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lunch with the new chairwoman of the Port Claxton Summer Theater Guild.”
    “Oh dear. I suppose the guild will be wanting more money from C&L this year.”
    “Undoubtedly.”
    “I do think we've given enough to that group over the years, don't you? I was very disappointed in that production they put on last summer.”
    “ War Toys ?”
    “It painted the military in a rather uncomplimentary light, didn't you think? Not to mention the business interests that are connected to the military establishment. We don't need that sort of theater here in Port Claxton.”
    Nor were the good people of Port Claxton likely to be treated to another play with a strong antimilitary theme in the near future, Hilary thought wryly. The Castletons and Lightfoots had made no secret of their reaction to War Toys .
    Last year's guild chairman must have been temporarily insane to have authorized the production of the play in the first place. Then again, perhaps it hadn't been insanity, Hilary decided. Perhaps it had been a final, defiant stab at artistic freedom by the outgoing bureaucrat.
    Hilary hoped the chairman had enjoyed thumbing his nose at the guild's largest contributor, because Port Claxton's struggling summer theater program would be paying the price for a long time to come. The new chairwoman would no doubt be scrambling today to apologize for the mistakes of her predecessor. Hilary did not look forward to lunch.
    “I believe I'd better ask Tec to run out to the nursery for me,” Eleanor said as she frowned over a tray of greenery. “I need some more sphagnum moss for my Dionaea leaf cuttings.”
    “I'll tell him you want to see him.” Hilary turned toward the greenhouse door just as it burst open.
    “I've got one! I've got one! I've got one!” An excited five-year-old boy dressed in a striped polo shirt and jeans came rushing into the greenhouse. His light brown hair was cut cute and short and his small face already showed the promise of the chiseled good looks he had inherited from his father.
    Eleanor Castleton smiled down at her grandson. “What have you got, Jordan?”
    “A dead fly.” Jordan opened his palm to reveal a plump, moribund housefly. “Can I feed one of the plants? Can I? Can I? Can I?”
    “ May I,” Eleanor corrected gently. “Yes, dear, I think we can find one hungry enough to eat your fly. Let's see, what about this little Dionaea ? It hasn't eaten in ages.”
    Hilary watched in reluctant fascination as Jordan carefully dropped the now-dead insect into the open leaves of the Venus's-flytrap. The small carcass rolled across the trigger hairs and, with a speed that made all three onlookers blink, the spined leaves snapped shut. The fly was locked inside.
    “Wow,” said Jordan. “Wow, wow, wow. Did you see that, Hilary?”
    “Yes, Jordan, I saw it.” Hilary took one last glance around at the lush-looking plants that filled the greenhouse. Some were in hanging baskets, a few aquatic species floated in aquariums, others were planted in rows of boxes that covered the workbenches.
    Eleanor Castleton had developed a very interesting collection of pitcher plants, flytraps, sundews, butterworts and bladderworts. They all had one thing in common: they were carnivorous.
     
    Nick walked into the brightly lit diner behind Phila and took in the surroundings with a sense of resignation. The place was classic: red vinyl seats in the booths, wood-grained plastic-laminated tables with chrome legs and a long counter with stools that appeared to be a size too small for the people sitting on them. Loud waitresses in grease-stained uniforms that were also a size too small scurried between the tables. The open doorway to the kitchen revealed a smoky, sizzling grill filled with meat that dripped fat into the flames. The classic decor was capped by a stunning view of the parking lot.
    “This is the best you could do?” Nick asked Phila politely as he followed her to a booth.
    “This is it,” she answered cheerfully.