“Flaw in your theory, Professor: Phoebe Bailey was a dancer killed with a surcingle. I’ve known her for twenty years, and I used to work at a stable. Dancer starts with d and surcingle starts with s. Nice try, though.”

Erin went still, paralyzed by defeat. The police weren’t going to help her. Even if she tried to go around Detective Iberville, she’d probably face the same pitying looks of doubt. Once again, her survival rested in her own hands. Hadn’t she learned by now that she couldn’t count on others to save her?

Stiffly, she collected her things and walked to the door. “It’s your prerogative to doubt me, Detective Iberville. I didn’t expect you to believe my theory, but I had to try.” Erin opened the door, then halted in the doorway. “However, with all due respect, Ms. Bailey’s obituary says that she was a dancer from Jamaica, where the native dance is calypso. Calypso begins with a c. And while you’re correct, she was killed with a surcingle, you’re wrong about the spelling. Surcingle is a word that comes from the Middle French cengle and the Latin cingere, which means ‘to gird,’ and both of those words are spelled with a c. When the word was Americanized, we adopted an alternate spelling with an s. But even the American dictionaries recognize the original spelling: c-i-r-c-i-n-g-l-e.”

Head down, Erin rushed from the office and stumbled against someone blocking her way out of the station. A smothered oath sailed over her head as her foot connected with a shin. Then icy cola spilled down the front of her shirt and dripped from the tweed jacket.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, mortified. She looked up to repeat her apology. “You!”

Gabriel wrestled with a smile. Luscious brown eyes shot venom at him while his soda soaked her skin. “Hello, Alice.”

The combination of fury and embarrassment on Erin’s face amused him. And intrigued him, almost more than the conversation he’d overheard. Fishing in his jacket, he pulled out the square of linen every Southern gentleman of a certain age carried. “May I?”

“I can dry myself, thank you.”

“Of course.” He handed the cloth to her. As she dabbed at the spill, he crumpled his empty cup and set it on the shabby black cabinets that stood sentinel outside Sylvie’s door.

He hadn’t expected to find the klutzy professor or the answer to his prayers in the station’s hallways. But he never turned down gifts from the fates, especially when they came so neatly and enticingly packaged. Propping his elbow on the cabinet and tucking his notepad behind a stack of files, he drawled, “What’s a nice girl like you doing at a police station in the middle of the day?”

“Research for a class,” Erin lied automatically. The last thing she wanted at this moment was another conversation with Gabriel.