“No, Mom stole all our wrapping paper and locked herself in her room to wrap things,” he said. “The boys are home, being looked after by all the sewing ladies. I asked your mother if I could leave them there while I went out looking for a Christmas present for you.”

“I thoroughly approve.”

“Yes, except I lied,” he said. “I’m not looking for a present for you—I’m out at the free-range organic turkey farm.”

“It wasn’t a lie, then,” I said. “If you’re picking up that small turkey for tomorrow night, you’re definitely getting what could end up being my very favorite present.”

“It’s not going to be that small a turkey,” he said. “Apparently they don’t come all that small these days. This bird would be plenty to feed a family of twelve.”

“Even better,” I said. “Then it can feed our family a couple of times. As long as it’s fresh.”

“Very fresh,” Michael said. “I just barely avoided being introduced to it. And they’re still off … um … preparing it. Which means unless I want to come all the way back into town and back out again later, I’ll be stuck out here a while. Could you do something for me?”

“Sure.”

“My friend Charlie—the one who owns the basement apartment—is waiting for me in his office,” he said. “As soon as he hands over his spare keys, he’s free to split, so if there’s any chance you could swing by the college—”

“I’ll be going right by it soon,” I said. “Where’s his office?”

“Peake Hall, room two twelve,” Michael said. “Thanks.”

I started the car again, and as I drove the rest of the way back to town, I figured out the quickest route to Peake Hall. Wasn’t it an administration building rather than an academic one? Odd—Michael’s friends tended to come from the faculty rather than the administrators. Then again, since the current chair of the drama department was grooming Michael to be his successor, maybe I should be overjoyed if my husband was making friends in the bureaucracy.

Although as I climbed the stairs to the second floor, I wondered if I should call back and ask Charlie’s last name.

Chapter 28

One mystery was solved when I reached room 212, which was a rather imposing office with a sign on the door that read CHARLES GARDNER. REGISTRAR. Aha. Michael’s friend Charlie was a moderately important bureaucrat.

The secretary who would normally have been guarding his door against all comers had apparently already started her holidays. I knocked, peered inside, and instantly recognized the occupant as one of the actors in a production Michael had directed last spring.

“Polonius!” I cried.

The distinguished-looking fifty-something man with touches of gray at his temples and in his neatly trimmed goatee looked up with the unmistakable pleasure of the amateur actor whose role has been remembered.