“Never mind. Here.” Emily fished a business card from her bag. “Freeze-Frame Clutter Kickers. You must be Ms. Newell.”

“Quinn,” the woman said, studying the card. Bangs shadowed her wan-looking eyes. “Thank you so much for coming. I know it’s not the most convenient time.”

Ya think? “No problem. You talked to my partner. I was doing an assessment for another client not all that far away.” Emily gave Quinn what she hoped was a sincere smile.

“Well, it’s kind of you to say that. I’m afraid I had a bit of a meltdown on the phone. But I’m not a nut or a princess, I swear.”

No, Quinn Newell did not strike Emily as a nut. The not-a-princess part she was less sure about. For sure, she was a bit jittery. High? Emily took in the vast entryway. That sweet smell wasn’t weed. More likely potpourri. But she knew better than to ask the obvious question: Why the fire drill? She’d watched Becca work with new clients often enough to know that answers would emerge. Attacking people head-on with why questions could drive them into a protective crouch. Instead, she said, “So you know Ryan Melanson?”

“We’re”—Quinn hesitated—“friends.” She rushed on with, “He speaks highly of you. Says you’re trustworthy. Dependable. Quite a straight arrow.” Quinn spoke without a hint of irony.

“He works with my husband,” Emily said. She wasn’t about to get into her own history with Ryan. She looked around. “Well, this is quite a house.”

“No kidding,” Quinn said with a smile. “My husband’s taste. Actually, his ex’s. Three guesses where he met that one. Vegas!” She snickered. “Actually, that’s not true. I don’t know where he met her. I don’t actually care. But I like to tell people that, because she was a dancer and her design aesthetic is pure Vegas.”

Emily would have pegged it more as Versailles. The two-story foyer—it felt larger than the rotunda of the courthouse where Emily had served jury duty last year—dwarfed its spare furnishings. The floor was a patchwork of Chinese Oriental carpets in pastels and cream. Against the wall stood an elegant, oversized Biedermeier-style chest of drawers and a settee with striped satin upholstery. And, of course, there was a grand staircase.

The walls, on the other hand, were hung haphazardly with prints and posters, along with old advertising signs and the occasional African or Alaskan mask. The mishmash of centuries and cultures and tastes created a pleasant visual cacophony.

Quinn must have followed Emily’s gaze, because she said, “Furniture’s not my taste, either. And that stuff on the walls?” She shrugged and shook her head. “Those belong to my husband. Wally’s big into vintage advertising. In fact, that’s where he is right now, at an auction of the stuff. Went all the way to Hyannis, if you can believe that.”