Lurching to a stop at the bottom of the steps leading up onto the wide verandah encircling his brother's rambling lakeside home, Rykker bent over to clutch his trembling knees. His breathing was nothing more than a series of harsh gasps as he fought to satisfy his lungs' demand for more oxygen. <Damn, I am out of shape! > His frustration was growing at his inability to do more than grip his knees and watch fat drops of sweat fall within inches of his Nike covered feet. <I don't understand it. I had him! > Had it really been only one short mile ago that the vision of victory had passed before his eyes? In spite of his wildly beating heart, his ears remained acutely tuned to his brother's athletic shoes thumping steadily above him as he ran in place. <How the hell does he do it?>

"You okay, Uncle Rykker? Maybe I should call out the medics. You don't look too good."

Raising his head just high enough to glare up at Peter and P.T. standing on the top step of the verandah, he growled, "You two can go to hell!" The effort cost him dearly. Suddenly, his head was much too heavy for his neck muscles to support. Bending over once again, he gave into his body's demand for large quantities of oxygen.

"You just might need to make that call, Peter. I think the man may be on the verge of delirium caused by lack of oxygen."

Hearing his nephew chuckle, Rykker moved closer to the steps. Turning his back, he settled his exhausted body onto the second step from the bottom. "You two are a real couple of clowns, you know that? Maybe you can find a circus in town. And you, P.T., are a lousy winner!"

Sinclair laughed. "Do my best, little brother. I have to admit, though, you gave me one hell of a race that last mile. Considering all that rich food you have been packing away lately, I didn't think you had it in you."

"Fredricco's cooking is going to be my downfall and I've dropped off on my running the last few months. Time to rededicate. I would just like to know one thing. How the hell do you manage to beat me every time we run together? I believe the score now stands at P.T.- 15, Rykker - 0."

"You're keeping score?"

"Hell yes, I'm keeping score! For your information, it is my sole purpose in life to beat you at something!"

Glancing to his right, he watched Peter carefully lower himself to a sitting position on the step next to him, his eyes narrowing.

"What? Did I grow a second nose?"

"I didn't realize being a younger sibling was such a difficult proposition."

"Just be glad you were an only child and now occupy the lofty position of oldest sibling, just like your gloating grandfather."

"Yewhoooo!" A high-pitched squeal suddenly shattered the morning calm.

Bolting to his feet, Rykker felt a sudden surge of adrenaline.

Peter and Sinclair, positioning themselves on either side of the ex-mercenary, joined Rykker as all three men focused their full attention on the left corner of the house.

A woman rounded the corner at a walking run, her sequin-covered sandals slapping the walkway with each hurried step. Bright red hair frizzed out around her heart-shaped face like a veil of fire, clashing with her shimmering pink lipstick and matching nail polish. The hem of her hip length shirt, covered in a profusion of large purple and lavender flowers, rippled over skin tight, siren pink pants. Between her pudgy hands she was precariously balancing a rose-colored box. She bore down upon the men like a run-away locomotive.

"There you are! I just knew that eventually I would catch someone at home! I happened to be driving along the road not more than five minutes ago when what before my wondering eyes should appear? Why, two handsome gentlemen jogging along the path next to the road. I rounded the corner and there you were! I said to myself, 'Abigail, you must turn around this very instant and go back to properly welcome your newest neighbors to the Muir Lake Community.' And so, here I am!" Her words spewed forth in one steady, unbroken stream.

Reaching the young cop and his two companions, she proclaimed, "I am Abigail Von Morten. I live in the large stone house up on Loop Drive. Perhaps you have seen it? I would like to officially welcome you into our community."

Rykker watched the woman inch toward Peter who stood to his right wearing a rather stunned expression. By the time Abigail Von Morten finished her little speech, she was gazing up into the hazel eyes of his nephew with what could only described as bald-faced lust. Why, the dirty old broad! She surprised him further by reaching up to place one pudgy, ring covered hand against the kid's chest. He had to admit, though, the expression of pure astonishment on Peter's face was priceless.

"Oh my, I do believe you are about the most beautiful young man I have ever laid eyes on. If only I were fifteen years younger."

<Make that thirty years, lady!> In spite of himself, Rykker smiled. The woman's voice, only seconds before high-pitched and grating was now deep and throaty. The blush creeping up the young detective's face was playing havoc with his self-control. <Damn! The old gal just might jump the kid's bones right here in broad daylight. No doubt she could teach him a few tricks.>

P.T., quickly moving in to place a hand on the woman's elbow, managed to turn her focus away from his grandson. "Mrs. Von Morten?"

Tearing her gaze from the face of the young cop, she looked up at Sinclair. "Please, call me Abigail. After all, we are neighbors."

"Okay, Abigail. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Peter Thomas Sinclair, but you can call me P.T., as do most people. This is my home and this gentleman here is my brother, Rykker."

"Mr. Rykker."

Taking the lady's outstretched hand into his own, he corrected her. "That's just plain Rykker, ma'am."

"Uh, Rykker." Although her smile turned tentative and her voice filled with curiosity, she made no further comment.

"And that young man there is my grandson, Peter Caine."

Bestowing a brilliant smile upon the young detective, she received a curt nod in return. Giving each man a quick perusal, she declared with gusto, "Yes, I can definitely see the resemblance. You are indeed a very handsome family. I just happen to be president of our local Lakeside Theater Group. We have put on many very impressive productions and all have been well received. Perhaps you would consider joining our group?" Once again, her eyes shifted to Peter. "The three of you would make such wonderful additions to our repertoire of leading men."

For one split second, Rykker could have sworn she was about to say, "additions to our stable." He didn't doubt for a second that that was exactly what the lady was thinking. Rubbing a hand across his mouth, he attempted to conceal his amusement.

"Oh, I almost forgot. I brought this cake as a small welcoming gift."

Sinclair took the offered box. "Thank you, Abigail. That was very thoughtful. I'm sure we will enjoy this."

"Oh yes, no doubt. It is from our world famous bakery in town, Germaine's. I'm sure you have heard of it by now. We theater people wouldn't think of purchasing our bread and pastries from any other bakery." Leaning forward, she spoke in a stage whisper, "That's where the rich and famous shop, you know."

"I see."

The screen door leading out onto the verandah swung open and a slender woman, somewhere in her thirties, emerged to stand at the top of the steps. "Mr. Sinclair, just letting you know I have arrived. I'll start with the upstairs today. Any special instructions?"

"I will be right there, Vesta." Looking down, he added, "Excuse me Abigail, I will just be a moment."

Proceeding to the top of the steps, Sinclair spoke briefly with his housekeeper. Placing the cake box in her hands, he then turned and walked back down the steps as the screen door swished closed behind him.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Abigail inched closer to the young cop. "Have you ever done any acting, Peter?"

"No ma'am. I'm a police detective and I like my job."

"Both gorgeous and a hero. A very exciting combination," she purred.

Returning, Sinclair inserted himself between his grandson and Abigail Von Morten. Placing a hand against the woman's back, he gently moved her away from the younger man.

"No actors in our family, Abigail, but we will look forward to enjoying your next production."

"Oh yes! Our next play is a musical. We are in rehearsal four nights a week, but I will be sure to drop by with some free tickets for all of you. Members of the cast are given a certain number of tickets to share with family and friends. I can't think of anyone I would rather invite. I am sure we will become friends in no time." Gazing longingly at Peter, who was busy studying his feet, she continued, "You might have noticed some of our posters displayed around town in the better establishments. I, of course, use my stage name on all of our printed materials. Just look for Mona Freebaser - that's me." She laughed. "Actually, I got the idea to use Mona Freebaser many years ago from an old boyfriend. Georgie was and still is a brilliant writer. He told me I needed an 'eye catcher.' The kind of name people would see once and remember. He is still deeply involved in the entertainment industry. We do try to keep in touch. The last time I visited Georgie in New York I got quite a shock. My Georgie had turned into Georgina! Oh well, different strokes for different folks, I suppose." Looking down at the gold watch adorning her left wrist, Abigail nestled her right hand in the center of her ample bosom. "Oh goodness, look at the time. I have intruded upon your hospitality long enough. I should be going. It's off to rehears…"

The woman jumped as an angry wail rose from inside the house, carrying out into the yard. All eyes quickly darted to the back door. The screen cracked back against the house exposing a man wearing a hip length white jacket over dark blue pants with a pristine chef's hat perched atop his head. Rushing out onto the verandah, balancing a rose-colored cake box in the open palm of one hand, he came to a sudden stop at the edge of the top step.

"Problem, Fredricco?" Moving closer to the bottom step, P.T. looked up into the face of his obviously agitated chef.

"What is this...this confectioners nightmare doing in MY kitchen!"

"Now, Fredricco…" Before P.T. could complete the sentence, Abigail Von Morten went brushing passed him to plant herself at the bottom of the stairs, glaring up at the man standing above her.

"How dare you! That cake happens to be from Germaine's world famous bakery, you fool!"

"Fool! Fool! And just who are you, you ….two-legged neon sign?"

Bristling, the woman began yelling up at the small, thin man glaring down at her, "I am Abigail Von Morten and I brought that cake here as a gift. A welcoming gift, you bafoon!"

Fredricco's eyes narrowed.

"Now Ricco.…" Sinclair's attempt to defuse the situation was immediately interrupted by his now furious chef.

"I will tell you what this is, you old bat!" He literally spat out the words. "This is a piece of garbage! It does not belong in MY kitchen!"

"Why you…you…servant! How dare you defame Germaine's world famous bakery! You probably have never, in all of your pitiful little life, darkened the inside of such an esteemed establishment!"

"It is you who know nothing! Otherwise, you would know that your world famous bakery is nothing more than a cheap chain, you foolish, empty headed old..."

"They are NOT a chain! And if you were anything more than a simpleton, you would know that, you incipient little cook!"

"I am a chef! I know food and this is NOT food! It is filled with chemicals! I do not feed my family chemicals! And you would know that, but for the obvious fact that you spend your days stuffing that flapping mouth of yours with anything unable to outrun you!"

"Chef, my ass! You are no chef, you impostor!"

After the initial shock, Rykker was finding the verbal food fight rather entertaining. Not that he found the words spewing forth from Abigail Von Morten's mouth particularly surprising, but the behavior of their normally quiet chef was another matter. He was finding it all quite amusing. A glance over his shoulder told him that he had unconsciously moved closer to the action. Peter, who had been standing at his right elbow, now stood a couple of yards behind him with mouth agape. A very angry Abigail Von Morten was less than an arms reach in front of him. The offended lady literally shook with rage.

"And where, pray tell us, DID you learn to cook, you disgusting little man! Perhaps Hallie's all you can eat truck stop out on the interstate?"

"Why you vain, over inflated, ill mannered bag of wind!"

Without warning and in one swift motion, Fredricco scooped the cake from its box. Cocking his arm, he launched the round, white frosted confection out into the still morning air. Abigail Von Morten stood directly in his line of fire. Sinclair, standing next to the woman, quickly reached over at the last second and jerked her out of harms way.

The sound of cake splattering against a solid object brought everything to a sudden halt as all eyes focused on the recipient of Abigail's welcoming gift.

With effort, Rykker slowly lifted his cake-laden eyelids and snorted through his nose to clear his icing-plugged nostrils. A glob of cake slid slowly down the bridge of his nose to cling for one tantalizing second before plopping onto his right shoe.

Starting low and quickly building in both intensity and volume, a wail rose up from the verandah, drawing all eyes back to the house.

"Aieeeeeeeeeee! Look what you have made me do, you wicked old witch!" Fredricco, wrapping his arms around his chest, began to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Oh, I am so sorry, Mr. Rykker. So sorry! I did not mean this to happen. Please, please forgive me."

P.T. yelled up at the frightened little man, "Fredricco! It's okay, but I do think it would be in your best interest to return to the kitchen…NOW!"

"Yes, sir, yes, sir, Mr. Sinclair. I am so sorry, so sorry." One quick look at Rykker and the agitated chef fled back into the house.

"Peter? Would you walk Abigail to her car, please? Oh, and while you are at it, you might want to bring out a change of clothes for your uncle."

"Sure." Tearing his gaze from Rykker's cake-covered form, Peter walked over to where his grandfather and Abigail Von Morten stood.

Raising her gaze to Sinclair's face, she opened her mouth to speak. Holding up a hand to silence the woman, P.T. decided a little reassurance was in order. "Don't worry, Abigail. Everything will be just fine. Right now, though, I think it best that you go with my grandson."

Shaking her head in agreement, she reached out for Peter's offered arm. Walking slowly past the ex-mercenary, Abigail and Peter continued on down the walkway. Neither could resist a final backward glance before disappearing around the corner of the house.

Walking over to stand in front of his brother, P.T. struggled to control his mirth. "You okay?"

"Well, aside from the fact that I am standing here wearing a cake, I couldn't be better." He ran his tongue over his icing-covered lips. "Mmmm, not bad. Has the Wicked Witch of the West left?"

"Give her a break. She means well. She's just lonely."

"Uh huh. A lonely old lady who has her sights set on our resident young stud."

"So I noticed. Hell, I thought he was actually going to bolt when she started massaging his chest."

With sweeping strokes, Rykker began swiping both hands across his face and chin, dislodging cake and icing. Slinging his hands outward, he flung as much of the mess as possible to the ground. Bunching the soiled shirt high on his chest, he jerked it swiftly over his head and tossed it off to one side.

"Do you think it was a good idea sending him to escort Miss Freebaser to her car?"

P.T. laughed. "What can possibly happen between here and her car?"

"Guess we'll find out." Bending down, he gingerly loosened the laces of his Nikes. Straitening, he used opposing feet to work them off. Untying the drawstring at his waist, he let his dark gray sweatpants drop to the ground. Sliding his jock strap down around his ankles, he stepped out of both articles of clothing and sent them flying off to one side with a well-placed kick. Stripping off his socks, they quickly joined the mound of soiled clothing.

Walking around to the side of the steps, P.T. uncoiled the hose from its wheel. Turning on the water, he drug the hose back to where his brother stood waiting. "Want me to do the honors?"

"Hardly! I've had about all the excitement I can handle for one day. Just hand me that damn hose." P.T. placed it into his outstretched hand.

Running the water over his head and chest, Rykker started rubbing off as much of the offending mess as possible. "Damn, this w-water's c-cold!"

"I think you need to talk to Ricco. He was pretty shaken. Might even burn lunch….or worse, dinner!"

"Yeah, in awhile. It won't hurt him to stew a bit."

Walking out of the house at that moment, Peter gingerly made his way down the steps, observing his uncle's clean-up efforts.

"Well, son, did you get the lady on her way?"

"Yeah kid, is our local busybody out looking for other prey?"

"Probably. I watched until her car disappeared from sight. Next time, Granpop, you can walk her to her car."

"Why? Problem?"

"That woman has a real problem keeping her hands to herself!"

Rykker could not keep from laughing in spite of his nephew's injured expression, or maybe because of it. Aside from collecting the booby prize in the cake-throwing contest, the morning's events had certainly been anything but boring.

Both men began to laugh, much to the young cop's chagrin.

"Thanks for the support! I knew I could count on you two."

Before either man could muster a reply, the sound of the screen door opening above them drew their attention. Looking up, all three stared directly into the startled face of Vesta, Sinclair's housekeeper.

"Oh, my!" Eyes widening, the housekeeper's gaze riveted on the naked form of the ex-mercenary standing below clutching a hose to his bare chest as water cascaded down his goosebump-covered flesh. She extended her thin arms straight out in front of her, hands splaying out like two small shields. Vesta began backing toward the door. "Oh, I am so sorry. I….I did not realize…I did not know." Bumping against the screen, her hands flew behind her frantically fumbling for the door handle. "I never would have…Oh my!" Turning, Vesta jerked open the screen door and fled red-faced back into the house.

The three men stood rooted, glancing at each other.

"I thought you were going to bring me out some clothes, kid?"

"I was, but Ricco said he…

Once again, the screen door swung open. Looking up, the men watched Fredricco creep across the porch as if walking on eggshells. Reaching the railing, he carefully draped sweatpants, a matching sweatshirt and a pair of socks over its painted surface. With exaggerated care, he bent down and placed a pair of tennis shoes below the clothing. Keeping his eyes averted, he turned and hightailed it back into the house.

Unable to any longer contain themselves, all three burst into laughter. Peter bent over pressing a hand against his sore ribs. "Stop! Don't make me laugh. Please, it hurts!"

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