Mather’s is one of those shops few people seem to use, but still stays in business. The only colors decorating the lot of the gray cinderblock building were from various vehicles parked helter-skelter. Stacks of tires helped to hide the trash and pools of miscellaneous liquid that never seemed to evaporate on the dirty concrete. Cody hopped from the truck, completely in his element. His nose quivered like Peter Rabbit’s in Macgregor’s garden, and he almost ran through the open doors of the garage. My nose seized at the noxious mixture of diesel and rubber. I readjusted the painting on the truck seat, throwing a look of regret at the now ragged lump that was Wanda’s shopping bag. However, I was as curious as Cody to enter the shop. I didn’t care about the Malibu. I wanted to see the spot where Dustin had been offed. Judging by the crowded lot, other locals had a similar interest. It looked like Curtis Mather might capitalize from Dustin’s notoriety. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior of the shop after the blinding sunshine and I shaded my eyes in the entrance of a raised garage door.
