The New Wife
None dare call it murder, Heidi thought, rather pugnaciously. Those daughters of his thought there was something suspicious just because their dad Dr. Frank, as all his patients called him, instead of the official Dr. Franklin, had LSD and Xanax in his system. And, okay, was all tied up. But that’s what Jerry wanted, to be young again, to experiment, to live life to its fullest, which she and he were doing, until—
Too bad about those damn photos. She should have untied him first before she called 911. But wouldn’t the pathologists have noticed she had tampered with the “scene,” even if she did it for Jerry’s own good—and her own, spare them the embarrassment. Although for Jerry, being dead, wasn’t he past embarrassing? As for her, for some reason she thought her country club days were over. At least in this town. Word had spread about the photos and the drugs; and, well, some people might think it was kinky, but who knew what went on in their bedrooms. Maybe nothing, she thought bitterly.
At least the autopsy showed arteries clogging, probably from all the meat and potatoes his ex fed him, instead of the healthy shakes and vegan patties she was sharing with him. True, he wasn’t exactly fond of her idea of “food,” but at least he was willing to try. Jerry was willing to try a lot of things, now that he wasn’t shackled to a woman old enough to be—well, to be his first wife. Every man needs a second chance, a middle-aged shake up. And she wasn’t really that much younger than Jerry. When you both reach a certain age, twenty-five years is nothing. But who has a heart attack at sixty-two? Physician, heal thyself, damn it.
At least she didn’t have the insurance company sniffing around, with all sorts of innuendos. His life insurance policy, something it seems he bought ages and ages ago and probably forgot about, went to old hang dog Bernice. Bernice. No one names their kid Bernice unless they have something against them from the start. And with a nickname of “Bernie?” What did that portend, that she was more man than woman? She was definitely not enough woman for Jerry. Boy, was he—needy? Up for it? Wanting it?
Dead. That’s what he was. Dead.
And she? Well, what should she do now? She supposed she should just go back to work, after a suitable mourning period. After all, doctors were her business and her specialty. Jerry’s will was, what could one call it, sweet? It was nice that he thought of her, but did he really provide for her the way he should have? Maybe in the future when all the financial issues were settled, but now she needed ready money. Jerry’s part of the practice had to be sold before she could reap that bounty, and their condo’s HOA fees were outrageous. Plus, there were the bequests Jerry left to his children. Only right, she supposed, and it did stop them from challenging the will. But, really, after putting them through school and graduate school, shouldn’t there be an end to the handouts?
Most probably she should sell the condo and move out of town, start life anew after getting her old job back. She had a feeling that here in Westchester she would always be considered the black widow with a web to weave.