Seriously guys, thank you for the support. I find this fun and interesting and let's hope this interest lasts long enough for me to finish this fic. :)

It didn't long for another incident to rise—a break-in at George Deveraux's home. The stolen items were thirty or so thousand pounds worth in one dress and a handful of jewelry that belonged to May Deveraux, George Deveraux's sweetheart of a daughter.

This was a police job, of course, but Fletcher was surprised to find himself called in, not by Murt or even George Deveraux (for whom he'd taken care of one or two cases, mostly in the social circles of the elite), but May herself, shyly asking for Fletcher's help.

May was the sweetest girl Fletcher had ever known, even with her crippling shyness, which she'd retained from elementary school all throughout high school. He'd even had a bit of a crush on her, which faded in the background of his working life. He hadn't talked to her in years, but seeing her again after all this time was jarring for the young PI, who had to double his focus to overcome May's ingénue beauty and shiny doe eyes.

Geez, no wonder Hazel insisted he get a love life. He was repressed.

"Hi Fletcher. Thanks for coming," she greeted when he arrived. The cops had already gotten the investigation under way, and the crime scene was tagged and photographed as he took his own look.

He noted the break in the glass, about the size of a fist in the middle and tapering out, right beside the door handle. He asked Rylander, one of the CSIs on hand, if they found any fibers on the glass. He'd let Fletcher take a look at the threaded strands bagged from the glass back door—cheap, dirtied white. Could have been acquired at any of the dozens of stores, could have been older than they could track. Virtually untraceable. Another angle, then.

Fletcher stood at the door and noted the height the perp must have been at to punch the glass in, the size of the hole and the cracking of the glass around the original break.

He got 'pretty damn tall' from his observations, measuring at a little below 7 feet.

He informed the inspector as a freebie before sitting down with May, who would only talk to him, since he was the only one she knew there.

"I'm sorry," Fletcher said first of all. "This must be hard on you."

"Oh, no. I mean, yes, but… I'm sorry. I'm troubling everyone," she stuttered.

"You house just got broken into, May," Fletcher soothed. "This is the police's job. Now tell me what happened, slowly, as much as you can remember from when you found the room like this."

"Mhm. Um, this is the room I use sometimes. It faces the fields, which are blocked off from around, so it's safe. I mean, it was supposed to be safe. I had some jewelry in here, in the closet. And, um, a dress I use for special occasions."

She paused, taking a breath before saying, very quickly, "I don't really mind. The dress was old, I didn't like it, and some of that jewelry too. The one I'm worried about is my mother's brooch. It's one of a kind, and it's very important to our family."

"All right. May, don't worry, I may know how to find your mother's brooch. Just give a description of that and all the other jewelry—and the dress—to the officers."

May nodded.

"Now, tell me about the circumstances," Fletcher said slowly. "What were you doing the night before?"

May blushed lightly, like she'd done something wrong. Fletcher took note.

"Um… I was entertaining a guest. Dad was out," she said, "and we were in the living room."

"Who's this guest?" Fletcher asked.

May looked flustered, looking around. When her eyes landed on her Dad across the room, she leaned close to Fletcher and said quietly, "Red Sharkey."

Fletcher dropped his pad.

"What?"

"Red Sharkey. We were in high school—"

"I know," Fletcher said quickly.

"He's your friend," May stated, not so much a question as something she thought was a truth.

"No," Fletcher said. "Not really."

"But in high school—"

"Well," Fletcher amended, "I guess we were friendly then. We solved cases together, the little ones that earned us money. But that was high school. I didn't see him years after that. Nowadays, I only see him when he bails Herod out at the precinct."

May smiled a little.

"He helped us with our horses, once. He likes them. The vet was out of town, and he was able to calm Hemingway down for the next two days until the doctor could take a look. Dr. Grayson said he'd done a great job, and I told him he could come see Hemingway and the other horses whenever he liked."

Fletcher was surprised—not so much at the horse thing (he remembered that Red's favorite book in high school had been Black Beauty—he was surprised he'd forgotten), but that Red Sharkey was in and out of the Deveraux house with April living near and, for that matter, George Deveraux living in the very place. May was a trusting person, and Fletcher couldn't fault her for it. Red was… well, it wasn't fair to judge him by his family's name. He was a decent guy when it came right down to it, but just because Fletcher and May were able to accept that didn't mean George Deveraux would.

"Your father…"

May looked ashamed.

"Dad goes out of town a few times every other month. I tell Red when he's gone so he can come over. We've talked. He's talked about you too," she said, her tone suddenly cheerful.

"He does?" Fletcher asked, bewildered.

May's eyes widened. "I mean, um…. He told me you were a private detective who helped the police. That's why I called you."

"Oh, yeah." Fletcher paused. "What else has he said about me?" he questioned.

"Nothing," May squeaked. "Nothing important."

Fletcher knew when people were lying to him, and May wasn't exactly the queen of poker faces.

"Um, May… I'm sorry for asking, I know this might be a personal matter, but… were you having… ahem… relations with Red?" he asked slowly.

"Relations?" May asked bewilderedly.

"Sexual relations," Fletcher said even more quietly. May's eyes widened and a blush streaked across her face.

"Oh, no! Of course not, I wouldn't."

"There's no shame in it," Fletcher said. "I won't be spreading it around if you were."

"I know, but… no, it's silly. Red and I are just friends, I promise. You don't need to worry, Fletcher."

"Worry?" Fletcher murmured quizzically.

"Well, with Red… I mean… never mind," May stuttered. Fletcher felt a bit sorry for her, and decided to stop trying to get anything more out of her if it was just going to upset her.

"Did he in any way… suggest you invite him around?" Fletcher asked more carefully.

"No, I invited him. I don't think he would have accepted if it wasn't for Hemingway, and the sweet colt that was just born a few weeks ago. He loves the horses, and it would be too cruel to not give him a reason to stay for them."

"That's… kind of you," Fletcher said, uncertain what to do with this information. It did tell him that it wasn't Red's idea to keep coming back to the manor, but that didn't assure his innocence. Still, Fletcher thought he was pretty good at reading people and Red didn't seem like the type of man who would do petty theft, especially counting the items stolen.

His family members, on the other hand…

"Thank you for your help, May. It's been a pleasure seeing you again," he said.

"I'm glad to help! And Fletcher," she called when Fletcher stood to leave, "You can come around too, if you like. I enjoy the company of old friends, and I'd like to catch up."

Fletcher accepted her invitation with a grain of salt, not because of May, since she was as earnest as could be, but because of her family.

He was, after all, a decent judge of character, and it didn't take a genius or a detective to figure that April probably wasn't in any way pleasant to be around.

For that alone, he both wanted to come around and to avoid the manor like a plague.

"Moon," he said when he answered his cell.

"Fletcher!" Doyle's voice greeted him over the line, sounding agitated.

"Doyle, what is it?"

"Got a hit on Herod Sharkey's activity. He's been hustling pool for the past few hours, bragging about having something valuable. Nothing substantial, but he says he's bringing it out tonight."

"Text me the address," Fletcher bade.

Finally, things were looking up.

A/N: I thought the horse bit would be apt. Reviews are my sweet, sweet hay.