The Wife of Death 1: Until Death Do Us Part

I still remember my wedding day. It was the most romantic and beautiful day of my life. My husband said those words just after he put the ring on my finger. This was his way of showing his love.

Years later, the newspapers would call me “The Wife of Death.” That is so unfair, but it just shows how the media would say anything to sell a few more copies.

Usually, Kevin was not one to speak much. A man of few words. “I did this because I love you, I do not need to say it all the time. It is in the things I do for us,” he sometimes would say when I complained about it.

I would love to tell you about how he won me over and dazzled me with his wit and crazy fun ideas. How he could tell a joke that was so funny I almost peed myself. How he could hold me tight, and my heart would melt.

But that was not Kevin. He never was that type of guy. I loved him, but it was not with an internal flame of love. Kevin was a demanding man and knew what he wanted and made sure to get it. It was his way or no way.

I adapted to his wishes, and we built a nice life together.

We lived in a small house that Kevin had bought years before we met. It was nice but not so big, so Kevin said he would find something bigger when we would have kids.

I never got pregnant.

Maybe I sound like an unhappy wife, but that would be wrong. I knew what I got myself into, and I felt this was the real deal, the limit of my possibilities, the height of my dreams. We cannot all become Hollywood stars or marry a Prince from a strange country and become a Queen one day. Life is not like that.

Kevin was the harbour of my life. He was the silence of my forest.

Kevin’s best friend — his only friend — came with this marriage. I often felt he was part of the house. Kevin and John were always together, and when we got married, John was always around.

When we went out, Kevin would sit in the bar, and John would guide me to the dance floor. I would feel his strong arms and determined lead. He was a man who took what he could get, and I felt it as he pushed me close to his chest.

We would usually dance to three slow songs, and during those, I felt parts of him I surely did not want to feel, but was also very fascinated about. Every time we danced, John would hold me close and strong against his body as we moved to the music.

Kevin even thanked him for dancing with me.

I danced a lot with John, and I knew he liked me as I could feel it when we danced. If he had a little to drink, he would whisper sweet words to me as we danced close, and I felt his strong hands touching my back, sometimes maybe going down a little too much, so I had to correct him.

Kevin got ill. It started with stomach pain.

He went to the doctor, and they did many different tests. The pain was gone for a little while, but it returned to be more painful.

“I am so worried about you, my love. I will take care of you as you have always taken care of me.” I held him close and made sure he got something to eat.

We followed all the advice from the doctors, but it never helped much. Kevin got better a few times, and he even got strong enough for work.

“If I can stand up, I can work.” But he always ended up in bed within a day or two. I took care of him and tried to make every day as easy for him as possible.

“I will prepare a bath for you, and we will get you all clean. I am sure that will make you feel better.” I washed him, dried him, and helped him back to bed, where I had changed the sheets while he was soaking in the bathtub.

At night, I held him and stroked his hair until he fell asleep. I was not fully convinced that he liked me doing that, but at that time, he was not the man he used to be. It felt like the right thing to do.

I helped him to the doctor for yet another bad response, “We are sorry, but we do not know what is wrong and why you have the pain you have,” and they would give him some painkillers.

Kevin never got better; he got worse. Usually, it was fairly stable, but every four weeks, it seemed like it got worse, and in five months, Kevin passed away.

He died on a Saturday as I was in the garden planting a new tree.

John and I were the only ones at his funeral. John helped me a lot during this time and later, “so you will not feel lonely,” he said. It felt natural that after some time, he asked me out for dinner, and we talked more. Over some months, I started having feelings for John.

“I have wanted to kiss you ever since we first met,” he often told me. John and I became a couple, and soon after, he proposed to me.

John was a good dancer, and we often went down to the local bar for a dance when they had live music. We would dance more than three dances now, and after we got married, John became firmer and led our dances even more strongly.

We never talked to many people. John did not have many friends — it had been him and Kevin for so long that neither of them had spent much time with others.

Sitting at a table next to the dance floor meant that many would say hi to us. When the guys got a little too much to drink, and John got far too frisky on the dance floor, we often ended up arguing and would go home, where John demanded us to make up as he refused to go to bed angry.

Sadly, John got ill.

Just like Kevin, he slowly got more and more ill, and again, the doctors had no idea what was causing it.

John died just short of five months later.

I will always remember that Saturday, as I had just dug a rather large hole in the garden for a new tree I had found a few days earlier.

Eight years later

I now live abroad as the weather is better here and the cost of living is much lower than at home. It gives me some freedom as I can afford more of the good things in life.

I think I deserve that.

I have kept the houses from my late husbands, and I am renting them out and earning nicely from that, as I don’t spend much on maintenance. It has worked very well for me.

Kevin’s house needed some more substantial work done after eight years, so when a builder gave me a good offer on the house and land, I took it.

I knew he would demolish it as he wanted to build something new and much bigger.

He called me the other day.

“We found something strange in the ground when we started removing the younger trees. Not to be alarmed about, but just wanted to let you know. We have turned it into the police. Hope you enjoy the afternoon drinks — I wish it was me sitting in the sun down there.”

A few days later, I looked up news from my hometown online.

I found a statement from the police: “We are searching for the previous owner of the house, as she might know more about what has been discovered. We do not suspect any wrongdoing at this point. We just want to get a clear picture of this so the builder can get on with his work on the site again. We do not at this point suspect any crime has been committed.”

A few days after that, I read an article in one of the local newspapers there.

“Here at the Times, we have been digging a little deeper into the story of the strange finding on the building site on Marlborough Street.”

“The owner of the now demolished house was Kevin Anderson. Kevin owned the house for many years up until his death, when his wife, Linda Anderson, inherited it.

She kept the house and rented it out to a family of three.”

“We have looked into the life of Linda Anderson, and it seems she has had a very different life than most. She is a widower to not one, not two, but to nine husbands. She has been married to three husbands before Kevin Anderson and five after him. Each of them died suddenly after a short time of marriage to her.

Linda Wilson, as she calls herself today, according to our sources, has never been suspected of any wrongdoing, but it is impressive to marry nine times, and all nine husbands die within a year of their marriage to her.”

“All nine husbands started having stomach pain, and within four to six months, they all died. We have read the nine death certificates where stomach pain is mentioned. We have talked to the doctors to three of the husbands. They will not comment on the specific situation for their patients but confirm that each of the men had contacted them about their pain before they died.”

“Linda Wilson is not home. She left our beautiful country eight years ago, and we have not been able to locate her or learn about what she has been doing since she left. For all we know, she could have found new men to marry.”

“We asked the police for a comment on the fact that all of her nine husbands died seemingly by the same thing, but they do not wish to comment on anything at this point.”

“Follow us for more news about The Wife of Death.”

I had to read the article a few more times, as that journalist seemed to be a pit bull. When I spoke with my lawyer, he assured me that I could relax — there are no extradition agreements between the two countries.

Life has treated me well so far. I have earned all the money I have, and I can tell you I have done a lot to be where I am today.

I can tell you about sacrifices and the need to do things just to get by. I honestly don’t feel I have done anything wrong. If I am guilty of anything, it is not to protect myself well enough to start with.

All that is under the bridge now.

Last night, I was talking to a gentleman, and we will meet for dinner tonight. He seems to be very taken in me. I wonder if he likes to dance.