Mixed Doubles

A crime fiction story about partners.

Photo by Ben Hershey on Unsplash

The unassuming tone of an email’s arrival was the first signal that Callista Turney’s life, as she had known it for nineteen years, was over.

While she heard the tone, she didn’t immediately click to the browser window that contained her email inbox. Callista was focused instead on the seating arrangements for the upcoming Julep Jubilee, a social event that was ostensibly for charity. Thechildren’s hospital, naturally, since children’s illnesses were so politically uncontroversial. The ball would, though this was not intentional of course, also allow Nashville’s most socially splendid individuals to attempt to impress each other with their social graces. And since social grace was really just another word for wealth, Callista was making sure that the most graceful of the attendees had the best seats at the dinner. From those seats, they could most fully and humbly display their noblesse oblige. For the children. Those precious seconds, maybe not long as a minute, between the time she heard the “ping” and the time she turned to her email were gone before she could miss them. When she thought about it all later, Callista wished she had savored them more.

The email sat, bolded, at the top of her inbox. The sender’s name, “Edward Ralston”, was unfamiliar to her. It was only when she noticed the rest of Ralston’s email address that the first pang of contemporaneous dread and panic shot through her body like a shockwave.

ERalston@provlife.com.

The email address contained the shortened name of a company. An insurance company named the Providential Life & CasualtyCompany. It was an old company, founded in Connecticut before the Civil War and Callista imagined it to have bland walls and bland people overborne with reason, actuarial tables, and staid judgment of others.

Callista removed her chunky, and thus, fashionable reading glasses and set them down on her desk. She forced herself to breathe in deeply and exhale after a moment. And old trick that Dennis had taught her to deal with stress. She forced herself to take a sip of her chamomile tea from the hand painted tea service she had found in Portugal several years ago. The memory of her and Dennis standing in the street market in Belmonte on the day she had found the tea set burst into her mind. She had worn that ridiculous floppy hat in an effort to look like Audrey Hepburn in Two For the Road. She lingered in the Belmonte flea market for a long moment, focused on her breathing, and took another sip of chamomile. It was cold.

Perhaps it was some kind of follow up.

“It’s nothing,” she said aloud, the words echoing in the tastefully decorated office. It had once been a bedroom, or at least that’s what the realtor had told her when she bought the house seventeen years ago. On sunny days, it was irrepressibly bright with large windows. It had been the light that had drawn her in and spurred her to turn the room into her private sanctuary. A bright, sunny place, where she managed her considerable finances, considered her numerous investments, and, yes, even planned where people should sit at the Julep Jubilee. And now it was where she would have to face whatever Mr. Edward Ralston of the Providential Life & Casualty Company had planned for her.

Perhaps it was just some kind of follow up, she deluded herself. An old audit of accounts, perhaps. After all, they had closed that book of business so long ago. Almost twenty years. And they’d been so careful back then. Her and Dennis. Quite the team.

Once upon a time, Callista and Dennis had won the mixed doubles title at the Southlawn Country Club members’ tournament three years running. Dennis Lockland had a serve like a sledgehammer and Callista’s backhand was equally devastating. Some said that it wasn’t even fair because Dennis had won a conference title for Vanderbilt in his college days and no other mixed doubles team had a player with such a pedigree. Dennis, the club denizens recounted, had even had a chance to turn pro before he had that knee injury and had to settle for being a vice president at his father-in-law’s wealth management firm. For other club observers though, it was clear that the championships had come from the pairing of Dennis and Callista rather than the just overwhelming strength of Lockland’s serve. They anticipated each other’s moves in a shared telepathy, each moving the other to the perfect place on the court in order to strike a perfectly merciless blow on an opponent at the most opportune time. Her calm smoothed him out when he ran hot, his aggression stoked a competitive fire within her that was all but invisible at any other time. They had only quit playing together because people had started to talk, as people do when an attractive man and an attractive woman – both married to other people – are such obviously successful and public partners.

They anticipated each other’s moves in a shared telepathy, each moving the other to the perfect place on the court in order to strike a merciless blow on an opponent at the most opportune time.

Nicholas Turney, Callista’s late husband had never raised such a concern, however. It would have been unlike Nicholas to have even noticed that there was hushed talk about the mixed doubles partners around the carving station at Southlawn’s resplendent Sunday brunch buffet. Even if he had been there.  Nicholas lived in a world of numbers, charts, graphs, tables, and projections. Returns on investment. Earnings before interest, taxes, depreciation, and amortization. This was the court that Nicholas Turney played on and, in that tournament, his service was more brutal than Dennis Lockland’s could ever dream of being. That wasn’t to say that Nicholas was a bad person. Far from it. He attended St. George’s Episcopal every Sunday. Contributed more than the expected amount as his tithes and offerings. Volunteered with a prison ministry. Was co-chair of the annual prayer breakfast at the all-boys prep school of which he was a proud alumnus. Nicholas was not one to speak a cross word or raise his voice in anger. Or raise his voice about anything. Exhibited emotion was not in Nicholas’ DNA.

His disappearance had been quite a shock, particularly among the West Nashville enclave where people like Nicholas Turney just didn’t disappear. Callista recalled that in the days after Nicholas went missing several of her friends and neighbors had shaken their head in wonderment that Nicholas would do such a thing. She got the distinct impression that, if pressed, they would confess to their feelings that Nicholas just up and disappearing like that with no notice to anyone was, well, quite rude indeed. Callista, for her part, had defended Nicholas from these assessments. It wasn’t as if he had wanted to go missing, she had said when well-wishers stopped by to cluck their tongues and deliver a pan of comfort food, something must have happened to him.

The police detectives, Callista remembered, had been quite kind. It was, they assured her when they had come to interview her at the home she had shared with Nicholas, just a formality. Sounded like it had all been something unfortunate. He had wandered somewhere and had an accident. Radnor Lake State Park had almost fourteen hundred acres after all. People got lost overnight there all the time. It was odd though, didn’t she think, that Nicholas had wanted to go on a hike on an afternoon when the forecast called for rain?

“My husband prefers not be around people,” Callista had said, her eyes downcast. Staring at her wedding ring. “He likes to go places when he doesn’t think people will be there. Less chance of…” her eyes met those of the lead detective, “…human contact.”

The detectives had promised to keep her updated with requisite earnestness. The rain had kept most of the hikers away that Sunday and no one had seen Nicholas while he had been at the lake. If there were any developments in the search, any at all, she would be the first to know. She had nodded and looked at the floor, a studiedly pained expression on her face. Unsurprisingly, she had never heard from them again.

It had taken slightly less than eighteen months before a judge declared Nicholas dead and only after Callista had hired Big Bill Bonier from Bonier, Carroll, Etheridge and Miller PLC to make noise for six months in the probate court of the Honorable Wallace Wilcox. And that’s when Providential Life and Casualty had finally come along. The adjuster – what a horrible word for what he was, Callista frowned – for Providential Life had sniffed that, despite Judge Wilcox’s order, an “independent” investigation into circumstances of the disappearance of the insured would simply have to be done. After all, grown men don’t go for a hike in a nature preserve on a spring Sunday afternoon and vanish into thin air every day. Callista had nodded solemnly, another indignity left by her late husband that she would bear with the dignified resolution befitting her station in life. The investigation had taken another eight months and had ended with barely a whimper. The wretched little adjuster had sent her a form letter, stated he had no choice but to agree with Judge Wilcox’s conclusion, and offered his deepest condolences for her loss.

“My husband prefers not to be around people.”

A check for $16 million had arrived two weeks later.

Afterwards, Dennis and Callista had appeared together in public.Sporadically at first. Someone had seen them shopping together at the Target on White Bridge Road. Someone else had seen them in workout attire at a Starbucks one Saturday morning. Each time the two of them appeared oblivious to the outside observer and in their own little bubble, heads down. Talking quietly. The reports of Dennis and Callista being seen together were closely followed by the observation that Dennis and Sissy had recently split up and that Dennis had left his father-in-law’s employ with uncertain prospects. No one really knew what he was doing for work.

The following summer, Callista and Dennis won another mixed doubles championship at Southlawn’s annual member’s tournament, after a three year absence. There had been some initial consternation because, of course, Southlawn didn’t allow lady members, until someone had consulted the bylaws and discovered that widows could inherit the membership of their late husbands. An executive decision was made to let Callista play as a member (and Dennis as her guest since his membership had unfortunately lapsed during his divorce) but no commitments were made as to whether Callista would be allowed to vote at the club’s annual meeting in November. That sweltering July day, Callista and Dennis were as in sync on the tennis court as they had ever been, racing to volley against oncoming shots, working in tandem to deliver murderous winners at critical moments. It was as if they had never left.

When Callista and Dennis had announced their engagement the next spring, Jim and Bootsie Pritchett had thrown a party in their honor. With poor Nicholas having been gone for four years now, the partygoers remarked, it had been good to see Callista look happy again. Some forty-five guests had raised a glass in honor of the happy couple. They married in a short Anglican ceremony and honeymooned in the South of France. She kept Nicholas’ last name. “For legal purposes,” she said, without elaboration.

“Request for a meeting” was the subject line in the email from Mr. Edward Ralston of the Providential Life & Casualty Insurance Company that still sat, unopened, at the top of her email inbox.

“What did you do, Dennis, my sweet?” She murmured to herself as she moved the cursor to click the message open. She hesitated. It had to be something Dennis had done. Or hadn’t done. A loose end. A thoughtless mistake. A careless word in the wrong ear. She had loved Dennis Lockland from the moment she had first seen him, his athletic physique bristling under his tennis clothes, his green eyes glinting in the summer sun. He was the first man she had ever imagined with his clothes off before she had actually seen it; when she had finally seen him naked, the sight had exceeded her sky-high expectations. He was marvelous. But she had no illusions about his intelligence. Despite their preparations, despite their deliberations, despite everything, Callista Turney knew without a doubt that something Dennis had done was responsible for the email from Mr. Edward Ralston of the Providential Life & Casualty Insurance Company that now hung like a specter over the windows of her normally sunny office. She exhaled and clicked the email open.

Dear Mrs. Turney –

I hope this letter finds you well. Please pardon the interruption since I know it has been many years since you have been a customer of the Providential Life & Casualty Company. However, upon a review of our files, I noticed that you would be well qualified for several of our annuity offerings. I work with many clients at your age and station in life and they find that the added income and security is a great benefit for them. I will be in Nashville for several days next week. May I call on you to discuss some of these investment opportunities? It would be my pleasure to take you lunch. Please let me know if we can get together. I would really like to bring you back to the Providential Life fold.

Best wishes,

Edward J. Ralston

Vice President, Investments

Callista laughed out loud but noticed her hand was trembling as she brought it up to her mouth. A damn sales pitch. That’s all it had been. She exhaled again, this time in relief.

“I think I’ll pass, Mr. Ralston,” she said quietly and began to move the email to the trash can icon on the other side of her computer screen. Then she stopped. Callista slid back into her chair and let her shoulders relax. Outside the window, a blue jay was perched in one of the evergreens. She watched it for a moment as she considered things. Dennis hadn’t been responsible for unpleasant questions from an insurance adjuster. Or a policeman. Dennis hadn’t been careless or said something foolish. This time. Her right hand reached out and gently turned the tea cup around in its saucer. She had adored Belmonte; the Portuguese people were so lovely. It was time for a return trip. Soon, even.

Callista sat up straight and clicked the cursor over the “Reply” button.

Dear Mr. Ralston –

How pleasant it was to hear from you. As it happens, I had been considering re-establishing my relationship with Providential Life & Casualty since they are a company of such integrity and my dealings with them have always been so professional. I would be more than happy to discuss your annuity opportunities at your convenience next week. While I appreciate your kind offer of lunch, what kind of lady would I be if I failed to invite you to my home as my guest? Please let me know the date you are thinking. I play tennis on Tuesdays but my Wednesday and Thursday are free for lunch.

Also, if you don’t mind, may I trouble you for some advice while you’re here? I don’t pretend to understand how all of these things work but my husband has been most insistent on making sure that I am taken care of should something dreadful happen. He has given me several brochures on life insurance policies but I am at sea when I look at them. Could you possibly help me find the right policy for him so that if, God forbid, something happened to him, I would be safe and secure?

I very much look forward to your response and wish you safe travels to Nashville.

With affection,

Callista Turney Lockland

Satisfied, she clicked “Send”. She made sure the email went through before getting up from her desk. The Julep Jubilee seating would have wait. She stretched and headed upstairs to change into tennis clothes. According her Audemars Piguet watch, it was just before eleven and, if she hustled, she could make it to Southlawn to catch the weekly ladies’ tennis round robin.

Singles.