The Cure May Kill You: A Cassidy Hudson Mystery

by Carlie Lemont

  She handed the phone back to him. “Yikes! I can see why you’re scared. Who’s sending them to you, though, and why do they hate you so much?”

  “I’m not sure, but I have an idea.”

  “Who?”

  “Stacey.”

  “Stacey? You’re nuts. She wouldn’t do that. She’s way too nice. All of our patients really seem to like her - even Francine said she was a simple little Southern girl.”

  JJ squinted. “How exactly is that a compliment?”

  “Come on, who else do you know that Francine has ever referred to as anything other than a whore, a thief, a waste of air, or better off dead? I can’t think of a single person.”

  JJ stared at her.

  “See? So, in Francine-terms, that’s a compliment.”

  JJ shook his head to clear it. “I don’t think Stacey’s as nice as you think she is. You haven’t been around when she talks to me. She’s downright mean.”

  “I’m not saying you’re lying, but I do find it hard to believe. So, other than she’s supposedly a big meanie-face, why do you think the texts are from her?”

  “I wouldn’t stake my life on it, but after I got the first rude anonymous text, I saw her at one of our staff meetings and she avoided me like the plague.”

  At this, Cassidy winked. “Yeah, okay, buddy. Maybe she just doesn’t like you.”

  “I’m serious. Normally, she comes up to me and has rude comments to make. But this time, she completely avoided me, wouldn’t even make eye contact. Suspicious, if you ask me.”

  “There has to be more to the story.”

  “After that the texts have gotten more graphic and disturbing. Threatening to torture and kill me, like the ones you just read. I don’t care for Stacey, but I didn’t want to believe it was her, either, until... ” He trailed off while he scrolled through his latest text messages.

  Cassidy’s eyebrows raised. “Until?”

  “Until I got this one, ‘I know where you live,’ it says. ‘I know how to hurt you, and it won’t be hard to do.’” He dropped the phone into his lap.

  “What about that message screams ‘Stacey’ to you? Sounds like some crazy person. Granted, the sender clearly hates you, but I don’t see how it implicates her.”

  “The person knows who I am and where I live. Who else could it be?”

  Cassidy shrugged. “Could be anyone. It’s really easy to find personal information these days. The Florida State Occupational Therapy Board lists your phone number and address on its website, actually. Right now, you have no proof that its Stacey. You’re afraid, and I understand that, but you can’t jump to conclusions.”

  “

  Maybe you’re right. But the other day at the office, I saw Stacey glaring at me. I tried to ignore her, but she just kept on staring. The next thing I knew, she walked by me and whispered, ‘You still living in that dumpy apartment? I bet you have bed bugs.’ Not long after that, something else happened.”

  “Spill it.”

  “I got this.” And JJ pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket.

  Cassidy took the folded white sheet, seeing there was writing on the other side, and as she unfolded it, it became clear that the message had been penned by the same author who’d written her the note.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “It was taped to my front door this morning.”

  She read the note, which was identical to her own.

  “All right, this is really starting to scare me,” she said.

  “Not any scarier than the texts I’ve been getting, but now I know this crazy person actually knows where I live.”

  “True. And I have a confession to make. I got a similar letter on my door. Whoever’s texting and threatening you, is doing the same to me. It’s someone who knows both of us and they hate us.”

  JJ crossed his arms and looked out the window. “I’m telling you, it’s Stacey. She’s crazy, and we’re going to be her next victims.”

  “I don’t know... I’m not completely convinced it’s her, but the theory’s gaining strength.”

  “We have to do something,” he said.

  “Like what? Call the police?”

  “For starters.”

  “And tell them what, exactly? That we think Stacey’s a cold-blooded killer who wants to kill us before we expose her? Seriously? They’d lock us away! We have absolutely no proof of anything.”

  JJ shrugged. “Yeah, but if we plant that seed, maybe they’ll take another look at her, investigate her with a little more depth.”

  “Good point. Maybe this’ll be the push they need to actually do something about it.”

  “You know, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about the letter you got. We might have come to this conclusion quicker, if you had. Not to mention, as you’d pointed out earlier, we’re friends who don’t keep secrets from each other.”

  “Yeah, I know. I just didn’t want to worry you. I’m serious. The last thing I wanted to do was cause you any needless concern.”

  “Okay. But from now on, no more secrets—ever.”

  “Deal.”

  Cassidy gave a nod, stowed away her paperwork, started the car, and pulled out into the street. “We should get to our final appointment for the day. Then we can stop by the police station afterwards. We can show them the notes and text messages. And don’t let me forget we need to drop off our paperwork at the office; I don’t need another reason for Janet to talk to me. Once that’s done, I can take you home.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” JJ said. “What do we know about Randi’s patient, Chester?”

  “Not much, but I’m willing to bet he’s strange, since he and Randi get along quite well. His paperwork said he's on caseload because of a hip replacement and is using a front-wheeled walker. Other than that, Randi’s notes look like hieroglyphics, impossible to decipher without the Rosetta Stone. I guess we’ll just have to wing it.”

  “I hope he’s at least friendly,” JJ said as Cassidy pulled her car onto the street where Chester Adams lived.

  CHAPTER 23

  A

  s they rounded the corner, total chaos met their eyes—flashing lights, cop cars, ambulances, and a fire truck made the street impassable.

  JJ turned to Cassidy, brow raised. “Why are there so many people here?”

  They were forced to park a block and a half away from Chester’s home, and there was so much going on it was hard to see which house had all the action. Whatever was going on it didn’t look good. Cassidy’s stomach lurched with the possibilities.

  “Maybe someone won the Publisher’s Clearing House?” But her words hung hollow as she got out of the car.

  They grabbed their backpacks from the trunk and began to walk toward the address Janet had given them, but the closer they got to the house, the thicker the cluster of emergency vehicles became, and the more dread she felt. When they reached the house next door to Chester’s, it became all too clear something had gone horribly wrong—again.

  Outside, a silver-haired woman blew her nose into a crumpled tissue, then used it to wipe away her tears. “Oh my goodness,” she said, “I hope that poor man is going to be okay. He’s such a thoughtful person. A true war hero.” Then, she reached out toward Cassidy with her dirty, tissue-filled hand.

  “Please, don’t touch me,” Cassidy said, recoiling out of arm’s reach. She turned to JJ. “You know, I don’t really feel comfortable with this.”

  “I agree. Maybe we should go back to the car.”

  “We could lie and say we tried, but Chester wasn’t available. Although, if all of this has nothing to do with him, we’d never hear the end of it."

  They continued on toward Chester’s home, which was surrounded by police, paramedics, firemen, and throngs of bystanders. Nope, definitely not the Publisher’s Clearing House.

  “Ma’am?” a police officer said. “Ma’am?”

  Cassidy turned toward him. “Please don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ My name’s Cassidy.”
r />   “Sorry, ma’am.”

  Cassidy rolled her eyes. The young officer’s crisp, freshly laundered uniform and brightly polished shoes screamed “rookie cop”—or stripper. Either way, she wasn’t in the mood.

  “You can’t come any closer,” he said. “This entire area is a crime scene. You and your friend need to leave.”

  “But I’m supposed to be here. Sunshine Home Health Agency sent us to provide therapy for Chester Adams. See? It says right here: Chester Adams at 432 Biscayne Boulevard.” She flashed the patient’s medical chart. “Is Chester in some kind of trouble, or involved in a crime?”

  “I'm sorry, but I can't give you any information."

  “Okay, fine.” Cassidy snapped her fingers at JJ. "Let's go.”

  “Ms. Hudson?”

  At the sound of her name, Cassidy turned around to see a familiar figure standing a few feet away. Detective Sanchez approached, opening her notepad.

  “Well, imagine my surprise seeing the two of you here. Since, according to my notes, neither of you are Chester’s therapists.” Sanchez flipped through a couple more pages. “So, what exactly are you two doing here? And how do you know Chester Adams?”

  Cassidy balled up her fists and put them on her hips. “Imagine my surprise to find that you’re still wearing high-waist pleated pants.”

  “We are his therapists,” JJ said.

  “It doesn’t say that here. I have a Randi B. Wilde listed as his therapist. She...?” Sanchez paused for confirmation on the gender, to which JJ nodded. “She was, according to the calendar of appointments in Mr. Adams’ home, supposed to arrive around ten this morning, but she never did.”

  “Yes, we know,” Cassidy said. “Randi called in sick today and we were volun-told to see him for her.”

  “Oh, yeah? Is that right?” Sanchez replied in a tone from a cheesy detective movie. “Chester Adams was found dead by a neighbor this morning.”

  “He was murdered this morning?” JJ said.

  “I said he was found this morning. Time of death has not been established yet, but I’d say, by the looks of things, it wasn’t today.”

  “Shouldn’t you be interviewing people?” Cassidy said. “This is crazy. Another person’s dead and no one seems to be any closer to solving this.”

  Sanchez put down her notepad. “All right, calm down, or I’ll have you escorted out of here in handcuffs.”

  “Handcuffs!” JJ said.

  “There’s no room for hysterics at a busy crime scene,” Sanchez said. “You two always seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Coincidence?” She narrowed her eyes at them.

  Cassidy threw her hands into the air. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean? Are we still suspects? I don't like this anymore than your last season Gucci knockoff pumps.”

  “My choice in fashion isn’t the issue here,” Sanchez said, “and it most certainly is not a crime.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” Cassidy said, and then she looked at JJ. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’m not going to stand around and be insulted by someone who wears black pants with navy blue shoes.”

  “No, Cassidy. I think we should tell her,” JJ said.

  “Tell me what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “All right,” Sanchez said, “I’ll repeat the question: Tell me, or I’ll find a reason to arrest you.”

  “Tell her,” JJ whispered said, nudging her in the ribs.

  Cassidy nudged him back, harder. “Fine! JJ thinks he knows who the murderer is, and I’m not convinced he’s completely wrong.”

  “Keep your voices down.” Sanchez ushered them away from the front yard. Once in the backyard and well out of earshot from any prying neighbors and press, she urged Cassidy to spill it.

  “Jamal, believes the nurse’s assistant who gives the patients their showers might be murdering them.”

  “And does this nurse’s assistant have a name?”

  Cassidy nodded. “Stacey... umm... JJ, what’s Stacey’s last name?”

  JJ blinked in surprise. “Oh. I’m not really sure.”

  Sanchez smirked, scribbling notes onto her pad. “If you two amateurs are referring to Stacey Michols, then I’ve already met and spoken with her.”

  “That sounds like a dismissal,” Cassidy said. She wanted to slap the stupid notebook out of the detective’s hand. “Great. Absolutely nothing will get solved at this rate.”

  “You already know who she is?” JJ said. “Is Stacey a suspect?”

  Sanchez stopped scribbling and looked up at JJ through narrowed eyes. “Honestly, everyone’s a suspect. What specific information do you have to implicate Stacey in this crime?”

  Neither Cassidy nor JJ could answer that; JJ stared down at his feet, while Cassidy checked the time on her phone.

  “I thought as much. Now, unless you two have some useful information for us, I suggest you leave. But don’t leave the city. We might have some more questions for you in the near future.”

  “Hang on a second!” Cassidy said. She ran to the side yard to peer around the house and scan the crowd of onlookers. “He’s got to be around here somewhere... ”

  Cassidy ran to the other side of the house. “He has to be here. He was at the other two. Maybe if I can spot his little white dog ... ” She walked across the street toward the group of people being held at bay and, using her therapy bag as a shield, pushed through the crowd.

  Sanchez ran up and grabbed Cassidy’s arm. “Have you lost your damn mind? What’s gotten into you?”

  “I need to find the old man. Cassidy yanked her arm free.

  “What old man? Chester? I don’t think there’s anything he’d be able to help you with.”

  “No, not Chester. There’s a man with a little white dog who I’ve seen at each of the crime scenes. He mumbles to himself. One time he actually spoke to me, but it seemed like it was in some kind of code.”

  “Come with me,” Sanchez said, and she pulled Cassidy toward the back of the house again. Once they were out of earshot she asked, “What’s this guy’s name?”

  “Well, if I knew that, I would have told you already. I think he might be connected to the murders, though. Why else would he be at each of the crime scenes?”

  “So you remember seeing him at both of the other crime scenes?” Sanchez started to jot things down.

  “I just said that. Are you incapable of listening?”

  Sanchez paused to stare at her. “I can do without the attitude. Now, you say you think he has something to do with this crime, as well?”

  “Yes. Well, I mean... I think so.”

  Sanchez softened a bit. “This could be important. What evidence do you believe links this man and his dog to the crime scenes?”

  Cassidy drew in a deep, calming breath and tried to respond as professionally as possible. “Like I said before, I saw him at the other two. I know it’s not proof of anything specific, but I can’t think of any other reason the same person would be at both and not be involved somehow.”

  Sanchez looked up amused.

  Cassidy squinted. “What’s that look for?”

  “You've been at both crime scenes... no make that all three."

  “I know, but it doesn’t apply to me.”

  “And why’s that?”

  JJ glanced between the two women. “What’s she implying?”

  “Oh, she’s just trying to be clever and say that since we’ve been at all of the crime scenes, we must be involved somehow.”

  “Hey”—Sanchez shoved her hands onto her hips—“don’t get your undies in a bunch. I’ve made note of it. Now, get out of my crime scene.” Her stare was punctuated by tightly drawn lips in desperate need of gloss.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Cassidy said. “I think you know something you’re not telling me. I have the right to know!”

  “No, Ms. Hudson, you don’t. Can you give me a detailed description of this guy and his dog? And keep in mind, if and when anything we find out becomes any of your b
usiness, we’ll be sure to notify you.”

  “Fine,” Cassidy said. “He’s an older man, who wears gym teacher style shorts and a baseball cap with a patch on it.” Then, Cassidy slapped herself on the leg. “That’s where I’d seen that patch! Anyway, we’ve interacted, although I didn’t pay much attention to him the first time. I was trying to catch some sun rays—I’ve been awfully pale, and no one wants to date someone who’s the color of corpse... no offence JJ—so then at Marge’s house, I saw him again. Only, this time I went over to ask him some questions. His answers didn't make much sense to me. It seemed like he was talking in some kind of code or something.”

  “So why do you suspect him of murder?"

  "I'm not sure. Even if he's not the killer, maybe he knows something or saw something. He was clearly trying to tell me something, I just couldn't understand him. If I can find him again, I know I can get to the bottom of this - even if it kills me."

  Detective Sanchez pointed a poorly manicured fingernail in Cassidy's face. “You know, I’m tired of you little soccer moms and desperate housewives with nothing better to do than getting involved in official police business. As if you have any right to do so. Let us do our jobs without you getting in the way.”

  “Excuse me?” Cassidy blinked in disbelief. “While I may appear desperate at times, I can assure you I am neither a housewife nor a soccer mom. And I don’t like your implication that I somehow have nothing better to do than your job. I didn’t seek out these crimes; I found myself in the middle of them. If you actually did your job, and did it well, then maybe Francine, Marge, and Chester would still be alive. And for future reference, the next time you point your nasty ill-manicured matt-finished nail in my face - wash it. There’s an herb garden growing under there.”

  “I think we should tell her about the letters we received,” JJ said, and Cassidy instantly pictured herself taking him down to the ground like she’d learned in their self-defense class.

  “What letters?” Sanchez said.

  “Well, not that it’s any of your business, but both JJ and I each received a threatening letter taped to our apartment door. Someone also carved the word ‘bitch’ into the driver’s side door of my car.”