Page 38 of In Honor’s Defense

Her mind was far from being at rest, but she didn’t let on. Just offered him another insipid smile and wished him a good day as she stepped into the sunshine.

She followed Sheriff Conley’s directions to the local carpentry shop two streets over where Clyde Weathers displayed rough-hewn tables and chairs alongside the pine boxes he kept on hand for his undertaking business. The careless mixture of items for the living and the dead made the separation of the two states seem dangerously fragile, as if one could pass from chair to coffin at any moment.

She supposed one could. Douglas had.

The thought sobered her even as it hardened her resolve. If Douglas had been pushed into death, she needed to know who was responsible. Not just to provide justice for her brother, but to provide protection for Nathaniel. If the culprit was after the land, a new Baxter stood in his way now. One equally disinclined to sell.

Damaris pushed open the door and entered the shop, a prayer on her heart. Show me the truth, Lord.

An overhead bell clanged as she closed the door behind her. She wandered to the side of the room dedicated to furniture, carefully turning her back on the coffins leaning against the opposite wall. The dining set she came to first appeared sturdy and functional, but it lacked style. No spindled legs or carved designs. No craftsmanship. Of course, she was accustomed to the offerings found in a large city. Perhaps tastes ran simpler in Texas.

“Can I help you?” A thin man with dark hair and pale skin stepped through a curtained doorway, flakes of sawdust stuck to his clothing.

Damaris turned and offered a smile. “Mr. Weathers?”

“Last I checked.” He offered no smile in return.

Not exactly a salesman, was he? Utilitarian with no frills. Like his furniture. Perhaps instead of being a carpenter who took on the duties of an undertaker when the need arose, he was actually an undertaker who made furniture to make ends meet.

Crossing the floor to meet the gruff fellow halfway, Damaris dropped her smile in favor of a more solemn expression. “My name is Damaris Baxter. Douglas Baxter was my brother. I understand you were the one who tended him.”

“That’s right.” He brushed a bit of sawdust from his sleeve. “Helped the sheriff pull him out of the lake, too.”

“I appreciate the care you took preparing him for burial.”

She had no idea if Douglas had been laid out properly or not. By the time she’d learned of his passing, the burial had already taken place. Yet at her compliment, a bit of warmth finally seeped into the undertaker’s eyes.

“Not many folks think about the work entailed with undertakin’. Buildin’ the coffin, diggin’ the grave, makin’ sure the deceased is presentable for meetin’ his Maker. It’s God’s work, you know. Givin’ the departed a bit of dignity in death.”

“I’m sure it is.” Though talking about it was making her queasy. She pressed a hand against her midsection, hoping the pressure would stop the churning within. “I was wondering if I might prevail upon your expertise and ask you a few questions.”

He glanced toward the window, as if gauging the likelihood of another customer walking through the door. “I s’pose I can spare a minute or two.” He gestured toward the dining set she’d been inspecting earlier and then, as if just remembering his manners, hurried ahead of her and pulled out one of the chairs. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you.”

He lowered himself into a second chair, then crossed his arms over his chest and leaned backward as if bracing for an inquisition. “Shoot.”

“I spoke with the sheriff a few minutes ago, and he mentioned that my brother’s face was bruised. Do you think he might have been in some kind of altercation before he drowned?”

“Ya mean, like a fight?”

“Yes.”

A thoughtful look crossed Mr. Weathers’s face. “It’s possible. I noticed some other bruises and scrapes on his chest when I changed him into his burial clothes.”

Damaris’s heart pounded, and a knot formed in her belly.

The undertaker shrugged. “Although, them scratches coulda come from him tryin’ to pull himself back into the boat after he fell out.”

“But if he were conscious and able to grab for a boat, he wouldn’t have drowned. My brother was an excellent swimmer.”

“Maybe, but I doubt he was used to swimmin’ with his boots on. Them things fill with water and weigh a man down. And if he were weak from a knock on the head, well . . .”

Her throbbing pulse slowed. His explanation made sense. But there was still the matter of the missing boat. Surely if Douglas had been fishing, as the sheriff surmised, they would have found a boat somewhere in his vicinity.

Damaris eyed the man across from her. He might not be the most polished fellow around, but he seemed to know his trade. “Besides the scratches, did you notice anything else odd after pulling Douglas from the lake? Any lumps on his head? There must be a reason he fell out of the boat. Some injury that incapacitated him to such an extent that he was unable to recover.”

Mr. Weathers uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “You think there was someone else in the boat, don’t ya? Someone who fought yer brother, then tossed him over the side and left him to drown.”