Read Online Seventeen Against the Dealer by Cynthia Voigt - Free Book Online

plastic sheet, trying not to think, and thinking she was glad she’d put that sheet down because it sure made cleaning up easier. If the paint, for example, had soaked into the cement floor, how would she have gotten it out? Claude would probably be able to make her replace the whole floor, and she could about guess how much that would cost. So it wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. It was bad, but it could have been worse. A lot worse.
    She studied the shop, figuring out what needed doing first. Standing at the far wall, she could see what she hadn’t noticed before, and the sick feeling in her stomach swelled up to push at her heart. It was as if what she saw didn’t even hesitate at her eyes but went straight down to her stomach, as if her stomach had the eyes that saw this.
    Her tools. They’d taken her tools. The rack above the worktable was empty, just a couple of long pieces of wood nailed into the wallboard. Adze, broadax, saws—they were all gone.
    The shelf under the table was shadowed, so she couldn’t see from where she stood if they’d noticed it or not. She didn’t want to go down the length of the shop and find out, but she made herself.
    And the shelf was empty, too. Hammers, screwdrivers, planes,straightedges—gone, all of them. The boxes of nails and screws had been left, but everything else—
    All the tools she’d found, and stripped down to refinish, and taken apart and put back together, polished and honed, and the ones Jeff had given her, too—
    Dicey leaned her hands against the worktable. Her head kept wanting to bend down and rest on the wood. Her body wanted to fold up. She didn’t even have the energy to get angry.
    Who would do this to her? And why would they? And what was she going to do?
    Clean up, that was what. First things first. First she’d clean up and that would clear up her mind.
    No, first she better call Gram. It was late and Gram would be wondering. She kept her back to the room while she made the call. If she wasn’t looking at what wasn’t there, it wouldn’t creep into her mind. The phone rang only twice before Gram answered. “I’m back, at the shop,” Dicey said.
    â€œAnd you’ve eaten.”
    â€œNot yet. But I’ll be a while yet here, so I wanted you to know that I’m back.”
    â€œJeff wants you to call him,” Gram’s voice said into her ear.
    â€œYeah, okay, thanks. I’ll see you in the morning, Gram.”
    When she’d hung up, Dicey got to work. First, she gathered up the brushes and jars, took them into the little bathroom, and lined them along the back of the toilet. She’d need to get turpentine in the morning, because if the brushes hardened up they’d all have to be replaced, too. Whoever it was hadn’t gone into the bathroom, she guessed; a dozen clamps were still piled under the sink. They hadn’t found the clamps. So at least they hadn’t taken everything. They must have opened the bathroom door and decided it was so small and grungy, there couldn’t be anything worth taking out of it.
    Dicey rolled the plastic sheet up, from the outside edges, rolling up the empty cans inside it. She hefted it over her shoulder and took it out to the Dumpster. The quiet of her empty building, with all the other empty buildings around and the empty water beside, and the empty sky overhead, came creeping at her. She went back into the shop and closed the door, even though with the smashed window it couldn’t keep anything out. It wasn’t even keeping the cold air out.
    She dialed Jeff’s number and listened to the short buzzing rings. He’d be playing his guitar, probably, with a fire burning in the woodstove; or maybe reading, studying. The phone rang once, twice, and she almost hung up: She had to call Claude. After all, the shop belonged to Claude. But if she hung up and Jeff was halfway to the phone; and she