturbed by his own inability to solve the mystery.”
“He was the lead investigator, I understand.”
“Yes. His partner at the time was Rufus Stander. They worked it together. Eventually they had to put the case aside for more pressing things.”
“What happened to Rufus Stander?” Angie asked. “When I visited the VPD yesterday, they told me he was also deceased.” And I got a feeling there was more to it than that.
A shadow crept into the elderly woman’s eyes. Carefully, with two hands, she set her cup on the saucer. She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Arnie and Rufus had a particularly difficult case several years after the angel’s cradle one. An eight-year-old boy went missing from Stanley Park. Clean vanished into thin air. Arnie and Rufus were part of the team tasked with the search. And they were the ones who found him. Just one block down from the park where he disappeared. They were searching the rental unit of a man who’d apparently been seen talking with the boy in the park shortly before the boy vanished. The man was not at home—the landlord let Arnie and Rufus into the unit. Apparently, the landlord said the tenant had not been seen since the day the boy went missing. While Arnie was talking to the landlord, Rufus opened the fridge door, to see what was in there—to judge how long the man might have been gone and whether he might be returning . . .” Her voice faded. She shook herself.