Schuepp suddenly stopped, droopy eyes widening. "I'll be damned. If you're not the spitting image of your mother. Annabelle, isn't it? All grown up. I'll be damned. Please, please, come in. Now, this is an honor. I'm going to fetch us some coffee. Oh hell, it's gotta be noon somewhere. I'm fetching us some scotch!"
Schuepp set off at a brisk shuffle, heading through the arched foyer into the formal living room. There, another arched doorway led into the dining room, where a right-hand turn took him into the kitchen.
Bobby and Annabelle followed the man through his house, Bobby taking in the heavy floral furniture, the delicate crocheted doilies, the eucalyptus swags gracing the tops of floor-length mauve drapes. He was hoping there was a Mrs. Schuepp somewhere, because life was too scary if Mr. Schuepp had done the decorating.
The kitchen was country-style, with oak cabinets and a massive oval walnut table. A lazy Susan in the middle of the table boasted sugar, salt, and a small pharmacy of drugs. Schuepp fiddled with the coffeemaker, then moved on to the pantry, where after much clinking of glass, he withdrew a bottle of Chivas Regal.
"Coffee's probably gonna taste like crap," he announced. "The missus passed away last year. Now, she could brew a cup of coffee. Personally," he added, dropping the Chivas in the middle of the table, "I recommend the scotch."
Annabelle was gazing at the man wide-eyed. He produced three glasses. When Annabelle and Bobby begged off, he shrugged, poured himself two fingers, and tossed it down. For a moment, Schuepp's scalp turned bright red. He wheezed and started to cough, and Bobby had images of his interview subject suddenly dropping dead. But then the former professor recovered, thumping his shrunken chest.
"I'm not much of a drinker," Schuepp told them. "Given the occasion, however, I could use a belt."
"Do you know why we're here?" Annabelle inquired softly.
"Let me ask you this, young lady: When did your dear father die?"
"Nearly ten years ago."
"Made it that long? Good for him. Where?"
"Actually, we'd returned to Boston."
"Really? Hmmm, interesting. And if you don't mind me asking, how?"
"Hit by a taxicab while crossing the street."
Schuepp arched a bushy white brow, nodding to himself. "And your mother?"
Annabelle hesitated. "Eighteen years ago. Kansas City."
"How?"
"Overdosed. Booze mixed with painkillers. She, um, she'd developed a drinking problem along the way. I found her when I returned home from school."
Bobby shot her a glance. She'd already volunteered more details for Schuepp than she'd ever given him.
"Collateral damage," Schuepp observed matter-of-factly "Makes some sense. Shall we?" He gestured toward the table. "Coffee's ready, though I insist you should try the scotch."
He returned to the kitchen, loading the coffeepot, cups, and creamer on a tray Bobby took it from him without asking, mostly because he couldn't picture a hundred-pound man lifting a ten-pound tray Schuepp smiled his appreciation.
They made it to the table, Bobby's mind whirling, Annabelle looking paler by the second.
"You knew my father," she stated.
"I had the honor to serve as head of the department of mathematics for nearly twenty years. Your father was there for five of them. Not nearly long enough, but he left his mark. He was into applied mathematics, you know, not pure mathematics. Had an excellent rapport with students, and a brilliant mind for strategy. I used to tell him he should give up teaching and work for the Department of Defense."
"You were his boss?" Bobby clarified for the record.
"I hired him, based upon the glowing recommendation of my good friend Dr. Gregory Badington, at the University of Pennsylvania. It was the only way it could've been done, given the circumstances."
"Wait a minute." Bobby knew that name. "Gregory Badington from Philadelphia?"
"Yes, sir. Greg headed up Penn's math program from '72 to '89, I believe. Passed away a few years back. Aneurysm. I pray I should be so lucky." Schuepp nodded vigorously, without a trace of sarcasm.
"So Gregory Badington was Russell Granger's former boss," Bobby said slowly. "He recommended Russell for your program and at the same time he allowed Russell to move his family into Gregory's home in Arlington. Now, why would Dr. Badington do that?"
"Greg did his graduate work at Harvard," Schuepp filled in. "Never lost his love for Boston. When it became clear Russell's family needed to leave Philadelphia, Gregory was only too happy to lend a helping hand." The old professor turned to Annabelle. He pressed her palm between his own age-spotted digits. "How much did your father tell you, dear?"
"Nothing. He never wanted me to worry; then it was too late."
"Until they discovered the grave in Mattapan," Schuepp finished for her. "I saw it on the news, even debated calling the police myself once I read your name. I was fairly certain it couldn't be your remains that were recovered. I was guessing it was that other young girl, the one from your street."