The Secret of the Old Mill

By Roxanne Hunter

When Alice and Barry Connell are murdered in their quiet suburban mansion, all fingers seem to point at Barry’s daughter, Maggie, who was known to have a rocky relationship with her stepmother. In fact, at breakfast on the day of the murder, Maggie had a huge shouting match with her stepmother, an argument even the neighbors overheard. The police are hounding Maggie for answers and public opinion in the small town is convinced of her guilt. In growing despair, Maggie is slipping into depression and questioning her sanity.

Desperate to save the woman he loves, Maggie's wealthy fiancé, Zac hires his old college friend and attorney, Adam O’Reilly, to head up Maggie’s defense. As good at investigating a mystery as he is at defending a client on trial, Adam starts looking into the murders and soon finds plenty to suggest that the real murderer has carefully framed Maggie to take the fall for her parents' murders. While the police concentrate on collecting evidence proving Maggie's guilt, Adam starts looking for clues left by the real murderer and talking with witnesses that the police have either ignored or missed. The only way to clear Maggie’s name will require Adam to find the real killer and along the way, expose more than one criminal conspiracy operating in the quiet suburban town.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roxanne Hunter
• Release date: Feb 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370062898

Roxanne Hunter

Roxanne Hunter lives on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. After spending way too many, many years working at a job she didn’t really like, she realized she could do what so many other people her age have done – retire on Cape Cod. She now spends her days taking long walks on beaches, riding her bike, traveling to warmer climates during the winter and searching for enjoyable but forgotten old stories. Best of all, it’s not work!

Book preview

CHAPTER I

Zac Melanson was in a tremendous hurry. As soon as the commuter train roared into Penn Station he jumped to the platform and was the first passenger to reach the turnstile at 34th Street. He quickly located his private town car and without waiting for the vehicle to pull to the curb, he ran to it and leaped inside.

Do you know where the Hawthorne Building is? he questioned abruptly.

Yes, sir.

Then get me there as quickly as possible.

Yes, sir.

The car door slammed and the driver merged rapidly into the morning rush hour traffic. The young man sank down among the seat cushions and buried his face in his hands.

His face, normally handsome, showed new lines of worry and uncertainty, his hair was disheveled, and he looked as if he had not slept the previous night, which, in fact, he had not. At times his mouth twitched nervously and he clenched his fists with a fervor that resolved nothing.

There’s no way she did this, he muttered to himself. I have to do something, anything. And then his whole body trembled as if fevered. Twice he looked up to see if he had arrived at his destination. But the drive was a long one, and to him, stressed in his own anxiety, it seemed a lifetime.

Oh, please, God, please let him be in his office, let him be there, I don’t know what else to do. he prayed. I need help.

Twenty minutes later, his town car came to a halt in front of a large office building. Zac checked the address and before the driver could open his passenger’s door, he was out of the cab and on the pavement. Get a cup of coffee and wait around for me. I don’t know how long I’ll be, maybe an hour, he said, thrusting a fifty-dollar bill into the man’s hand. He crossed the broad sidewalk and was lost inside the atrium entrance of the office building.

For a moment the young man studied the directory on the wall. Then he entered an elevator, punched a number and got off at the eighth floor. He, walked down a long hall until he came to a door inscribed with the name:

Adam O’Reilly, Esq.

This must be the place, he murmured and opened the door. He entered and found himself in the reception area of a simple but elegantly furnished and modern styled office suite containing several black leather chairs, a sleek black desk, and a young woman who was industriously pecking at a keyboard as she peered at her computer monitor.

Is Mr. O’Reilly in? he asked as the young woman rose to greet him.

Your name, please? she countered, giving her visitor a quick once over, just long enough to take in a rumpled, exhausted man wearing an Armani suit and Rolex watch. Do you have an appointment?

Zac Melanson. The young man presented his business card, which confirmed to the receptionist that the suit and watch were genuine. No, I don’t have an appointment. I was hoping to catch him in his office. I went to school with Adam and I have to see him about a problem.

The young woman’s face showed only the briefest flicker of disdain for old friends without appointments who appeared at the office expecting to be seen, but this was tempered by his obvious distress and understated affluence. She silently disappeared through a door leading to an inner office lined with file cabinets and computer hardware. From here she entered through a side door into another much larger office overlooking the little city park eight floors below. The room was filled with an extensive collection of books and artwork, along with an impressive array of electronic equipment. There was one large black marble topped desk and three comfortable leather chairs.

At the desk sat a man who might have been in his late twenties or early forties, it was hard to pinpoint. He had a strong face, somewhat blond hair, and eyes that were dark and piercing. The man was of ordinary height, but muscular to a surprising degree, since he appeared neither muscle bound nor flabby. His face showed intelligence and his mouth a suggested a determination that would not be easily ignored.

There’s a man to see you without an appointment, said Jessie Bernard as she placed the business card before him. He said he went to college with you, and he needs to see you immediately on important business.

The man at the desk drew a long breath as he looked up from his monitor. Zachary Melanson, eh? I remember him, kind of a goof-off if I have the right guy. But I heard he’s some kind of financial genius, one of the lucky ones who figured out how the stock market works, and he made a hedge fund killing before hitting thirty.

If the suit and the watch are what he usually wears, then he must have a fortune, observed the adroit receptionist.

Ok, Jessie, show him in. It’s probably something silly. That’s all I remember him being good for unless it was for finding a good party.

In another moment, Zac Melanson entered the private office through the more formal entry adjacent to the reception area. Adam O’Reilly rose and gave him a warm handshake.

Good to see you again, Zac, he said cordially. It’s been a while, don’t get back to the old campus very much. Have a chair and make yourself at home. He could see that his visitor was extremely agitated and flushed. How are things going on Wall Street?

Adam, I need to talk to you in private, replied the young man as he took a seat and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

Fine, no problem, said Adam as the office door carefully closed behind Jessie. After a brief pause during which he cleared his throat several times, Zac tried to collect his thoughts and decide where to begin.

Adam, I know you don’t know much about me since we left college, but I know all about you, he began. You probably don’t remember, but three or four years ago you recovered some stolen assets for my father when he had lost all hope of prevailing. He was very impressed with your work and he suggested I contact you.

Adam nodded his head to encourage Zac to continue. He rarely spoke unless there was an occasion for it.

I need to ask for your assistance if you are free. said the young man.

Free? No, I’m never free. Maybe easy, but I’m never free. Then seeing that the distraught man did not grasp his sense of humor, he added, but I could be available if the price is right and the case is interesting.

Then you will have no problem taking my case. I will pay you very well and I think you will find it is an interesting problem, at least I would think so, if it were someone else’s problem, interrupted the Zac desperately. Please, don’t say no yet, just hear me out. Whatever it costs, I can afford it. There was a ring of desperation in his voice. I am depending on you.

Adam paused before replying to study his former classmate. The clean-cut features showed no signs of dissipation, and his demeanor projected honesty. It was well known by those who follow the financial markets that Zac Melanson was the current wunderkind of Wall Street hedge funds, routinely reaping millions in profits, commissions, and bonuses for himself as he multiplied the value of his clients’ investments. Whatever his trouble, the man had the resources to pay for the best representation in New York, although Adam thought it would be out of character for the Zac Melanson he remembered to be involved in anything more illegal than a drunken fraternity prank.

I need to know something about your case before I agree to do anything for you, prodded Adam.

Certainly, of course. Zac cleared his throat again.

You can tell me what the trouble is and if I decline the case, you can be assured that as far as I’m concerned, I never saw you today. I guarantee you the utmost of confidentiality.

Oh, I know I can trust you, Adam, or I wouldn’t be here. I came to see you about the Connell murders.

You mean the murders of Barry and Alice Connell in Beechwood Hill?

Yes.

Adam was surprised, although he did not show it. Why was this wealthy young man, who lived in an Upper East Side penthouse and ran a hugely successful hedge fund on Wall Street, concerned with a double homicide in New Jersey? Adam assumed that the murders would be traced back to a domestic disturbance gone awry or a bungled burglary.

I assume you know some of the details, resumed Zac Melanson. The media is having a field day with it.

I know that they were found murdered in their home in New Jersey. I haven’t looked into details, it’s not my kind of entertainment.

It was outrageous murder, Adam, said Zac, jumping up and beginning to pace the floor. One of the worst that I have ever heard.

Murder is always outrageous, no matter under what circumstances it is committed. What is it that you wish me to do? commented Adam, wondering how many outrageous murders Zac encountered in his exclusive social sphere.

Find the murderer.

That may not necessary. Aren’t the police already working on the case?

Yes, but only the local police in Beechwood Hill, and they’re not any good.

It’s been my experience the local police are usually pretty damn good, especially at solving local murders. Typically it’s a family affair. The police may already be doing everything that can be done, plus many things you aren’t even aware of. It’s a mistake to assume that every mystery can be solved the way we would like them to work out. Here in New York, victims go to their death every day and nobody ever finds out how or by whom.

But the local cops are simply jumping to wrong conclusions. They are blind fools, and haven’t looked anywhere else. The young man stopped short.

Adam smiled faintly. Despite his assurances to the contrary, he knew something of the bungling work done by small town police more interested in making an arrest than in finding the actual perpetrator. Adam O'Reilly knew that if it weren’t for bungled investigations, he wouldn’t have a practice.

Excuse me, Zac, but how is it that you are so interested in these murders? he asked. Are you related to the victims in any way?

I’m not. The young man began to blush. Is it necessary for me to I tell you my connection? he stammered.

It’s not necessary for you to tell me anything, responded Adam dryly.

I didn't mean it that way.

Let me give you a piece of advice. Never ask a lawyer to do anything for you unless you are willing to tell him everything you know and you suspect. It’s hard enough to successfully prove a case without having to solve all sorts of other riddles unnecessarily attached to it by deceptive clients.

Zac lowered his face and looked confused for a moment.

Then I guess I should tell you everything, he said. Do you want to record it, or bring in your secretary to take notes?

It’s not necessary; I have a good memory and if it’s a criminal case, it’s probably better that there isn’t a record or witness before I take the case. Begin by telling me what you know about the murders. Where did they happen? Adam asked, hoping to motivate Zac to tell his tale.

The Connells lived just on the outskirts of the Bridgetown in Beechwood Hill, on the road leading to Duxbury, several miles away.

I have a general idea of the location.

Ok, right, I guess it’s not important. Anyways, the house is an old stone mansion, set back from the road and surrounded by a large lawn and numerous trees and bushes. At the rear is a small stream that flows into the river a mile and a half below.

Is the estate surrounded by a fence?

Only on two sides. In the front, there's a high privet hedge and in the rear, there’s a little stream that forms the back boundary of the property.

I understand.

At the time of the murders, there were four people in the house, as far as I know. They were Mr. and Mrs. Connell, Mr. Connell's daughter, Maggie, and a housekeeper, Mary Billings.

Let me interrupt you just a moment. You said Mr. Connell's daughter. Wasn’t she Mrs. Connell's daughter also?

No. Mr. Connell was a widower when he married Mrs. Connell, who was also widowed. So there are two sets of children.

Got it. Go on. When did the murders happen?

At some time between eleven and twelve yesterday morning. During that time frame, Maggie Connell was in her room on her laptop and for part of the time, she was playing the piano in the library. She is a musician and composer, and she was working on a new piece for an upcoming concert. The house is pretty big, with sixteen rooms and several hallways and sets of stairs.

Where was the housekeeper?

She spent some of the time in the kitchen and out in the barn. There is other staff, but one is on sick leave and the other had gone to town on an errand.

Where were Mr. and Mrs. Connell?

The daughter thought her stepmother had gone out to visit a neighbor, or at least she had said something about doing so earlier in the morning. Mr. Connell went to the bank in town around nine and Maggie saw him come home about half-past ten or eleven.

What was she doing at that time?

As I said, she had been working on a new piece at the piano, and she had gone into the library to use the piano. She heard her father go directly to his home office, which is across the hallway from the library. She heard the door shut, and then she went on with her work.

Did she hear anything, any sounds, any visitors, in his office?

She may have heard something, but she isn’t sure. She was working on a very difficult part of her composition. Her work requires a lot of concentration and she didn’t hear or see anything out of the ordinary.

And the piano was loud enough to drown out every other sound?

That's right. When the clock struck twelve, she stopped her work and went to make some lunch for herself. She thought she would ask her father if he was hungry, so she crossed the hallway, knocked and then opened his the door to his office. The young man's voice began to tremble a little. She found her father dead in his armchair.

How long had he been dead?

That's not known exactly, but it couldn't have been long. That’s part of the mystery. He was either choked or smothered to death, or else he was poisoned. The medical examiners haven’t been able to make a determination yet.

For the first time since Zac Melanson had begun his story, Adam O’Reilly began to show an interest.

If the man was strangled, his throat should show the bruises, he observed.

That's just it, there were no bruises, and they have found no trace of any poison.

Interesting. Adam rubbed his chin reflectively. What happened next?

Maggie was so horrified when she found her father’s body that she ran out of the room screaming hysterically. Her shrieks brought the housekeeper running, along with two neighbors, Mrs. Bardon and her son Allen, who came over from the house next door to see what was the problem.

Where was Mrs. Connell at this time?

Nobody knew. Allen Bardon is a physician, and, thinking there might still be a spark of life in Mr. Connell, he did all he possibly could to resuscitate the man. The housekeeper ran upstairs looking for Mrs. Connell and in the upper hallway she stumbled over her dead body.

And how did she die?

She died the same way as her husband. The shock of a double murder was too much for Maggie and she collapsed. The Bardons and several of the other neighbors started up the gossip mill so the news spread like wildfire. I was at a meeting at the time and as soon as I heard about the murders, I jumped in my car and headed to New Jersey.

Who told you about the murders? queried Adam.

My assistant saw the news flash online and broke into my meeting to tell me about it, responded Zac.

So you arrived at the house shortly after the police?

A few hours later.

What did you see?

Not much, just what I told you. The police technicians were still combing the house for evidence and the detectives were interviewing the doctor but he became ill and couldn’t continue or tell them anything.

Really, sick? Did he say what made him sick?

He didn’t know. He thought it might be from performing CPR on the dead man, or from working closely over the body. I think his sudden sickness frightened him.

When the police arrived did they find anything of importance?

Nothing.

Had anything been stolen?

Nothing, so far as the housekeeper could determine.

Of course, you must have known these folks pretty well to take such an interest.

I knew Mr. Connell very well and I was acquainted with his wife.

Adam knit his brow for a moment and tapped lightly on his desk with his forefinger. There was still something Zac wasn’t telling him.

Do the police have any idea how the murderer got into the house and got out again? he finally asked.

At this question, Zac Melanson's handsome face flushed.

They don’t think the murderer left the house, he responded in a defeated voice.

CHAPTER II

Zac Melanson dropped back into his chair and buried his face in his hands. Adam O’Reilly eyed him curiously and with growing understanding.

The problem is obvious now, he thought. He's in love and she’s the suspect.

He was right, of course. Zac was completely, desperately and hopelessly in love. He had met Maggie Connell at Bar Harbor the year before and it had been love at first sight for both of them. Zac had gained the dubious status of a celebrity because of his vast wealth, handsome looks, and youth. Maggie was beautiful, highly talented and a successful concert pianist. They had spent the last year keeping their relationship out of the gossip magazines and tabloids by carefully avoiding being seen together in public.

Naturally the police suspect the housekeeper? asked Adam, knowing they suspected nothing of the sort.

No, they do not, he responded sharply. They suspect Maggie.

Ah.

Yes. I know. It’s preposterous, absolutely ridiculous, and yet I think they plan to charge her with the murders. Maggie is so distraught she can hardly think, but I told her not to talk with anyone until she has a lawyer. And that's what has brought me to you. I want to retain you on her behalf to clear her name. I want you to prove her innocence to the world, said Zac fervently. Do that, he continued, and you can name your price, Adam.

"You seem