Vanessa Weaver informed Rex. “Aboot time,” he replied in his Lowland Scots burr, recalling with distaste the moldy inn and fake hunting theme decor. “Has business picked up for them, then?” “It has. Ever since the notoriety over the Moor Murders. Ghoulish, I know, that tourists would want to stay under the same roof as a serial killer … But there you are. I told Shona and Hamish the place needed a makeover, and I’m pleased to say they listened.” Vanessa’s green eyes gloated amid her cloud of auburn hair. “Well, no one can deny your talent and taste,” Rex said graciously, taking in the expensive cut of the interior designer’s purple velvet dress. From across the living room came the sudden crash of breaking glass. Within the brief lull in conversation that followed, the speakers could be heard playing a plaintive Gaelic ballad over the gale blowing fiercely outside the lodge.
