Prince Solms Inn, a solid, two-story brick structure with a set of double front doors painted in an inviting shade of tomato red.
“Bed and breakfast?” Quin said, reading its large green sign.
“Yes, formerly a hotel. It’s got a great space downstairs. Used to be a speakeasy. That’s where the show is.”
It took a bit of driving and luck to find a parking spot, leaving Dini and Quin with a half-block walk to the inn. He worried about her shoes, which she thought was sweet, but then she produced a pair of flats from the back seat. “Always prepared.”
Her bag for this show was a favorite—vintage powder blue and round, probably part of some woman’s honeymoon set. Dini opened it and stashed her heels into the shirred pocket that spanned the width of the inside of the lid. The case had a small, looped handle designed to be slipped over a dainty wrist, meaning Quin looked a little ridiculous carrying it.
The walk to the inn was rough and uneven, in places totally without a sidewalk, and with each step Dini was glad to have ditched her heels. “We’re going to the Sidecar. There’s an entrance around the corner, but let’s go through the house.”
They walked up the stairs, through the inviting red door, and into a narrow entryway. On the right, a white banister stretched to the second floor; a sharp hook of a turn revealed a door that opened to a steep, dark set of stairs.
“After you,” Quin said, gesturing with his free hand.
“Nope,” Dini said. “I have a thing about walking down stairs with someone behind me.”
“Because if I fall, we both fall?”
“Exactly.”
Stepping into the Sidecar at the Prince Solms Inn was like stepping out of a time machine. Exposed brick walls, dim light from electric bulbs. Tufted black leather seating ran the length of one wall, tables interspersed in front of it. At the back stood an impressive-looking bar with a mosaic of bottles on the shelf behind it.
“Well, hello, Miss Magic.”
Dini turned her attention to the woman who’d snuck up from behind. “Hey, Miss Lorraine.” She was heavyset, in a way that looked like a controlled, trim figure let loose with age.
“We weren’t expecting you for another half hour or so.” Lorraine’s tone was more efficient than friendly, but Dini knew not to take offense. She hoped Quin did too, considering the mildly disapproving assessment Lorraine was giving him.
“This is my friend I told you about. Quin? Also known as Irvin Carmichael the Fifth. Can you imagine? Today is his last day in town, and he’s never seen my show. Thank you for letting him crash.”
“Someone’s got to carry the bag,” Quin said, grinning self-consciously.
“That’s an American Tourister hat case. Nineteen sixty-four, sixty-five, maybe,” Lorraine said with disdain. “It’s a woman’s bag.”
Dini jumped in. “Lorraine was a flight attendant back in the day. She knows her stuff.”
“Back when flying was a class act,” Lorraine said. “That’s a fine bag.”
“Thank you,” Quin said, not at all awkwardly.
“I’ve got this.” Dini relieved Quin of the bag and shooed Lorraine back to her table of chattering women, but not before learning of the afternoon’s signature drink—something called a Virgin Pink Flamingo—and instructions to wait in the Pipe Room until it was time for the show.
There was a small stage at the foot of the stairs, most of which was taken up with a baby grand piano lacquered to black silk. At Dini’s request, a small table sat next to it. While setting up, she looked around to offer the occasional smiled greeting, noting the ladies had dressed for the venue: an illustrated flapper on their T-shirts, and red hats in 1920s styles. To think, some of them might have been born in the decade.
She held the suitcase closed without zipping the lid and stepped down from the platform, picking her way over to an alcove behind the stage. Open booth seating ran along all three walls, with a glass case parallel above it displaying hundreds of artfully arranged pipes.
“You think this is the Pipe Room?” Quin asked. He held two margarita-style glasses filled with a thick pink drink.
“I think the better name would be the Fox and Pipes Room,” Dini said, pointing to the mounted fox posed above the case. She reached for a drink. “Strawberry?”
“Grapefruit,” he said. “Frozen and delicious. I had a taste before he poured.”
Dini took a drink and concurred. Tart with underlying sweetness. She sat in the booth, and Quin brought over a chair while she