the voice said as Savannah stood beside the answering machine, scooping Pacific Salmon Pâté into the cats’ dishes. When she heard the distinctive ca-wl-led Savannah nearly dropped the spoon. Hot damn! It was that New Yorker who had given her two lousy tips so far; the first too general, the second too late. “... and it didn’t seem to help.” She was right about that. “I’m sure now. I don’t know who actually did it, but I know who set it up, who paid for it. And I think I know why. You need to ...” There was a pause as she seemed to be searching for the words. “... to look into the fashion industry in more depth. I think Mr. Winston and Ms. O’Neal were killed more for business reasons, not personal.” Suddenly her voice dropped to a whisper. “Sorry, I have to go. I hope that helps.” Savannah listened as her machine told her the time. Four thirty P.M. Only ten minutes ago. And that had been the last message. No one else had called since. Aha! She almost cackled aloud.
