Drew was shrugging out of his jacket to reveal his crisp white business shirt and conservative pale blue tie. Old Mr. Fraser’s funeral had been today. He’d been ninety-six and worked for the railway for over fifty years.

Tucker wiped his hands on a cloth. “I wasn’t whistling.” Was he? He’d been too occupied remembering Della’s smell and her taste and her vocal appreciation to register much else.

Arlo narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, you were.”

“Yup,” Drew confirmed. “Like a canary. With laryngitis.”

“Huh.” He probably needed to watch that. “You two want beers?”

Drew nodded. “Yes please.”

“Just a Coke for me. I’m expecting a call.”

Tucker grabbed two beers and a Coke and distributed them. Any hope that Arlo might have dropped the whistling thing was dashed as he continued his line of questioning like making music with ones lips and teeth had suddenly become a national crime. “So? What’s with the whistling?”

There was no way in hell Tucker was about to tell Arlo the real reason. Yes, he’d decided Arlo and what he might think shouldn’t be a factor in what he was doing with Della, but that didn’t mean they were advertising it, either. They’d managed to keep a lid on it despite the book club thing, and, so far, there’d been no whispers around town.

“I’m sorry, dude, did some statutes change, suddenly making it illegal to whistle?”

“Nope.”

“So you’re what…the fun police now?” Jesus. Being a cop had made Arlo suspicious of everything, but whistling?

He shrugged. “You’re either a whistler or you’re not. I’ve known you all my life, and you, dude, are not.”

Drew nodded. “Plus, you kinda suck at it.”

They looked at him expectantly, and Tucker shoved his hands on his hips. “What, I can’t be happy?”

Arlo shook his head. “That’s not why.”

Exasperated, Tucker reached for his beer. “Well then, go ahead, tell me why.” This ought to be good. He took several long swallows of his beer, hoping like crazy Arlo could not see inside his head.

Narrowing his eyes again, Arlo said, “You’re getting laid.”

Tucker almost choked on his mouthful, coughing and spluttering for a moment as he placed his beer on the bar. “I am not getting laid.”

He’d never been more relieved that he could put his hand on his heart, look Arlo straight in the eye, and tell the truth. Arlo could sniff out someone talking horseshit at a hundred paces. Sure, he and Della were pushing the boundaries, but there had been no P-in-V action, and that was the truth.