"A forty year-old murder shakes a small southern town to its very foundation"
Reviewed by Monique Daoust
Posted August 23, 2016
Romance Suspense | Suspense
When she was nine years old and anxious to be one of the
boys, Billie Warren tormented Crazy Sadie Byrd. Forty
years later, now Stanton City Police Chief, Billie still
regrets that day, but never did she think that she would
see Sadie again. Sadie had left town with her husband not
long after the incident, but what Billie never knew is
that Sadie had witnessed a terrible crime not long
before, a murder of which Sadie was accused later of. In
spite of a warrant for her arrest, Sadie comes back to
Stanton and asks to speak with Police Chief Warren.
Billie is beside herself with pent-up guilt, but Sadie
needs to confess. She did nothing wrong, but she is
convinced she knows who killed little Caroline Norris:
retired Judge Harold Norris, who is second to God in the
eyes of the locals, and whose son the Governor is up for
re-election. Who would believe Crazy Sadie? It turns out,
maybe Billie will...
ECHOES OF MERCY is a novel in the grand tradition of
Southern storytelling: complex characters dealing with
complicated family relationships. Billie Warren is an
unconventional heroine in that she is 49 years old, and
lives with her daughter and grandson, while her beloved
mother is in the last stages of Alzheimer's; Billie is
understandably overwhelmed, and the sudden reappearance
of Sadie seems like the last thing she wants, but Sadie
is so genuine and helpful, that Billie agrees to listen
to her, which has unforeseen consequences for Billie, and
her whole family.
ECHOES OF MERCY is not a traditional mystery, but an
examination of political corruption, cover-ups of
unspeakable crimes, atonement and revenge. The pace is
relaxed and in tune with the hot weather of South
Carolina, and the author's lush descriptions of the
scenery, along with the nearly audible twang of the
dialogues contribute to a feeling of authenticity
throughout. Ms. Boykin possesses incredibly flawless
timing and all of a sudden, when it seems that everything
in Billie's life is all coming together, that loose ends
are being neatly tied up with a pretty bow, cow dung hits
the fan and the speed picks up very quickly, enough to
make your head spin, as a totally unexpected plot twist,
albeit entirely consistent with the story's events, and
completely shifts the perspective of everything that had
seemingly happened. Sit back and let Kim Boykin take you
for a spin in this unusual and satisfying tale told in
every imaginable shade of grey, where black and white are
nowhere to be found.
SUMMARY
How can you make up for something that you did as a kid
that
was both so stupid and so terrible, forty years later it
still follows you like a pack of lost dogs? For Billie
Warren, it means piling up more and more
responsibilities,
doing good for the community as the police chief of her
Lowcountry hometown. Trying to be the best mother of a
teen
mom, and daughter to her mom with Alzheimer’s, that she
can be. But Billie’s fragile life is thrown into turmoil when the
target of her biggest regret, Crazy Sadie, shows up
claiming
to have witnessed the only murder in the town's history.
Sadie Byrd accuses the nearly dead and sainted Judge
Norris
of savagely beating his own little girl to death forty
years
ago. Could Miss Sadie be right? As Billie uncovers the
terrible truth of stolen babies and bone-chilling
corruption, she will have to risk everything when
powerful
people are prepared to do anything to keep buried.
ExcerptForty years of atonement ought to count for something.
After all, Billie Warren was just nine years old when she
did what she did. She’d hoped the memory of that one
horrible act would be diluted by time, by the birth of
her daughter, and the death of her father. But the
recollection was always there, following her around like
a pack of lost dogs.Lately, the dogs hadn’t stirred, and, if they did, Billie
didn’t have time to notice them. At forty-nine, she
considered herself too young to have a grandson and too
old to deal with his teenage mother, both of whom lived
with her. She was the police chief of Stanton, which
really meant she was the glorified mom of a tiny
Lowcountry town near Charleston that was barely a speck
on a map. Throw in her mother’s Alzheimer’s, and Billie
was in the middle of a shit storm that had no end in
sight. The admission yanked hard at the left side of her chest,
and the landscape was nearly black by the time she jerked
the squad car onto the shoulder that overlooked the
marsh. She threw the car in park , her finger stabbing
wildly at the button until the window was all the way
down. She gulped at the thick salty air and pressed her
palm into the tight spot on her chest, her thumb digging
into the muscle like she could push clean through to her
heart. God, she used to love riding patrol because it gave her
time to think. Now she hated it for the same reason. But
riding patrol also gave her moments like this, with the
full moon suspended just above the creek like a giant
dollop of butter. The silvery glow illuminated the marsh
grass and bathed the pluff mud in a dreamy light that
made the oyster shells laced across the surface glow like
rhinestones. Billie drew in a long steady breath and let the sweet
musty smell of the marsh take her mind away the way a
dog-eared black-and-white photo from a dresser drawer
could, the way an old beach tune always did. It took a
while, but the tightness in her chest began to ease. Her
breathing was near normal until the police radio sent all
that flying with a garbled message. Billie fiddled with
the knobs until she caught the tail end of the
dispatcher’s message. “Come again?” “911 call, Chief,” Delores snapped. “Melvin Gifford’s
wife has winged him good. County dispatcher sent the
sheriff for back up. Ambulance is on its way.” “Shit,” Billie hissed. “Copy that,” Delores said. Billie flipped the light on as she pulled onto the
highway and headed back toward town. Delores had said
winged, hadn’t she? Billie couldn’t remember, so she
turned on the siren and picked up speed. She hung a
left on Cherry Vale Lane and proceeded down the street
lined with neat white-washed clapboard houses until she
reached the tiny red brick home that was the crime scene.
The ambulance and the county’s boys were already there.
Jimmy Malden, old Chief Malden’s nephew, was holding
court on the front porch with two other cops who were
barely wet behind the ears. The screen door flew open and two hefty medics navigated
the gurney onto the porch. Melvin Gifford was lying on
his belly as they wheeled him toward the ambulance, his
backside full of lead. He wasn’t dead, but as often as he
had knocked his wife around, he ought to be. The front
door was open and Billie could see Penny Gifford sitting
on the edge of a tattered blue Lazy Boy with a lace doily
where Melvin’s greasy head had lain for most of his sorry
life. The hairs on the back of Billie’s neck prickled as she
got out of the car and walked toward the front porch. She
ignored the smirk on Jimmy’s face over the fact that he’d
beaten her to the scene of the crime. She recognized only
one of the other cops. Donnie Shepherd was boy band cute
and had always had a thing for Billie. Jimmy had shared that little tidbit over more beers than
Billie cared to count and then laughed his ass off over
the very idea of Billie with a twenty-three-year-old. But
Jimmy wasn’t laughing several beers later when he
confessed that after his uncle disappeared, he’d wanted
to be the police chief of Stanton more than anything.
Jimmy Malden was a natural born smug bastard, so it had
thrilled Billie’s soul that he’d actually cried when he
confessed that a Malden belonged in her job. “Hey, Billie.” Donnie was the only one of the three
officers with his hat in his hands. “We all tried to talk
to Mrs. Gifford. Sergeant Malden even acted like he was
going to put the cuffs on her, but she says she’s not
talking to anybody but you.” “He’s exaggerating,” Jimmy said. “I’m just letting her
simmer down.” Billie didn’t speak. Just before it closed, a bleary-eyed
Penny was up and out of the Lazy Boy. “I know,” Billie
said, and she did know. Billie wrapped her arms around
the sobbing woman. She’d been called to the Gifford home
too many times to count over the past twenty years,
mostly by the neighbors who feared for Penny’s life.
Penny was always glad when Billie responded to the call,
but she was too afraid to press charges. Too afraid that
some good old boy judge would turn Melvin loose, and he
would kill her for putting him away. Billie couldn’t blame Penny for not sending Melvin to
jail. Judicial wisdom in domestic cases like Penny’s was
legendary, and not just in little podunk towns in South
Carolina. But if anything had kept Penny Gifford in her
place all those years, it was the raw power that a man
like Melvin Gifford wields that makes women like Penny
believe there is no place they can go where they won’t be
found. No wonder she shot him. “Oh, Billie.” Penny
sputtered and held tight while Billie stroked her hair
and the cop in her looked around the room. Blood was
splattered on the wall behind the easy chair. Just off
the living room of the tiny house, the kitchen was
spotless. There were two plates and two jelly jar glasses
in the dish drain, a pair of wire spectacles on top of a
well-worn Bible on the dinette. Best guess, Penny cleaned up the supper dishes, did her
daily devotional before she got the same shotgun Melvin
had shoved up under her chin a thousand times, and shot
him as he was treading toward his sacred chair. “Oh,
Billie—I just couldn’t—” “Shhh. You’re alright now.” “No.” Penny pulled away and looked at Billie like she was
back to believing she was worthless, a know-nothing who
couldn’t do anything right. “I was aiming at his head,”
she sobbed as Billie pulled her close again. Jimmy took a
long draw off his cigarette and threw it down on the
concrete stoop. “Billie.” The smugness was gone, but he
didn’t sound like he was going to throw his arms around
them for a group hug. Billie looked Jimmy Malden straight in the eyes to let
him know he had better take good care of Penny Gifford if
he knew what was good for him. Maybe he half-nodded his
head as he snuffed out his cigarette with the heel of his
boot; Billie wasn’t sure. But it tore at her gut when
Penny took a deep breath and pulled away like she was
ready to go anywhere, even to hell if it was better than
the one she’d been living in for the past thirty-four
years. “They told you they have to take you to the sheriff’s
office for process- ing?” Billie asked. Penny nodded at
the floor. “I’m so sorry.” “Chief Warren doesn’t have a jailhouse in Stanton, Miss
Gifford, or she’d take you herself,” Donnie said. “I know.” Penny wiped her eyes. “I don’t mean to be no
trouble.” Donnie gave Billie a sheepish look as he led Penny
Gifford to the squad car. They didn’t cuff her, even
though procedure said they should. Jimmy’s sidekicks were
young, but Billie knew between the four officers, they’d
seen enough women like Penny to know they were carting
the wrong person off to jail. If things went the way they
normally did during domestic calls, Melvin wouldn’t file
charges; men like Melvin Gifford prefer to administer
their own brand of justice. “We didn’t cuff her,” Jimmy said, like that was some big
consolation. “There aren’t any kids to take to social
services.” “No, they’re all grown and gone,” Billie said. “And you
can bet wher- ever they are, they’re carrying on the
proud family tradition of beating the shit out of their
loved ones.” Jimmy was quiet for once as Billie leaned in the driver’s
side window of the squad car. Penny’s hands were folded
in her lap. She was whispering the Twenty-third Psalm.
Billie knew she didn’t have to remind Donnie how to
treat Penny and appreciated the way he’d handled the
situation. She started to tell him so until she noticed
him staring down her shirt. Billie rose up enough to stop the peep show. “Penny,
whether you’re at home or—you’re going to be okay. I’ll
call you tomorrow.” Jimmy rapped on the top of the squad car, and Donnie
obediently pulled out of the yard. “We got this one
covered, Billie.” Even with all the drama, he was smiling
over one of his young pups trying to sneak a peek. “He
must like little tits.” “Jesus, Jimmy, don’t you read? They’re ample breasts.” “It’s no fun to give you shit, Billie Warren. Nothing
gets to you.” Jimmy was half-flirting, but he was dead
wrong. Things did get to Billie in a big way, especially
lately. Seeing Penny Gifford carted away in a squad car
was an undeniably hard pill to swallow. If she added up
all the other shit in her life, the odds that she could
muster enough objectivity and detachment to do her job
were impossible. She got back into her piece of crap Ford and radioed
Delores. “Penny okay?” “Yes,” Billie said, “but it’s a damn shame her daddy
never taught her how to shoot a gun.” “They arrest her?” “She shot the man, Delores. Not much anybody can do to
pretty that up.” “Penny ought to know better than to just
wing the bastard. Tell her next time, make that bullet
count.” Billie’s lips tipped up. “Thinking I’ll let you pass that
tip along to her.” “Glad to,” Delores snorted. “Half an
hour ’til the day is done. You be careful out there.”
“Will do.” The squad car meandered through the city streets and then
seemed to have a mind of its own as it headed out past
the city limits. This was Jimmy Malden’s territory, but
Billie always came out this way after her shift was over.
The Ford followed the highway toward Rainbow Row. Not the
pristine Row fifty miles away in Charleston. The one just
nine miles outside the Stanton City limits where funky
old houses painted electric shades of eggplant and
fuchsia, chameleon green and sunshine yellow dotted the
Edisto riverbank. The lights of the Row came into sight. She turned off the
county highway and onto a dirt road that wound its way
toward the homes of folks who had found a way to make a
living out of their art. Tiny houses and workshops filled
with creativity spilling over into front yards and into
the back eased the knot in Billie’s stomach that had
tightened hard when Donnie put Penny in the squad car.
Although she still felt like somebody, maybe a small
toddler, was standing on her chest. The headlights flashed across the Devil Oak, the
centerpiece of the Row and a counterpart to the famous
Angel Oak on Johns Island, near Charleston. While neither
of them had anything to do with the angel or the devil,
both were southern live oaks as old as time, with
branches sixty yards long. The Devil Oak was the most
prized work of art on the riverbank and was said to be
sculpted by God himself. But Billie was more interested
in the other sculptor on the Row. The thought of letting the car follow the slight hill
into Cole Sullivan’s front yard was tempting, not to see
if he had anything new displayed or because he was a
great artist. Her favorite pieces weren’t the pricey
burled wood or metal ones in the shop or on his front
lawn. She loved the ones in the garden, just off his
bedroom, people made out of old fence posts that looked
real in the early morning shadows. For six months, Billie had had the good sense to turn
around be- fore she got within sight of Cole’s house.
Shoot, with all that had been going on with Mama and
Amber, the last thing Billie Warren needed was man
troubles. But something inside begged her to take her
foot off the brake. The road was slightly downhill. If
she let it, the car would roll right into Cole’s front
yard. He would meet her on the porch with a smile that
said he was glad she was back. It would feel good to put
her arms around him, to wake up with him and look out at
those fence post people. To be fair, Cole was no trouble. He was one of the best
things that had ever happened to her, and yet she denied
herself. Why was that? Why couldn’t she just save the
world five days a week from three to eleven and then fall
into his arms? Why does any woman do that—reject the very
things she knows are best for her, whether it’s a man, a
little extra sleep, copious amounts of chocolate? If she
could answer that question Oprah would offer Billie her
own show. If she could answer that question, she could be
Oprah. The key was a good excuse, and the one that worked best
for Billie was that she didn’t have time for Cole.
Granted, it wasn’t real sexy, but it sounded good and
kept people like Delores and Amber off her back. The lack
of time made so much sense to Delores, she’d taken it
upon herself lately to check in on Mama for Billie
because it was on her way home from work. Billie was
grateful for Delores’s little gift, but not so she could
slip between the sheets with Cole. It stung that Mama
never called her by her name anymore and never recognized
her face. Before she could fall down that rabbit hole again, the
clock on the dashboard blinked 11:00. She pulled the
squad car back onto the highway and was headed toward
home when her radio chirped. “You ain’t gonna believe this. You close by?” “I’m done, Delores.” Beyond done. “Unless there’s been
another shooting, whatever it is will keep until
tomorrow.” “Honest to God, Billie, you better get to the station,”
Delores hissed. “Now.”
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