Moles

Arthur contemplated the words he had just read. A simple but incomprehensible message written in a worn, tiny black notebook he found on the desk in his study. He ran thin fingers through silver hair and adjusted his bifocals.

The money is in the sixth hole. Keep it quiet, Art.

He flipped through the pages. There were messages on previous pages, blank pages after. Directions, warnings.

Keep it quiet, Art.

Stunned, he leaned back in his chair and surveyed the desk. Everything was in place, nothing was out of order. The picture of Molly smiling on the beach in the Cayman Islands was next to the monitor. They spent a week there after his business meeting at a local bank. Still frail, her smile betrayed hollowing cheeks. The chemotherapy had laid waste to her body, a rose that dried against the unrelenting winds of cancer. The insurance company refused to pay for an experimental treatment that could have saved her. She was dying and she knew it, even as she smiled when he took the picture.

The insurance bastards didn’t care. The insult cut deeply because he worked for the same company that denied Molly coverage. The treatment was pricey, thousands of dollars -- money Arthur did not have and his own company refused to provide. Appeals went nowhere, valuable time was lost. Ravaged by the chemotherapy, the cancer returned viciously. In the blink of an eye, before he could do anything, she was gone. Cynical and defeated, Arthur retired and retreated from life, furious over his company’s betrayal.

He carefully opened the desk drawers. Nothing was disturbed. He looked around the study, nothing suspicious. Accounting books neatly lined the bookcase. The file cabinet appeared locked but he should check that. Nothing was out of order.

And yet, here he was holding a small black moleskin notebook that contained a series of cryptic messages.

The money is in the sixth hole. Keep it quiet, Art.

A wave of anxiety swept over him. Somebody had been in his study!

Art stood shakily. His legs were tired these days. Getting old, he thought. Terrible thing, getting old . . . getting old alone.

Notebook in hand, he checked the file cabinet. It was locked. He ambled down the hallway toward the living room, shifting his attention from the book, to his living quarters, and back again. Nothing was out of order here. What did this message mean? Nothing was out of order here. Why was the notebook on his desk? Nothing was out of order here.

He opened a closet door. A sign was taped against the back wall: Here it is, it read with an arrow pointing to the floor. But there was nothing below the sign. Strange.

Arthur made it to the screened patio and sat heavily in a wicker chair. He sipped a neglected cup of coffee and nibbled the remaining half of a bagel. He sighed as he looked at the backyard. Those damn moles were back, burrowing beneath the manicured sod. Mound after mound, a minefield of ruptures and holes.

Holes?

He read the message again. The sixth hole. He returned his gaze to the yard.

Five minutes later he stood over a mound, shovel in hand, and started digging. He had no idea what was meant by the “sixth hole.” But he dug, wearily. Eventually, the shovel jammed under the sod. He shoveled away grass, roots, and mud to reveal a leather bag under a wet blanket of soil. He slowly bent over and pulled its strap. The bag was heavy, filled with something. With more effort than he cared to expend, Arthur heaved the bag to the patio, pushed aside his morning breakfast, and dropped his discovery on the table. Then he sat down, caught his breath, and stared at it.

What you gonna do, Art? he thought. His father often asked him that when Arthur was a kid, ages ago. He pulled the bag into his lap. Mud clogged the zipper but it opened with surprising ease after a light tug. He peered inside.

Cash. Stack upon stack, each bound by rubber bands. Small bills, all twenties in stacks of fifty. He did a quick calculation. A thousand dollars per stack, twenty stacks, ten grand – no, twenty grand.

Bewildered, he shook his head. Someone buried money in his backyard and left a notebook telling him how to find it. It made no sense.

Keep it quiet, Art.

Confused, and his mouth dry, Arthur walked to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. He pondered the mystery over the sink. Drug money? Maybe, but why? What if someone saw him with the cash? How would he explain that? What if the person came back for the money? If only Molly were here, she would tell him what to do. She always helped him make sense out of confusing things.

What you gonna do, Art?

He picked up his cell phone. There was a short ring on the other end and then a soft voice.

“Hi dad,” his daughter Corinne answered, “Wow, you called me.”

“I know, I uh,” he stumbled, “I should be better about that. You know, mom was…”

“Yeah, I know,” she laughed, “Mom was the one who kept in touch. I know.”

A long pause. Memories of Molly flooded by him, unexpected.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, uh, yeah, I’m here.”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine, honey. I had a question for you but, um, it’s okay.”

“Dad?”

Arthur took a deep breath. “It’s okay… I’ll let you go. It was nothing. Just moles in the backyard.”

Corinne was quiet.

Finally, Arthur said, “I was wondering if Kevin knew, um, if he had experience getting rid of them.”

“He’s at the office right now. How about we stop by later and he’ll take a look?”

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, instantly regretting the call. Kevin was an auditor at his former company and Arthur had introduced him to Corinne after her divorce. It dawned on Arthur that $20,000 in a mud-caked leather bag might pique his interest.

“No, no, no,” Arthur said quickly. “Not necessary. I don’t want to trouble him.”

“Dad, I can –”

“Corinne, it’s fine,” he said hurriedly, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“I’m worried about you…,” Corinne said quickly. “You haven’t been yourself.”

“Nothing to be worried about, honey,” Arthur said firmly.

He hung up and slapped his forehead several times. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

For the rest of the morning and afternoon, he paced the living room. What to do? What to do? When he tired, he sat at the patio table and fanned through twenties before dropping them back in the bag. Finally, he dug a hole behind the plum tree near the side fence. He carefully lowered the bag into the hole, backfilled it with dirt, then lightly tamped the mound. Well hidden, he thought. Another mole hill, same as the others. Just don’t forget you buried it here, he thought and chuckled.

Relieved, he headed inside then froze when there was a rap on the front door.

“Dad, it’s me!” Corinne called out. “And I brought Kevin to tame your moles.”

“One second,” Arthur managed. He took a moment and regained his composure before opening the door. It had been a few weeks since they last saw one another. After exchanging quick hugs, Kevin set about concocting his famous vodka tonics while Corinne cleaned off the patio table and unpacked Chinese take-out.

Kevin laughed when he saw the backyard. “You’ve got some big ass moles, Art. Those holes look more like graves.”

Arthur nodded.

“Actually, I was thinking about you today. There’s been some shenanigans at work,” Kevin said before biting into an egg roll.

“Is that so. What kind?”

Kevin shrugged. “An embezzlement, some money missing. Not a lot.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Arthur said.

“Good news is we know who did it,” Kevin said. “That prick Perkins, the one who refused Molly’s appeal for coverage. Remember him?”

Arthur nodded. “I think so.”

“Only one with access to those funds. Clever S.O.B. Covered his tracks like nothing I’ve seen.”

“Asshole,” Corinne muttered.

“Want to know what did him in?” Kevin asked.

“Sure,” Arthur said.

“He tried to blame you. Said he noticed the funds were missing after you retired. Said you had transferred them to an offshore account and then bought cryptocurrency. Said you framed him because of what happened with Molly.”

“Really?” Arthur exclaimed.

Kevin laughed. “You? Cryptocurrency? That’s way outside your wheelhouse. I bet you don’t even know what cryptocurrency is.”

Arthur shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t.”

Kevin looked knowingly at Corinne. “See, I told you.”

She nodded.

“But I have to ask,” Kevin continued, “You know I do. You didn’t have anything to do with the $20,000 did you, Art?”

Arthur raised his eyebrows, surprised. “Kevin, I think I’d remember something like that.”

Kevin smiled, patted him on the shoulder, and leaned back in the patio chair. His son-in-law surveyed the mounds that peppered the backyard. “Yeah…you would remember something like that. Strange amount to steal, though, especially for what he makes. Usually, it’s a lot more than twenty thousand.”

An hour later, they said their goodbyes. Corinne repeated her concern for him and stroked his cheek like Molly had. After they left, he returned to the study and the notebook. He felt tired, the events of the day weighed on him.

Arthur, he wrote on the next blank page in the tiny black book, the money is in the hole beneath the plum tree. Keep it quiet. Get the shovel. Maybe the note to himself would help him remember things better tomorrow. He was so forgetful now, worse than before. Usually Molly reminded him what was on tap for the day. But she was gone. Arthur chuckled at the thought that the mystery person who left the notebook for him unwittingly helped him plan tomorrow morning.

Arthur showered and stood naked over the bathroom sink taking his pills. He always got them confused. A statin for his heart, another drug for his memory. Donepezil, funny name. Then he slipped into his pajamas, crawled under the blankets, and placed a picture of his wife on the pillow next to him. He turned the frame so he could see her face.

I saw our daughter today, he said without moving his lips. I miss you.

As he drifted to sleep, he tried to imagine her smile and red-gray hair before her memory dissolved into darkness.

What was her name again?

* * *

Arthur woke as he had the day before. He fixed his morning coffee and bagel then returned to the study, ready to start his morning. But, as he sat down, he noticed a tiny black notebook on his desk.

Arthur, the money is in the hole beneath the plum tree. Keep it quiet. Get the shovel.

Stunned, Arthur leaned back in his chair and surveyed his desk. Someone had placed the notebook there. He carefully opened the desk drawers then looked around the study. Nothing suspicious. Accounting books neatly lined the bookcase. The file cabinet appeared locked but he should check that. Nothing was out of order.

The plum tree? Art stood up shakily. I’m getting old, he thought to himself. Old and alone. Terrible thing. He picked up the notebook. It had been left there deliberately, no question. A wave of anxiety swept over him. Someone had been in his study!

I better get the shovel, Arthur finally concluded after checking on the file cabinet. It was locked. He paused and surveyed the magnificent book collection that spanned the wall of his study. His eyes settled on two with colorful spines. The first was a book on cryptocurrencies, the second was a guide on how to open an offshore bank account in the Cayman Islands.

He smiled. Molly loved the Cayman Islands.

I better get the shovel, he thought. Notebook in hand, he ambled down the hall.