Fatal Legislation

by Ellen Butler

  The Brass Compass

  Poplar Place

  Contemporary Romance

  Heart of Design (Love, California Style Book 1)

  Planning for Love (Love, California Style Book 2)

  Art of Affection (Love California Style Book 3)

  Second Chance Christmas

  The Brass Compass

  Winner of 2017 Indie Reader Discover Award, Historical Fiction

  Chapter One

  Into the Night

  February 1945

  Germany

  “Was ist sein Name?” What is his name? The SS officer’s backlit shadow loomed over his victim as he yelled into the face of the shrinking man on the third-story balcony. “We know you’ve been passing messages. Tell us, who is your contact?” he continued in German.

  Lenz’s gray-haired head shook like a frightened mouse. With his back to me, I was too far away to hear the mumbled response or the Nazi’s next question. I pulled my dark wool coat tighter and sank deeper into the shadow of the apartment building’s doorway across the street from where my contact underwent interrogation. The pounding of my heart pulsated in my ears, and I held my breath as I strained to listen to the conversation. In front of Lenz’s building stood a black Mercedes-Benz with its running lights aglow, no doubt the vehicle that brought the SS troops. None of the neighboring buildings showed any light, as residents cowered behind locked doors praying the SS wouldn’t come knocking. This was a working-class neighborhood, and everyone knew it was best to keep your mouth shut and not stick your nose in the business of the Schutzstaffel.

  Their presence at Lenz’s home explained why my contact at the bakery was absent from our assignation earlier today. I dreaded to imagine what they had done to Otto for him to give up Lenz’s name ... or worse, mine. Even though I’d never told Otto my name, a description of me could easily lead the SS to their target.

  “Lügner!” Liar!

  I flinched as the officer’s ringing accusation bounced off the brick buildings. A young SS Stormtrooper stepped out onto the balcony and requested his superior look at something in his hand. I should have taken their distraction to slip away into the darkness and run; instead I stayed, anxiously listening, to hear if Lenz would break under the SS grilling and reveal my identity. Clearly, they suspected he was involved in spying and would take him away. They probably also knew he had information to spill and would eventually torture it out of him, which was the only reason he hadn’t been shot on sight. It was only a matter of time before he gave me away. My friends in the French Resistance had been directed to hold out for two days before releasing names to allow the spies to disband and disappear. I wasn’t sure if the German network applied the same rules, so I remained to see if he would break before they took him.

  “Where did you find this?” the officer asked.

  The trooper indicated inside the apartment.

  “Zeig es mir.” Show me. He followed his subordinate through the doorway into the building.

  Lenz turned and braced himself against the balcony. I watched in horror as he climbed atop the railing.

  “Halt!” a bellow from inside rang out.

  Lenz didn’t hesitate, and I averted my eyes, biting down hard on my cold knuckles, as he took his final moments out of the hands of the Nazis. Sounds of shattering glass and buckling metal ripped through the darkness as his body slammed into the SS vehicle. In my periphery, a neighboring blackout curtain shifted.

  “Scheisse!” the SS officer swore as he and his subordinate leaned over the railing to see Lenz’s body sprawled across their car. “Search the apartment. Tear it apart!”

  The moment they crossed the threshold, I sprinted into the night.

  My breath puffed out in small plumes of smoke as I dodged through alleys, in and out of darkened doorways, moving on the balls of my feet. Silently, I cursed the cloudless sky as the moonlight bounced off the cobblestones, its brightness clear enough to land a plane. Unless waiting at midnight at a drop zone for needed supplies, a spy preferred the inky blackness of cloudy skies. Especially when escaping the enemy.

  A few kilometers from Lenz’s apartment, I paused behind the brick rubble of a bombed-out building. My gaze searched the area for any sign of movement. Standing alert, I held my breath, attuning my senses to the nighttime sounds, and listened for the whisper of cloth, the click of a boot heel, or heaven forbid, the cock of a gun. The thundering of my heartbeat slowed, and I balled my fists to stop my shaking hands. All seemed quiet ... for the moment.

  My fingers curled around the tiny film cartridge, filled with information vital to the Allied cause, nestled in my coat pocket. Dropping down to one knee, I slipped the heel of my right boot aside and tucked it into the hidden cavity. The coded message I’d planned to pass to Lenz would have to be burned, but I couldn’t take the chance of lighting a fire right now. It would have to wait until morning.

  My body cooled from the run, and I blew into my hands to warm them as I assessed the situation. There was no way I could return to the Nazi’s home. If my absence had yet to be noticed and arouse suspicion, there was still a distinct possibility the SS would be knocking on the Oberst’s door at sunrise demanding admittance. I had to assume, even though Lenz didn’t reveal me, Otto already had, or would be tortured into doing so. Lenz’s suicide did not guarantee my safety. Eventually, the SS, or worse, the Gestapo, would follow up on the slightest possibility that the Oberst housed a spy, especially considering his most recent house guests included the Minister of Armaments and War, Albert Speer, along with half a dozen army officers and a pair of naval captains.

  Even though, due to his injury, the Oberst no longer led troops into battle, he was a brilliant tactician, and his home remained a hot bed of strategic planning. Army leaders had spent hours in his luxurious dining room talking weapons, troop movement tactics, and maneuvers. Though der Führer never deigned to visit, on at least one occasion, the Oberst had been summoned to consult with Hitler’s top military advisors in Berchtesgaden. It was the exact reason why, when the chance for me to imbed myself into his household fell at my feet, I did so without hesitation, despite the high level of risk and against my superior’s strong objections.

  I tilted my head against the rough brick, and my mind flashed back to the fateful day in November 1944 when I’d been returning to my job as a telephone operator in Stuttgart, acquired for me by a special operations executive—an SOE agent. I carried a small net sack of food I’d purchased using my meager ration cards and watched two giggling children skip down the sidewalk ahead of a thin, gray-haired woman. She absentmindedly called for them to slow down, but her attention was focused on a piece of paper in her hand.

  It happened in an instant. The little boy threw the girl’s doll into the street, and with a cry, she ran after it. I saw the car’s driver hadn’t seen the contretemps or the child run into the road. The groceries dropped to the ground as I raced into the street. My fingers snatched the little girl’s hood and I yanked. We stumbled out of harm’s way as the driver swerved to miss us both. That moment of squealing tires, burnt rubber, and boy’s distressed yell was perpetually seared into my mind.

  After the children had been calmed and the agitated driver returned to his car, the distraught housekeeper poured out her sob story, no doubt worried that I would complain of her inattention to her employer. In a babbling monologue, with tears shimmering in her sunken eyes, she told me the two motherless children had been foisted into her charge when their last nanny moved to Frankfurt to take care of a sick parent and injured brother. The household was moving to be with the Oberst, army colonel, in Oberndorf, Germany. I slowly rocked the little girl in my arms while sympathetically nodding as she explained the situation. Finally, she rounded out her story by asking if I knew of anyone willing to leave Stuttgart and take up the position.

  My mind churned at the mention of the colonel and his position in Oberndorf, the home of the Mauser K98k factory, the Wehrmacht’s rifle of choice. The housekeepe
r’s plea couldn’t have been more perfect. My cover identification characterized me as the eldest of four children, a far cry from the truth. However, I took the initiative to weave a beautiful, nurturing tale about raising my brothers and sister while lovingly comforting pint-sized Klara, as Dagobert, the imp who’d thrown the doll, hid behind Magda’s skirts. Five days later, after a nerve-racking investigation, I moved into the household, along with a newly acquired Minox mini spy camera and instructions for passing information to my contact at the Marktplatz in Oberndorf.

  A rustling sound jerked my attention to the right and sent my heart a-rabbiting. The perpetrator, a tiny four-legged creature, squeaked and darted across the street. A silent breath of laughter puffed out in relief, even as I realized that those few minutes I’d let my guard down could have cost me my life. With renewed determination, I rose and continued my stealthy journey into the night.

  Poplar Place

  InD’Tale Magazine Crowned Heart Award

  Chanticleer Chatelaine Award Finalist

  Chapter One

  March

  “I think I’m in love,” I whispered with quiet reverence. It was a mistake. I knew that immediately. A mistake and irresponsible to fall in love at first glance. After all, what did I know about the inside if all I could see were the beautiful luscious lines on the outside? Besides, I knew better. When you fall in love with a house on the spot, you lose perspective. Heaven forbid the seller realized you loved the home because then you’d lost your bargaining power, especially if you were willing to pay anything to get it. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the luxury of paying anything to get it.

  The house was built in the style of an old Victorian, but I knew from the price sheet it was only sixteen years old and thus wouldn’t provide me with the headaches of a turn-of-the- century home. It was located in a small town called Denton, South Carolina, about an hour northwest of Charleston. The house had quaint gingerbread molding with a wrap-around front porch, a style usually seen more often in the New England area, and it was probably one of the reasons I loved it so much. It felt like a bit of home to me amidst the southern belle-flavored houses normally seen throughout South Carolina. The street appealed to me too. It was quiet and shady with rows of Bradford Pear trees lining the sides like soldiers at attention. In early spring, the trees would bloom with their fluffy white blossoms announcing the end of winter. I could easily envision strolling down the tree-lined sidewalk on my way to work.

  A recent transplant to Denton, I had become the newest librarian at the Denton Regional Library. South Carolina was my new home. Or maybe a better description would be the place I had run to, away from a former life—a life I was doing my best to put distance and the memory of far away. I was looking for a place to reinvest the money I’d received from the sale of my downtown loft. The market was up when I left the steel town of Pittsburgh and the Denton housing market was slightly depressed. Money would go a long way toward buying a house down here. Although, it did seem slightly ridiculous for one person to be thinking of living in a 3,000 square foot home...alone. Dismissively, I shook my head; I wouldn’t allow thoughts like that to distract me from this gorgeous dwelling.

  To me, the house represented salvation, a new beginning in small-town America. I wished to shed the memories of my old life as a snake shed its skin when it grew. Perhaps I, too, would grow a new skin in Denton. Looking over the front porch, I pictured myself sitting on a rocker watching the neighborhood kids ride their bikes up and down the street.

  Perhaps I’ll get a cat to keep me company. Great, I’ll become the crazy cat lady living alone in the big house. What was I thinking? Shading my eyes with a hand, I turned to look at the upper stories and thought I caught a faint movement in the third-story window on the far right—possibly a curtain fluttering from a draft. Perhaps the owner was inside watching me.

  My daydreams came to an abrupt halt as my realtor parked on the street behind my car. Jackie Barnes stepped out of her cream Cadillac with a wave and peachy southern smile aimed my way. As usual, she was dressed to the nines in a deep blue dress and drool-worthy pink stilettos. Her hair was shellacked into a blonde helmet that would take hurricane force winds to displace. The classic style suited her age, I guessed at mid-forties, and her looks. I felt a bit frumpy next to her wearing khaki shorts and a red polo. My realtor was a striking woman and compared to her I blended into the realm of average. Thick chestnut brown hair fell to my shoulders and blew gently in the breeze. I inherited the hair from my mom and loved its natural body and reddish highlights. On the other hand, my eyes were your average brown. Romantics might call them luscious chocolate, but to me they were just boring brown eyes. My figure could best be described as an hourglass.

  Jackie arrived at my side, chattering away. “Isn’t it fabulous?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s only sixteen-years-old, but the architect did such a wonderful job with the wrap- around porch and gingerbread accents you’d never know it wasn’t designed at the turn of the century.” She let out a rush of air. “So, what do you think?”

  I liked Jackie for her perkiness and southern accent, which exuded hospitality and charm. She became my realtor when I literally walked off the street into her office with no appointment and very little idea exactly what I was looking for—much like the rest of my life lately. Jackie, with unflappable good humor and what seemed to be inexhaustible patience, showed me home after home for about three weeks. I supposed that was the difference between realtors in the big city versus my new small town. I thanked my lucky stars for it. In Pittsburgh, I have no doubt a realtor would have dropped me like a hot potato or pawned me off on her most junior recruit. Jackie seemed to feel something motherly toward me and kept plugging away trying to find just the right “thang” for me.

  I smiled at Jackie. “It looks perfect.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad you like it.” She had a look of relief. “It just came on the market yesterday. I believe it’s vacant. The former owner passed away a few months ago and the heirs are just now gettin’ around to sellin’. Let’s go ahead to see if it looks as good on the inside, shall we? The selling agent said she is going to meet us here and explain some sort of condition to the sale.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m not sure what that means. I hope it doesn’t mean the interior is a wreck or the foundation is falling apart.” Jackie looked back at me as she trotted up to the front door, her heels tapping against the brick walkway, gesturing madly with her hands. “If it’s the foundation, let me tell you, honey, it’s just not worth it. I have all sorts of horror stories about poorly laid foundations that crack and every time it rains the water pours into the cellah.”

  All I needed to do was nod and make nondescript sounds of agreement and Jackie would carry on her chattering.

  “Now it says in the MLS it has three finished levels and a cellah. Let’s see, they list three bedrooms and two and a half baths.” With a brief pause, Jackie glanced around. “Isn’t this porch just as cute as can be? What you need here are some rockers and a swing right over there and, of course, some sweet tea for sippin’ in the evenin’. I just have a good feeling about this one.

  Honey, I think it might be you.” Jackie stopped speaking for a moment as she punched in the code to the keypad of the lock box hanging on the front door. She slipped the key into the lock, took a deep breath and gave a great swoop of her arm. “Here we go ...”

  The clacking of Jackie’s shoes echoed through the house as we stepped into the foyer. I was surprised by the emptiness; I had assumed the former owner’s furniture would still be in place for showings. Shiny hardwood floors seemed to run throughout the first floor and up the stairs directly to my left. A bright lemony scent of cleaning products pervaded my senses as I entered the front parlor on my right. The rooms felt open and airy due to the nine-foot ceilings. Three windows spanned the front of the house showing off a good view of the porch and large cherry blossom tree in the front yard. The rounded portion of house, well known to the Victor
ian style, was set up as an octagonal office off the parlor, and the front porch wrapped all the way around the circular portion, ending about ten feet beyond the side of the house. I fell in love with the office-study instantly for its odd shape. More windows spanned the front and sides of the octagon, and built-in bookshelves lined the other wall.

  I followed Jackie back through the parlor and into the kitchen. It was a modern marvel with quartz countertops, cherry cabinets, a hefty center island and appliances that looked large and brand new. I wandered over to the stove and read Viking along the front. There was a breakfast nook expansive enough to accommodate a table for six. The kitchen was beautiful, but what stopped me cold was the view from the French doors leading out into the backyard. Yard was an understatement. What met my eyes was a beautiful English-style garden with oriental accents thrown in. Jackie’s phone rang and she stepped into the other room to answer.

  Unlocking the back door, I strolled into the Garden of Eden surrounded by a six-foot brick fence. The garden snaked its way through blooming larkspur and lilies of various sorts. A lilac bush bloomed to my left along with hollyhocks and dozens of other flowers that would open in the summer heat. Laying my handbag on a green cafe table, I stepped off the brick patio onto a gravel walkway. I’d seen gardens like this at European castles and English manors when I backpacked through Europe during a college summer. I walked under an arbor of honeysuckle vines that had spread enough to close out the light from the sun above. On my left a concrete bench sat tucked against the arbor wall, waiting for two lovers. Following the path as it branched to my left, I was instantly charmed by the fountain. A plump cupid stood atop his cement pedestal and waited for water to come flowing out of the arrow he pointed directly at me. Pulling my eyes away from the cupid, I followed the path on my right and walked deeper into the garden, shadowed by an old tree I determined must be an elm, its new leaves bright green in early development. In the far back corner stood a gazebo surrounded by nodding columbines and brightly colored azaleas in pinks, purples and whites. My fingertips dragged lightly along one of the two padded teak chairs inside the gazebo. Leaves rustled in the breeze and a feeling of serenity enveloped me as I pictured myself drinking a morning cup of coffee out here. Something clicked into place and, at that moment, I knew I’d buy this house even if I had to replace the entire foundation.