KnockOut by Catherine Coulter Page A

lost.”
    “ What? You’re telling me Theodore Backman was some sort of diviner?”
    She had to grin, but it fell off her face fast enough. Ethan was staring at her, an eyebrow arched.
    “As Shepherd explained it, where the reels stop is supposed to be random, but somehow Theodore could make the reels stop where he wished. She said he talked to the slots.”
    “Oh, come on, Joanna. You mean he had this force field that reacted to the reels themselves? Or he had this internal magnet that brought the reels to a stop? What?”
    “Look, I thought it was nuts too, even though Mrs. Backman told me he’d made them all rich.”
    “It sounds like one of the crazy stories they’d tell us in the DEA as a cover for illegal income,” Ethan said. “It never flew in court. How’d he die?”
    “Mrs. Backman told me he walked out of a casino in Reno and a mugger killed him. He hit the mugger with his cane, but the mug-get hit him on the head with a hammer and left him to die, which he did.”
    “A cane? How old was Theodore when the mugger got him?”
    “Mid-seventies.”
    “How old is Blessed? Grace?”
    “Blessed is in his fifties. Grace is a bit younger, late forties, maybe.”
    “So you’re telling me Blessed and Grace and their mother—what’s her name?”
    “Shepherd.”
    “Like the guy on FOX News?”
    “More like the guy who herds the sheep. She told me, all preening, thatt her husband gave her that name, the mother of his small flock. I wondered what her birth name was, but I was too freaked out to ask.”
    “Okay, so these folk say they’re rich because of a man who could line up three cherries. Now the million-dollar question. How did you hook up with these people? If they’re your husband’s family, why did you only just meet them?”
    When she remained silent, he said, “You might want to consider me the prince of bad, Joanna. I can handle just about anything.”
    That made her laugh, then draw a deep breath. “All right. Martin, my husband, was the third and youngest brother. Autumn and I met them for the first time at his funeral.”
    “But he couldn’t have been as old as Blessed or Grace, was he?”
    “No, he was thirty-six when he died, much younger than both his brothers. Shepherd was in her forties when she birthed him.”
    “Your husband died—a natural death?”
    Her mouth seamed tight, but the words were pushing to get out. Why didn’t she want to tell him? Was she still grieving too much?
    He pulled on a thread hanging down from the left sleeve of his sweatshirt. “An accident of some kind?”
    She shook her head, looking hard at him pulling that thread, and the words came out in a burst, but lifeless and without fury or pain. “He died in prison,” she said, her eyes still on that gray thread.
    He nearly fell off the sofa with surprise. He stared at her, unable not to. “Why was your husband in prison?”
    She shook her head. All right, so she wasn’t ready to face that yet with him. He shifted gears. “So you found his family’s phone number—where?”
    “The warden sent all Martin’s stuff to me. There was pitifully little, to be honest. There was this lone phone number in a small black notebook—no name, only an out-of-state phone number—and so I called it to see who it was he knew in Georgia. It was his family.
    “I spoke to his mother and told her Martin was dead. She wept, Ethan. Then she begged me to have him buried with his family, not in cold Boston where he hadn’t known anyone except me and his daughter. Did we feel he had any deep foots there? ‘No, not really,’ I told her. Then please,’ she begged me, ‘please bring him home.’
    “She begged me, Ethan, and she was crying again, so I said yes because she was right. I didn’t have family in Boston—no family anywhere, for that matter. And so after a memorial in Boston with all our friends, Autumn and I drove Martin’s urn from Boston to Georgia so his mother could bury it in the family