The Cure May Kill You: A Cassidy Hudson Mystery

by Carlie Lemont

  “Marge?” Cassidy called in from the safety of the porch.

  Silence.

  “Marge, are you home?”

  Again, silence.

  A nervousness crawled into her gut, nauseating her, and despite the oppressive heat, Cassidy shivered.

  “Marge has to be here,” JJ said. “She’s homebound. What would they do on Criminal Minds?”

  “Probably call for backup. But since you and I are on our own, I say we go in and see if she’s in there.” Cassidy took a step inside the entryway and squatted, leaning against the wall and mimicking the movements she’d learned on CSI Miami. “Keep low and don’t make yourself an easy target.”

  JJ followed her into the foyer. “I’m scared.”

  “Shh.” Cassidy waved her hand in front of his face.

  Inside, the temperature was cool and pleasant, and the two therapists searched the entire ground floor of the home, with no sign of Marge.

  JJ leaned close to Cassidy. “Everything looks exactly as it did the last time we were here.”

  “No sign of a struggle.”

  “Well, where could she be, then? No way she went upstairs on her own. Marge knows she isn't allowed to even attempt the stairs since she can’t put weight on her left leg.”

  “I know that,” Cassidy said. “But I think we should go up there anyway to make sure. Crazier things have happened, and you know Marge is always trying to get us to take her up there so she can shower in her own bathroom.”

  Once, she and JJ had found a four-hundred-pound female patient, supposedly confined to strict bed rest, who’d managed to combat crawl past her sleeping caregiver to get to the refrigerator for a Diet Coke. The sweat-soaked patient lay panting on the floor, pouring the sugarless soft drink into her mouth, but she’d gulped it down too fast. Some of the carbonated beverage had slipped down the wrong pipe, which had set off a chain reaction, starting with severe coughing and ending with a soiled adult diaper and two very unhappy therapists.

  “Shouldn’t we call the detective woman?” JJ said. “She’d said if we ever needed anything, we could call her.”

  “We don’t know if we need her yet.” She started up the stairs and JJ followed close behind. “Let’s just get this over with. Today is starting to really suck the life out of me.”

  After reaching the second-floor landing, Cassidy again called out to Marge. Both therapists strained to hear a reply, anything that might indicate Marge was somewhere in the house... alive.

  “I’m really scared,” JJ whispered.

  “Shhh—don’t make me hit you.” Cassidy slapped her hand over his mouth, only to jerk it away and wipe her palm on her pant leg with a cringe. Mental note: dry-clean pants and use hand sanitizer sooner rather than later. “Hey, did you hear that?”

  JJ cupped his ear and listened. “No. . .”

  “There! There it is again. Hear it?” Cassidy pulled a fork out of her purse.

  “Why do you have a fork?”

  “You never know when you’ll need one. Aren’t you glad I have it now? We might need a weapon.” JJ flinched when Cassidy pretended to stab him in the face. He glared in silence until she continued down the hallway, which seemed to go on forever. Already cramps had tightened up in her legs because of the low, near-squatting position, like the world’s longest hover over a public toilet. Her thighs weren’t as in shape as she’d thought. She glanced behind her; JJ crawled closely behind.

  “We look ridiculous.” She stood up straight, pressing her back to the wall, which was more efficient and took much less effort.

  “But—”

  “Shh!” Cassidy’s hand clamped across his mouth—again. “Did you hear that?” She released her hold. “It’s coming from the next room on the left.” And she slid along the wall until she reached the doorway.

  “This reminds me of an episode of Murder, She Wrote, when Jessica snuck into the cellar of the murder victim’s home,” JJ said.

  “Not now.” She was tempted to poke him in the neck with the fork. Not hard, more like a warning shot. “Go see if everything’s okay. I’ll wait here to make sure no one else follows you inside.”

  “No way. I’m not going in there by myself.”

  “Fine, then watch my back. One of us needs to man up.”

  “We’ll need a signal. You know, in case someone comes. Maybe we could whistle?”

  “Maybe. What kind of whistle? Like a bird?” Cassidy crouched and peeked around the door’s edge into the bedroom. But just before she went to crawl into the room, she looked over her shoulder at JJ. “Hoot like an owl.”

  He nodded.

  Cassidy entered the room.

  At once, every sense was heightened, and every sound she made seemed exponentially loud, so much so, she feared the unknown enemy might be aware of her presence. Cassidy scanned the area for any sign of Marge, though it didn’t take a genius to see the room was in disarray: clothes had been strewn across the floor and over the furniture; the nightstand lamp rested on its side; tubes of lipstick, fingernail polish, Bengay ointment, toothpaste, and hair curlers littered the floor. Cassidy crawled over these objects with care, mindful not to move anything.

  “Marge?”

  “Help... me,” a weak voice came from the closet.

  Cassidy froze for a moment, raised the fork clenched in her hand, then she crept toward the closet door, readying herself to open it.

  As the door creaked open, Cassidy flinched back in horror.

  Toward the rear of the closet, Marge lay on her side, body nearly folded in half and partially crammed into an overturned clothes hamper. She must have already tried to struggle free—her arms were scratched and bloody, and she was missing a few fingernails on her left hand. That same hand was twisted into an unnatural position, thumbnail bent backwards and caked in blood. Not to mention, her hip. In the current position, there was little chance the head of the femur was still in place. Moving her now might result in more damage, but she looked in such horrible shape that if they didn’t act fast, Marge could die.

  Cassidy shuddered. “JJ, come here—hurry!” Forgetting about CSI and what one should and shouldn’t do, Cassidy dropped to her knees, donned the gloves from her back pocket, and checked Marge for a pulse. It was faint and very slow. “Marge, can you hear me?” And she shook the old woman’s limp form.

  “Oh my God!” JJ said. “Is she breathing?” He reached out for Marge, but Cassidy slapped his hand back.

  “No, don’t try to move her. We don’t know how badly she’s hurt.”

  She pulled out her phone, which lacked a signal here in the house. “Damn it! JJ, call 911 and tell them we need an ambulance. Make sure they send the police, too.” Again, she attempted to revive the old woman. “Marge, Marge? Can you speak?”

  With a nearby plastic hanger, Cassidy removed a pair of dirty panties off of Marge’s chest, then blew away a ragged, fuchsia-colored feather before she gave the old woman a good, hard sternal rub.

  All at once, Marge coughed against something in her mouth. A second cough forced a two-inch piece of cloth out from between her lips, and Cassidy used the hanger’s hook to remove the blockage—a blood-stained support stocking.

  “No wonder I could barely hear you.” Hadn’t Francine’s body been found with a compression stocking shoved into her mouth, too?

  Soon, Marge’s lips began to move, though with no sound. JJ, who’d returned from the hallway where he’d called for help, knelt next to Cassidy, and both of them leaned in close to hear what Marge was trying to tell them.

  With eyes glassy and unfocused, Marge peered up at Cassidy, gurgling out ragged breaths. Cassidy took hold of Marge’s hand, and the old woman managed to give Cassidy’s a weak squeeze. Again, Marge’s lips moved, and Cassidy leaned in once more. This time, Marge’s eyes seemed to focus as her head lifted slightly from the floor. “B ... Ben...” But the effort was too great, and Marge crumpled back onto the floor, body shaking for a second before her gurgled breaths ceased.


  “Marge!” JJ said, and he squeezed her shoulder, but pulled his hand back. "Oh my God, look.”

  “What?”

  “Her... her shoulder... It’s like mush. And look—” He held up a bloody hand.

  Cassidy's stomach lurched. “Why does this keep happening?”

  “I don’t know. Who would do this to such a sweet old lady?” JJ hung his head.

  Cassidy hesitated, but then laid two fingers to Marge’s neck. No pulse. Marge was gone, and with her, the truth about who’d done this.

  “Shouldn’t we do CPR?” JJ said, tears in his eyes.

  Cassidy shook her head. “She’s listed on the paperwork as a DNR—do not resuscitate.”

  JJ sighed, sniffled, and turned away.

  “Did she say ‘Ben’?” Cassidy said. “I could’ve sworn her last word was ‘Ben.’”

  “I don’t know...”

  “What could that mean? Was that who’d done this? Or was she just seeing things and thought we were someone named Ben?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know... I have to go wash my hands.” JJ stood and left the room.

  Cassidy followed, though only went as far as the hall, where she slid down the wall and plopped to the floor. There, she pulled her knees in and hugged them to her chest, silently rocking back and forth. A wonderful woman had just been murdered, which meant a serial killer might be on the loose. She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the world, only to have visions of dead bodies, pools of blood, and shadowy killers.

  Sirens pulled her back to reality, and she pushed herself up from the floor and went downstairs to await the arrival of the authorities. JJ followed her outside to the front porch.

  “I wonder what the police will say,” he said.

  “Well, I’m pretty sure they won’t be overjoyed to see us at another crime scene.”

  JJ grimaced. “Let’s talk about something else. I can’t take all of this stress. I’m torn between throwing up and crying.”

  But Cassidy simply stared off into the distance, tears welling. As far as she knew, Marge had never spoken an unkind word, let alone hurt anyone. Damn it! Cassidy thought. Why was she even in this business? How would she protect herself and JJ? Lord knew JJ was incapable of defending himself.

  JJ edged closer to Cassidy. “You know, this might be out of line, but maybe we should focus our thoughts on positive things. Like lunch, for instance. Where should we go?”

  “Nah, I don’t have much of an appetite, although I could use a drink to calm down. Maybe three shots of tequila and a beer chaser.” Then, Cassidy gave him a weak smile. “Just kidding. I’d settle for a nice Long Island Ice Tea, or even just a single shot of vodka.”

  “Should we call Detective Sanchez? Or let the police call her when they get here?”

  “We should probably call her. Wouldn’t want her to think we were trying to hide something. Could you make the call? My phone never seems to work when I really need it, and quite frankly, I’m not in the mood.”

  The authorities arrived in fine fashion: six squad cars, an ambulance, and a fire truck, all whose combined noise could be heard on the surface of the moon. This horrid cacophony fed Cassidy’s headache, and she closed her eyes, pressed her fingers against both temples. When she opened her eyes again, three rather good-looking cops stood in front of her.

  “Ma’am?” the best-looking one said. He wasn't wearing a wedding ring, but it didn’t seem to matter right now.

  Cassidy squinted. Her headache had darkened her already-surly mood. “Please, don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel like I’m an old librarian with twelve cats.”

  As the officer climbed up the porch steps and came into clear view, Cassidy noticed he didn’t appear much older than her favorite hair-tie from the seventh grade.

  “We need to take your statement,” Officer Just-Out-of-Daycare said. “Would you like to make it here, or down at the station?”

  Cassidy rolled her eyes, hands on her hips. “I know the drill, mister. I watch Law and Order all the time.”

  “This is real life, ma’am. That’s just a television show. You can’t believe everything you see on TV.” He flipped through his little black notebook.

  “Oh, can’t I? Really?”

  But the officer merely stared at her.

  She huffed. “I’ll do it here. I’d like to get this over with as quickly as possible so I can move on to more pleasant things like playing with my dog, eating some lunch, and maybe even a shot of tequila.”

  She told the officer everything she could remember, and once she was done, Cassidy looked around for JJ. She just wanted to get going, and the longer she remained in the heat, the more she felt like adding to the body count. Just beyond her car, JJ stood talking to one of the other police officers, though it looked like he was going to be a while.

  Not wanting to sit around and waste time, Cassidy scanned the faces of the ever-growing throng of spectators who’d been drawn to the front of the property by the sirens. Unfortunately, she was unable to find someone who seemed clean enough, safe enough, or generally interesting enough to talk to, so she decided to pick the closest person to her. Just as she was about to acknowledge the greasy-headed, hunchbacked man savagely devouring a turkey leg, something much more compelling caught her attention.

  Just off to the far side of the growing mass of gawkers stood the man she vaguely remembered seeing outside of Francine's house. Had he changed his clothing, she might not have recognized him, but his choice in fashion fairly blinded her. He wore a tie-dyed T-shirt, obscenely short 1980s gym teacher-styled shorts, and knee-high socks with green stripes at the top. His only redeeming quality was his little white scruffy dog. Hurrying toward him, Cassidy waved her hands to try to get his attention.

  “Hey! Sir, can I ask you something?” She slowed her pace as she approached the man who smelled like he was either unable or unwilling to shower. His pierced left ear had a peace sign earring, and his long, scraggly-looking goatee had been parted in the middle, a red bead on each side. His hat was sweat-stained and faded, with a WWII patch loosely sewn onto its brim.

  “People are not always as they appear,” he muttered as she drew closer, eyes blinking rapidly while he swatted at his face.

  “What? I think I’ve seen you before. Do you remember me?”

  “People are not always as they appear,” he said, looking Cassidy in the eyes. All of his fidgeting had stopped as he gave her an intense, nonthreatening, stare.

  “I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me." Her heart raced almost as fast as her mind. “Who’s not as they appear? Did you see what happened here?”

  The man started walking away.

  “Wait! Where are you going?”

  At once, he began to blink uncontrollably again, and he picked up the pace, bee-lining it through the crowd and muttering to himself.

  Cassidy glanced from side to side, uncertainty growing. But, unwilling to touch the retreating man, she turned around to find some help from the police. After all, it was the least they could do, considering she was doing their job for them—free of charge.

  Cassidy rushed over to the young officer who’d questioned her. “You’ve got to help me!”

  “Ma’am, please, stand back. I’m trying to manage the crowd.”

  “Hey, I just told you back at the house I don’t like being called ‘ma’am’” Cassidy huffed. “Never mind. There’s a guy over there who I think might know something important.” And she pointed in the direction she’d come.

  “I need you to step back, please.” He tried to physically move Cassidy out of the way.

  “Stop! Take your hands off me!” Cassidy spun away from him. “That guy over there might know something about the murder.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “No, I’m not going to keep—”

  “Come with me.” The officer ushered Cassidy away from the growing mass of onlookers. “Now, what’s so important, Miss?”

  “Hudson. Cassidy H
udson.” She smiled, finally calming down. “And your name is?” She leaned in for a closer look at his name patch.

  The officer pulled back. “Did you just sniff me, ma’am?”

  “What?” Cassidy straightened. “Well, you’re quite an ass ... umption maker aren’t you! I need you to listen to me.”

  “Make it fast.”

  Cassidy almost grabbed the officer’s sleeve, but settled instead for snapping her fingers for him to follow.

  She glanced around. “I swear he was right here. You have to believe me. He was standing right here with his little white dog. He’s wearing gym-teacher shorts and ugly knee-length socks. Shouldn’t be too hard to find him. Just help me look—”

  “Ma’am, why were you interviewing potential witnesses? Please leave the police work to the professionals.”

  “Professionals?” Cassidy shoved her hands onto her hips. “Look around. You need my help.”

  He shook his head.

  “Well, if you come to your senses, Detective Sanchez has my number.” Cassidy clenched her fists and stormed off to find JJ. The police would contact her eventually - she knew it. Hopefully the killer wouldn’t strike again before they got their act together.

  “JJ,” she said when she found him, “please get into the car.”

  After he’d gotten a good look at Cassidy’s face, he complied without questioning her.

  Cassidy sunk into the driver’s seat. “You know, I could really use that lunch and drink you’d mentioned. How about you?”

  JJ tried to fasten his seatbelt as Cassidy took off, squealing the tires, rounding the corner at Nascar speeds.

  “Just a thought, Cassidy, maybe you should slow down. You almost clipped that woman’s Jazzy chair just now. Cops are all over the place. You’re gonna get a ticket.”

  “No one likes a side-seat driver.”

  She slowed the car as they pulled into the restaurant parking lot.

  “Are you okay?” JJ said.

  Many different emotions had washed through her over the past couple of days. Although anger and irritation were nothing new, she now felt something unexpected: fear.