Hand-Me-Down

So I brought Rip the Wilkenson project. I updated the Web site with new listings, and returned a few phone calls. Then I fired up my properties database and stared at the wall. Ten minutes later, I grabbed my Recent Developments file. I had a new entry: The Cypress Property, where I walked Ny. I called Villa Realty, and the receptionist put me through to the listing agent, a woman named Melissa Kent.

“Hi, I’m calling about the property for sale on Cypress Road.”

“Have you driven by?” Melissa Kent said warmly. “It’s a beautiful piece of land.”

“Oh, I walk my dog there all the time,” I blurted. “I love it. I was wondering who the owner is.”

Her voice grew twenty degrees colder. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Well…what?”

“I’m not at lib—”

“No. I mean why?”

“The owner would like to remain anonymous.”

“How’s he gonna sell it if he’s hiding behind— What is he, the Wizard of Oz? I’m interested in information. Lot size, asking price, zoning and easements. I promise not to bother him. Or her. Them. Whatever.”

“You walk your dog there?” she asked.

“That’s how I saw the sign.”

“I’m sorry, I wish I could help.”

“Well, you could—by telling me what I want to know.”

“The thing is, the issue is that the owner got some unpleasant phone calls from dog-walkers who felt he shouldn’t sell ‘their’ land.”

“Oh, this isn’t like that. I’m in the business. I’m calling for an agent. All I need is a little information.”

She said nothing, and her silence managed to convey deep suspicion.

“Honest,” I said, and started lying. “The broker actually has a client already.” More silence, so I got desperate. “A very eager client. Very wealthy. A sheik. From Kuwait.”

“I see. And what was your name again?”

I lost my nerve, blurted “Paloma,” and hung up. Dammit.

I tried to focus on work, but couldn’t. Finally gave up and barged into Rip’s office. “Would you call that sea hag at Villa Realty?”

Rip looked startled. “Um, Anne…”

One of the other agents sat across from him at the desk. Mike Malley. Mike was a straight-shooting, foul-mouthed man of about forty. Santa Barbara born and bred, his father had been a fisherman and Mike looked like that’s where he belonged: on some boat slippery with fish guts, drinking beer with other burly men. He mostly sold commercial space and had one great advantage as a salesman—nothing ever entered his brain that didn’t escape through his mouth, so you had to trust him.

“Sorry, Mike,” I said. “Didn’t see you there.”

“Not a problem,” Mike said, standing. “Sea hags wait for no man. I know, I married and divorced one.”

“No, no—stay. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“We’re done.” Mike motioned closing the door behind him. “You want privacy?”

“Please,” I said.

“You two keep it up,” he said. “And we’ll have to get a new cleaning company.”

He closed the door, and Rip and I looked at each other—then, by common consent, decided to let Mike’s last statement go unanswered.

“Which sea hag?” Rip said. “You really shouldn’t barge in when I’ve got—”

“Melissa Kent,” I said. “At Villa. She won’t tell me who owns the property on Cypress—where Ny and I walk.” I picked up his phone and started dialing.

“Wait,” he said. “Anne. No.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to get between you and— I don’t care if you— I think it’s great that you have your ideas for development. You could get your license and really make them happen. I know you could. But—”

“It’s ringing,” I said, and handed him the phone. “Ask for Melissa.”

He glared at me, but asked the receptionist for Melissa. They chattered happily for a minute—apparently they’d done some business together. Then they chattered happily for another minute. For a third. A fourth.

I poked Rip and whispered. “Ask her!”

He said, “Listen, Melissa, I’ve got a question for you.” But before he could ask, she apparently started spilling the goods. He said, “Uh-huh? Interesting. Great. When?”

I handed him a pen and mimed that he should be writing this down. So he wrote. I flopped down in the other chair and waited. What I needed was a vision for the property. Maybe a long, winding drive which followed the existing trail, with just a few houses, Montecito cottages really—at two million a pop—hidden among the trees and meadows. Or possibly just one hilltop mansion, a sprawling property with an Olympic pool and more lawn than Versailles.

“Uh-huh,” Rip said. “Right.” More from Melissa. “Okay. Great, thanks.” He made a final notation. “See you then. Bye.”

“So?” I said, as he hung up. “What? What did she say?”

“She asked me to lunch.” He showed me the paper. It said Tuesday, 1:30, Village Grill. “Wants some advice about a house in Summerland I sold a couple years ago.”

“What about the Cypress property?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Rip!”

“Polliwog, I’m not getting involved in your…whatever. Especially not after Melissa tells me this funny story about a crazy woman who just called, raving about sheiks.”

“You could have pretended you had clients,” I said. “All I wanted was the information.”

“That’s so unprofessional, I can’t even tell you. Did you check MLS?” The multiple listing service.

“It’s not in MLS yet.”