Claire Booth - Another mans ground

CLAIRE BOOTH is a former true-crime writer, ghostwriter, and reporter. She lives in California. Another Mans Ground is her second novel, following The Branson Beauty . You can sign up for email updates here.

There are many people who helped bring this book to life. My agent, Jim McCarthy, and my editor, Elizabeth Lacks, continue to provide wonderful advice and feedback, and Shailyn Tavella is a true help with publicity. David Rotsteins second Hank Worth cover design is as beautiful as his first. Once again, I was lucky to have the keen critiques of Kristi Belcamino, Bridget Gray, and Paige Kneeland, as well as the continued support and counsel of Claudia and Mike Brown. I relied on the expertise of Zachary Heyde, Tommy Gray, Brian Hall, and Kathleen Ryan, whose generously shared knowledge of several different subjects helped me enormously.

I also want to thank my family and friends for their enthusiastic support and willingness to drive long distances to get to book signings. I appreciate it more than you know.

To my husband and children, you bring joy to everything I do. Thank you.

ALSO BY CLAIRE BOOTH

The Branson Beauty

The dispatch call said there was stripping going on in the woods, and the property owner was not happy about it.

So now Hank stood at the base of a fairly tall tree that was, well, naked.

Do you see that? Do you? All of the bark, gone. And those are just the first ones. Vern Miles waved his rifle in the air to emphasize his grievance and headed deeper into the woods. More. Here, and here. Over there. Every single one Ive got. Stripped.

Hank turned in a circle and took in what looked to be a perfectly normal patch of Branson County forest. Birds chirped from the trees. Flowers poked through the earth, and the foliage was the bright young green of early summer. Sunlight pierced the high canopy and dappled the ground. Peaceful and pretty. Except for the mutilated trees. They stuck out like the stripped things they were.

The bark had been cut away from the trees up to a height of at least eight feet. He slid his hand along the soft inner wood, tracing the deep, haphazard gouges left behind. Whoever had done this had not been careful.

Thats seventeen wait, no. Eighteen no nineteen trees, Sheriff. And I havent even been over my whole property yet. This is my main grove, though. Id have never even thought this could happen. Its just terrible. Terrible.

Vern took off his battered Kansas City Chiefs ball cap and rubbed at his bald head. He must have been spending a lot of time out here recently, and enjoying it, Hank thought. His sunburned face was just starting to turn to tan, except for the laugh lines around his eyes. Pulled taut now by his frown, they ran like pale streaks up to his temples. Vern slapped his hat back on his head and cradled his.22 in the crook of his elbow.

So, youre going to put out an APB, right?

For a barknapper? Hank tried not to smile.

Vern, I gotta be honest. You dont strike me as much of a tree hugger. Why are you so wound up? This is sad and all, but theyre just trees. You want to explain to me why this is more than just simple vandalism?

Vern leaned his gun against the nearest tree and looked around. He wandered through his denuded grove for a minute before coming back. He slapped a curl of bark in Hanks hand and splashed it with water from his canteen, turning it into a slimy goo.

Uh, Vern, what the hell is this?

Its what they took. From my slippery elms. Its the inside bark stuff. Medicinal. It gets processed and then sold in those froufrou drugstores.

Hank looked at the stuff oozing through his fingers, which was apparently a cash crop.

How much are we talking? he asked.

Vern scratched his head. Well, when I do it proper, I strip sections off the branches of each tree. That doesnt kill the tree. Thishe waved at his woodsthis all has to be at least three grand. And they took so much, itll kill the trees.

Well, now. That upped the ante.

That amount could make it a felony, and an interesting one at that. Hank smacked his hands together and turned back toward Verns truck, which was parked on the muddy track that ran along the east end of the stand of trees. The departments Crown Victoria hadnt been able to make it that far into the woods, so it was still parked up at the Miles homestead.

Cmon. Ive got to get the evidence bag out of my car. Well have to tag and catalog all of this. Andhe looked down at his slimy palmIm going to need to wash my hands. This stuffs gross.

* * *

They ended up finding twenty-four stripped trees, including two that Vern hadnt even realized existed. Thats what you get when you inherit thirty acres from your crazy old man, who didnt bother to pass on any information about the land before kicking the bucket last fall, he grumbled as he helped Hank mark each elm with red flags. Hank half-listened as he snapped photos and jotted notes. And mostly breathed in the sweet fresh air. He was enjoying himself immensely. He hadnt been out of the office for what seemed like months. And when he did get out from behind his desk, it was for budget meetings, or staff reports, or all that other organizational crap that he hadnt realized came with the top job.

But this, well, this was excellent. A nice little crime to investigate, but with no violence, no trauma. Sure, Vern was bent out of shape, but it was more of a financial upset than an emotional one. Hank marked the last tree and turned toward Vern, who was now muttering something about a work crew.

Should we check the other side of the creek? he asked.

Oh, no, Vern said. Thats not mine. The creek is the property line. Thats Kinneys land.

Hank nodded. Hed have to get this Kinney guy to take a look then. He doubted the tree barkers had been stopped by the easily waded creek. And the woods on the other side looked identical to where he was standing. In fact

He raised the camera to his eye and zoomed in on a tree about a hundred yards away. It was hard to see, but the trunk looked pale and smooth when the shifting sunlight hit it directly. All right. Mr. Kinney was next.

How long has he lived there? Hank asked.

Vern laughed. Longer than we have. Four, five generations, maybe more. Old Mr. Kinney is still alive, though. Probably happier than a clam that hes outlasted my dad. They never did get on.

Growing up, they were under strict instructions not to cross the creek, Vern said. But they had the run of their own property.

I hunted these woods all my childhood. Camped in them, played cowboys-and-Indians in them, he said as he retrieved his rifle from its place against an unmolested hickory tree. Then I went off to college in Springfield and got a decent job there. Never thought much about this place. Now I own it. And I got to figure out what to do with it. The property taxes are going to kill me if I cant figure out some way to make an income off it.

The two men started walking back to the truck.

The slippery elm was great. It brought in a little, but dependably. And it was one of those those sustainable crops theyre always talking about now. Keeps on going if you do it right. He sighed. Now Im back to square one, I guess.

* * *

Kinneys land might have been right next door, but it took two miles and several winding roads to get to the entrance to the property. Hank pulled the Crown Vic up to the driveway, which was blocked by a chain-link gate padlocked to a tree. Which did not appear to be a slippery elm.