Nan Willard Cappo

“Don’t rule out murder.”
“Murder!” Milo was startled into laughter. “By who?”
“Whoever he owed money to. Isn’t it just as likely that whoever he owed killed him, as that he killed himself? Come on, Shoe. He had a lot to live for. ” Zaffer shook his head in world-weary wisdom at Milo’s naďveté. “Moscow rules, buddy.”
“What?”
Zaffer ticked them off on his fingers. “Assume nothing. Keep your options open. Don’t look back—you’re never completely alone. Only the best spies made it out of Moscow.”
“I don’t think my dad knew Moscow rules.”
Zaffer pointed a finger at him. “Exactly.”
Of all the scenarios Milo had imagined taking place the night his father died, murder wasn’t one. Tim Shoemaker didn’t have any enemies. His family was still eating their way through the freezer of casseroles and pies that had descended on them in a blizzard of sympathy. And Valeene wasn’t Detroit. Murders in Valeene were about as common as Ferraris.
And yet… murder would absolve his father of all kinds of sins. Sloppy driving, poor judgment, forgetfulness. Cowardice.
Murder would give Milo someone to blame.
His spirits rose.