The Cure May Kill You: A Cassidy Hudson Mystery

by Carlie Lemont

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  STAY OUT OF MY WAY, BITCH! | IF YOU DON’T MIND YOUR OWN BIZNESS, YOU’LL BE NEXT!

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  By Carlie Lemont | Murder at a Discount | The Cure May Kill You

  CHAPTER 1

  F

  rancine was as kindhearted as Satan. Cassidy couldn’t remember a single visit where the woman’s bright, flowery muumuus hadn’t reeked of body odor and mothballs. But as Francine’s physical therapist, Cassidy had a job to do: to help Francine recover from a recent broken hip, likely caused by a fall after chasing girl scouts with a butcher knife. Despite the need for therapy, Francine didn’t appreciate Cassidy or her co-worker, JJ, in the slightest. Rather than participating in the full therapy session, Francine spent most of the time manipulating them into doing her household chores. Unfortunately, according to the woman’s insurance company, washing dishes, folding clothes, and vacuuming weren’t on the list of approved billable activities, and this made paperwork tricky, to say the least.

  Now, Cassidy and JJ stood side by side in front of Francine’s home. To someone who didn’t know the owner, the house looked harmless. But Cassidy knew better. She saw through its mauve stucco walls and its cute potted plants on the porch, saw it for the house of horrors it truly was, and this made her cringe every time she had to go there.

  “This time, you wash her breakfast dishes,” JJ said. “I had to do them the last two times.”

  “You’re better at it than I am,” Cassidy said.

  “It’s just washing dishes, not making a soufflé.”

  “Need I remind you what my mom said to you the first time you met her? How there are two types of people in this world?”

  JJ rolled his eyes. “Your mom tends to say a lot of things that aren’t exactly based on science or in reality.”

  “True,” Cassidy said, “but in this case, it applies. There are those who were born to ride the cart, and those who were born to pull it. You’re a puller, JJ. I’m a rider.” She gave him a satisfied smile, then put on her aggressive “take no prisoners” expression and led the two of them down the gauntlet to the front door.

  As they strode up the walkway, JJ slowed, hesitant. “Huh,” he said. “That’s weird.” And he pointed.

  The front door stood ajar. Unexpected, considering how hot and humid it was already that morning. Cassidy mounted the porch steps, then tilted her head, putting her ear as close as she could to the door without actually touching it, listening for any indication that Francine was inside and awake—mostly racial slurs and other verbal assaults.

  No sound came through the opening, until the air conditioner kicked on, loud enough to wake the dead.

  “That is weird,” Cassidy said. “Francine’s paranoid. Why would she leave the door open? Remember our last visit? She practically frisked us at knifepoint.”

  “It was a rolling pin,” JJ said.

  Cassidy shuddered when she remembered the dirt visible beneath Francine’s fingernails as the woman brandished the weapon. “I hope she washed it before she used it again.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Never mind.” Cassidy pushed the image away. “Doesn’t matter. Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “The door’s open. Are we going in? I just sanitized my hands. Maybe you should do the entire treatment.”

  “Put on gloves,” JJ said. “Universal precautions can save your world.” He quoted the state-mandated training tracks the company forced down their throats every six months.

  “Why waste them when you’re here?”

  JJ reached over to pat Cassidy on the back. “You really have to get over this germ thing.”

  “Nah, it works for me.”

  JJ pushed the door open a bit farther, then pretended to rub his fingers on Cassidy’s shirt. The two long-time friends chuckled as they waited for the she-devil to pop around the corner.

  She didn’t show.

  Cassidy tapped her foot. “It’s ninety-five humid degrees out here.”

  “She’s probably finishing her breakfast. You know how much she loves to gnaw on the bones of her victims.”

  “Maybe she’s plotting the deaths of her neighbors or was overcome by the fumes from her underground meth lab.”

  After a moment of silence, Cassidy said, “I’m making an executive decision. I appoint you the one to go inside first. I’ll wait out here. I don’t want to waste a pair of shoe covers if I don’t have to... ethically speaking, of course.”

  “Fine. I’ll go in and see if she’s all right. But, if I don’t come back out in two minutes, you’d better come in and save me.”

  “I’m not making any promises.” Cassidy glanced at her watch. “Hurry up, I’m timing you.”

  “Knock, knock!” JJ hollered as he took a step inside the foyer. “Mrs. Castranova? Are you home?” He disappeared behind the door.

  Cassidy marked the time. Almost anything seemed better than standing outside another minute in the sweltering heat. A high-pitched scream preceded a hard thud, and Cassidy jumped at the noise.

  “JJ?” she called in. “What is it?” The scream didn’t belong to Francine. The woman smoked so heavily her voice hadn’t achieved that octave in thirty or forty years.

  Armed with a nail file and tube of hand sanitizer, Cassidy crept through the foyer, cringing and longing for her shoe covers. She’d been so flustered by the scream, she’d dropped her bag where she stood and, without thinking, stepped into the labyrinth of horrors.

  The usual stench of mothballs and Bengay accosted her, though there was a new smell, one Cassidy couldn’t quite put her finger on. The smell grew stronger with each passing step. The kitchen to her right was piled high with dirty dishes, a full bag of garbage sat next to the trashcan. Nothing out of the ordinary. She turned toward the main living area.

  “What the hell, JJ!” she yelled.

  “Oh my God! Cassidy, help me! You have to help me!”

  The mysterious smell was identifiable: blood. Copious amounts. Cassidy’s heart thudded, and the room began to spin. She bent forward and braced her hands against her knees, taking in long, deep breaths that calmed her heart rate. Focus. Focus on the details.

  Cassidy slowly lifted her head.

  Francine’s body was pinned to the wall by one of the tribal spears she’d brought back from a recent cannibal tour to Papua New Guinea. Her body was covered in deep stab wounds, and her nightgown was torn and soaked with blood. Next to her feet lay a pair of blood-stained garden shears. Little bits of Francine’s insides clung to the weapon like barnacles on a ship. A large pool of blood that had spread out on the tiled floor had caused JJ to slip and fall. He stood in the center of it, covered in the congealing red fluid.

  This old hag had been the bi
ggest bitch Cassidy had ever met, but no one deserved this.

  With a couple of more deep breaths, Cassidy pushed her tears aside, preventing all unwanted shows of weakness or emotion, a method of disengagement she’d learned at school to avoid becoming overwhelmed during finals week. Or maybe she’d learned it to protect herself from her mother’s ridicule. Either way, she’d mastered the technique, easily shifting her clarity of focus.

  She searched around the living room for other signs of a struggle, but the coffee table held three tidy stacks of magazines, and in each corner of the room, an artificial ficus tree had been placed. Even the twenty-five throw pillows on both the sofa and the love seat had been arranged perfectly. Either Francine had forced Martha Stewart into servitude, or someone had cleaned up the place since their last visit. In the movies, murderers would ransack a victim’s home, not decorate it.

  A white object stuck out of Francine’s mouth. It wasn’t dentures, but from where she stood, Cassidy couldn’t identify it. After a quick scan to make sure nothing gory lay between herself and the body, Cassidy took a couple of small steps forward.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she whispered as her mother’s words echoed inside her head: Curiosity killed the cat, Cassidy. You always stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong.

  The object became clear, its fabric unmistakable: a pair of thigh-high compression stockings. Apparently, though, blood clots in her legs weren’t Francine’s biggest enemy. Whoever had done this hadn’t just wanted to kill her, they’d wanted to humiliate her. To have old, dirty, stained compression hose shoved into one’s mouth like a stuffed pig, well... it made it even worse.

  Cassidy shook her head to refocus. “We need to call the police,” she said.

  JJ stood behind her covered in blood, shirt and pants soaked clean through. Now, he searched the floor, arms spread wide, much like his eyes and his gaping mouth. He began to shake. He was either going into shock or about to have a nervous breakdown. If Cassidy didn’t act fast, JJ would faint or have a heart attack, and then she’d have two dead bodies on her hands.

  She took a deep breath and pushed away her own fears and anxiety. “So should we consider this a refusal of therapy, then?”

  “What?” JJ sputtered, missing her joke.

  Cassidy amended her approach. “Please, calm yourself, JJ. Remember what the doctor said about your blood pressure?”

  “Blood!” he said. “Blood! I’m covered in her blood. Why is this happening to me?”

  “How’d you get so much of it on you? I get that you fell, but you're soaked.”

  “I walked in, saw her, and rushed over to help. I didn’t see the blood all over the floor, and I slipped. When I tried to stand up I fell again, twice.” JJ whimpered on the verge of tears. “Cassidy... I can taste blood.”

  “Maybe you bit your tongue when you slipped?” Cassidy gagged at the thought of it. She tried to speak and gagged again, tears streaming down her face, sweat beading on her forehead. A tingling through her cheeks and lips grew and she began to sway.

  “Cassidy, are you going to pass out?”

  She closed her eyes and pushed on her temples. The swaying stopped. “I think... I think I’ll be fine.” She re-opened her eyes, wiped sweat from her forehead, then smoothed out her long blonde hair.

  “I need you to help me,” JJ said.

  “Well, I’m not sure what you want me to do. You’re my best friend, but there is no way I’m going to touch you.”

  “Just call the police. It’s the least you can do, considering my hands are covered in Francine’s blood. My God, there’s a terrible taste in my mouth. It’s got to be my own blood, right?—right?” He tried to spit a few times, but soon gave up. “Ugh. Hurry, please call them.”

  “All right, I’m on it.”

  Once outside on the front stoop, Cassidy scrubbed her hands with sanitizer and a calm washed over her. She hadn’t touched anything inside the house, but one couldn’t be too clean.

  After the alcohol-based liquid had dried, she retrieved her phone from her bag, tapped the screen to activate it, and noticed two missed calls and a text message. That was a lot of activity, considering the one person who calls her is inside the house.

  “Please tell me it's not my mom,” Cassidy said. There was already one tragedy today, if her mom had called to request a visit, it would be too much to handle. She'd better check the messages.

  The text was from Stacey the shower aide: I’m running late. Flat tire. Can you let Francine know I’ll be there within the hour?

  Despite being young, Stacey demonstrated a solid sense of responsibility. Not that missing the shower meant anything at this point. Last year, Stacey started working as a shower aide for the same company Cassidy and JJ worked for, Sunshine Home Health. The girl was no more than five feet tall and suffered from a bad case of the cankles. Her mousy-brown hair was thick like her midsection and as drab as her wardrobe. Somehow, though, Cassidy found the girl’s pleasant disposition enough to cancel out these fashion transgressions. It even smoothed over her annoying Southern drawl.

  “Cassidy! Are the police on their way?” JJ yelled from inside the home.

  “Of course,” she shouted back, while she dialed the number.

  “Nine-one-one. What’s the nature of your emergency?” The operator sounded as interested as a DMV or postal worker.

  “Um, yeah. I guess I want to report... a death?”

  “Does the person have a pulse?” the operator asked.

  Cassidy blinked. “I just said I was reporting a death. Dead people don’t have pulses. In fact, she’s not breathing, either, in case you’re wondering.” She rolled her eyes.

  “What’s your location?”

  “Twenty-two seventy Palmetto Drive, Miami. And you’re going to want to call out the full crime scene unit,” Cassidy said. “I don’t think this is a case of ‘death by natural causes.’”

  “I’ll need your name and contact information, ma’am. Is your cell number the same number as the one you’re calling from?”

  “Cassidy Hudson. And yes, I’m calling from my cell. Just so you know, I’m the woman’s physical therapist. JJ, her occupational therapist, is still with the body. We came to provide her therapy services and found her dead inside the home.”

  “Thank you. Please stay on the line while -.”

  Cassidy disconnected the call and contemplated what to do next. She didn’t want to go back inside, but JJ needed her.

  “I’ll be right there.” Cassidy opened her purse and rummaged through it for some sanitary shoe covers. “Found them.” After slipping them on she marched back into the crime scene.

  “JJ, you really should try to relax. The police will be here any minute, and you’re close to a meltdown.”

  JJ eased his arms back down to his sides. “You’re right. It’s not like I’m in any danger.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that. Francine could have had some kind of blood-borne pathogen we don’t know about. Seriously, I’d be concerned.”

  “Oh nice—real nice, Cassidy! Now I’m gonna be worried about it for the rest of my life.” JJ tossed his arms up, spraying blood droplets all over the couch.

  “Dude, you’re making a mess!”

  “But -”

  “Shush! I think I hear sirens. I'm going outside for a second. I might need to direct the cops to the right house.”

  Cassidy stepped back out onto the porch to wait for the authorities. She couldn’t stand to be in there a moment longer—the odd combination of floral patterned carpet and geometric shapes on the furniture had always made her nauseous. The slam of a car door drew her attention back to the street.

  “Ma’am, are you the one who reported a dead body?” the cop said as he approached.

  The cop was good looking, and his use of the term “ma’am” might have been tolerated, had he not been wearing a wedding ring.

  Yeah, I’m Cassidy Hudson. Francine Castranova is the deceased. She’s inside with
JJ, her other therapist. He’s pretty upset right now, so please be easy on him.”

  While she waited outside, more police cars, plus fire trucks and two ambulances arrived. At this, Cassidy frowned. Why would more than one ambulance be needed? Whatever. Who was she to question the decades-long wisdom of municipal incompetence?

  After answering a zillion questions that were then repeated by the next officer to arrive, Cassidy searched for a place to sit and wait. The heat and humidity had built and mosquitos were out in force.

  “Excuse me,” someone said from behind.

  Cassidy turned. An elderly woman with a head full of curlers, wearing fuzzy red slippers and a robe not quite large enough to wrap around her hefty midsection, stood just a few feet away.

  “Yes? Can I help you with something?”

  “What’s going on in there? Did that bitter old lady finally die?”

  Cassidy’s brow lifted. “I’m sorry, it’s against the law for me to discuss my patient with you.”

  “Ah.” The nosy neighbor glanced around. “I’ll take that as a no, then. My husband thinks she killed the gardener since there’re so many cops here. I mean, Franci was such a mean person. Just last week at bridge she bragged about bossing around her in-home therapists. Can you imagine?”

  Cassidy crossed her arms. “Yes, actually, I can. It’s terrible what some people think is acceptable behavior.”

  The old woman pulled a tissue out of her sleeve and coughed a thick wad of mucus into it before shoving it back up into her cuff. “Well, I’m going to have to tell my Maury about this.” And she waddled off.

  Cassidy turned away when someone else began to mumble nearby—“There’s always something ... but I don’t know, it’s so bad sometimes ... ”—and she squinted, unsure whether this older man dressed in short shorts and wearing a ball cap was talking to her, or talking to the little white dog he was taking for a walk.

  Cassidy walked away. She wanted to get out of the oppressive heat, go home and forget this day had ever happened. Making the most of the situation she positioned herself in the middle of the front lawn to maximize sun exposure. No sense wasting the midday sun when she could be getting a tan.

  It was now lunch time so she gobbled down a Special K snack bar she kept in her purse. Then, she pulled her hair back into a ponytail and applied copious amounts of sunblock to her pale, freckled skin.