Flakes.
I told her I wanted to talk with someone about the large property in Jamesport they'd recently handled. 'Acreage up on the Sound,' I added.
'I'm not sure which-?' she said, politely inspecting my shoes.
'It was just bought by some Chilean wine people.'
Pamela frowned politely. 'We didn't handle that.'
'I thought you did. I saw your sign out there.'
'No.'
I stared at her Frosted Flakes hair, which made her nervous. 'Who did then?'
'I don't know.'
'Was it listed with multiple brokers?'
She was dodgy, even for a real estate agent. 'I couldn't say.'
Already I knew enough about the region to see that large properties with ocean frontage didn't come along too often. 'I was told, by the buyer of the property, that one of your agents specifically told him'- and here I glanced at some scribbled notes in my hand-'that another bidder was in the picture and that the second party was prepared to bid again if the buyer didn't close.'
She was still looking at my shoes, blinking rapidly.
'I should also probably mention, Pamela, that I am a New York City attorney specializing in real estate matters.'
Now she looked up at me, a tight smile pinned on her face. 'You need to talk with Martha. But first, understand this. That property, the old Rainey farm, was never handled by us. It was never officially listed by us.' She lowered her voice. 'I don't know what Martha may have said, or done. Maybe she stuck one of the agency's signs next to the road- whatever. She's- she could have said- well, I'm sure I don't want to know.'
I made a show of writing all this down.
'May I have your name again, Mr.-?'
'Bill Wyeth.'
I followed Pamela through the partitioned offices, down a wainscoted hallway.
'Martha?' she called when we reached a closed door.
No answer. Pamela pushed the door open and the room we entered could not have been more different- a vintage realtor's office at least fifty years old, stuffed with files, yellow topographical maps, and curled tax survey volumes. An old, rather heavyset woman sat sleeping in an armchair, despite the early hour. Her housedress had fallen open a little too far and she was holding a spoon. On the table next to her lay a glass of tea and a thick biography of the Duke of Windsor. Propped next to the seat was a cane.
'Martha!' cried Pamela. 'Hello-o?'
'Yes?' The elderly woman blinked awake.
'This is Mr. Wyeth,' announced Pamela hatefully.
'How do you do?'
'He's come to discuss the old Rainey farm?'
'Has he?'
The women stared at each other. 'I'm going to leave you two alone,' Pamela said, 'so I can have a quick look for my sanity.'
She departed, her heels clicking smartly down the hall.
'Get that, would you?' Martha pointed to the door. When I closed it she waved at the chair opposite her for me to sit. 'Pammy's a dreadful woman. A shocking hussy. A tart, they used to say.'
'Oh?'
'Yes, we're lashed together, and neither of us likes it much! I taught her everything she knows but there's no respect, no loyalty anymore.'
'This was your agency?' I guessed.
'Still is.' She nodded defiantly. 'Which my father started in 1906.' She noticed her housedress and pulled it closed. 'I was the baby of the family. I'm eighty-three, Mr. Wyeth, so you can see how long I've been around.'
'Seen a lot of things.'
'Oh my,' she agreed. 'I remember when the potato trucks used to go down the main road by the dozens. We had one doctor, paid him with firewood in the winter and produce in the summer. Nobody knew about this place. Most beautiful spot in the world. Everything's different now. I can't begin to tell you. Everybody was on well water. You could eat oysters at every meal when they were in season. And lobster, too. We had a lovely church community.'
Humor her, I thought. 'What did farmland go for, Martha, when you were a girl?'
'I'd say three hundred dollars an acre.'
'And what is it now out here?'
'With the vineyards coming in, maybe fifty thousand.'
Jay had been screwed, I realized. I pointed up at a local map. 'And the future?'
'Easy,' she sighed. 'Million-dollar homes on the water. Million-dollar homes off the water. Vineyards owned by rich people. Wineries owned by even richer people. All the big farms will go to grapes. The fix is in on that, see, because of the water-use problems. Vineyards are low-impact agriculture. Low water use, low pesticide use. Government loves that. Lot of these grape growers are environmentalists, too.' She put her spoon in her teacup. 'Amazing it took the world so long to find us.'
I liked old Martha Hallock. 'Want to give me the whole pitch?'
'What else is there to say? Eighty-two beaches mixed with vineyards. Napa Valley doesn't have that. And quaint New England capes and farmhouses? And the longest growing season at this latitude? And two hours from New York City? For years it was the Hamptons. No more. They ruined it and this is still here. And we've got strict land-use zoning.'
'People in your business must feel pretty good.'
'If I were thirty years younger, I'd be selling fifty houses a year myself, easy. I'd be selling cabbages to kings. But I'm too old, Mr. Wyeth. People are scared of old people. Think death is catching, I guess. Maybe it is. I sold my last house three years ago and that was my neighbor's. Doesn't count. Got old. No one to blame but myself, I suppose. I own half this business but I don't bring anything in anymore. They'll get rid of me any day now. Waiting for me to die, mostly. Put me in the wheel-barrow in the shed.'
I didn't believe this. She still had a lot of moxie for an eighty-three-year-old. 'How long can you hold out?'
'Me? Maybe a minute or two.'
'Pamela want to buy you out?'
'She wants to live me out.'
'What'll you do?'
'Well, I still have an ace in the hole, as my father used to say.'
'Which is?'
'I know the territory.' She saw me nodding dutifully. 'No, no, I really do. I went out with my father and the surveyors. A lot of things don't turn up on regular surveys, you know. I know the creeks and flood lines. I remembered what happened in 1957, that big flood. I remember what the lot lines used to be.' She tapped her head. 'That's still worth something, Mr. Wyeth. Less and less every day, but still something.'
'And I bet you can talk to the old farm widows.'
'Yes, I can. They know me, they trust me. Not these little hussies in their convertibles. Half the girls out there are friendly with the developers and contractors. You know, friendly. Long lunches, who knows where! Come back to the office looking like they went through the bush backwards. Pamela hires her own type.' She shrugged to herself. 'Which is smart, actually. Easier to control.'
'Do you have any children, Martha?'
She lifted her face to me and I knew that I had stabbed her with the question. 'I made a lot of mistakes, Mr. Wyeth. Most of them involved men's shoes.'
'Excuse me?'
'Men's shoes. I saw a lot of empty ones on my rug the next morning, if you know what I mean.' Her eyes
