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Summary
Summary
"A royal treat....Welcome back, Vicky Bliss!...For readers new to Vicky's sassy and distinctively smart stories, The Laughter of Dead Kings will mark the start of a beautiful friendship."
--Tampa Tribune
New York Times bestselling Grand Master Elizabeth Peters--author of the thrilling fictional exploits of archaeologist Amelia Peabody in the Land of the Pharaohs--brings back beautiful, brainy art expert and sometime sleuth Vicky Bliss for one last adventure in The Laughter of Dead Kings. The incomparable Peters sends Vicky and her colorful entourage racing across modern-day Egypt to investigate the brazen theft of one the ancient desert land's most priceless treasures. Smart, funny, evocative, and suspenseful, The Laughter of Dead Kings is a fond and fitting farewell to the ever-delightful Vicky...and a superior mystery fit for a King Tutankhamen.
Author Notes
Barbara Mertz was born on September 29, 1927 in Astoria, Illinois. She received a bachelor's degree in 1947, a master's degree in 1950 and doctorate in Egyptology in 1952 from the University of Chicago. She wrote a few books using her real name including Temples, Tombs and Hieroglyphs (1964), Red Land, Black Land (1966), and Two Thousand Years in Rome (1968). She also wrote under the pen names Barbara Michaels and Elizabeth Peters.
She made her fiction debut, The Master of Blacktower, under the name Barbara Michaels in 1966. She wrote over two dozen novels using this pen name including Sons of the Wolf, Someone in the House, Vanish with the Rose, Dancing Floor, and Other Worlds.
Her debut novel under the pen name Elizabeth Peters was The Jackal's Head in 1968. She also wrote the Amelia Peabody series and Vicky Bliss Mystery series using this name. She died on August 8, 2013 at the age of 85.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (2)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Fans of bestseller Peters's Vicky Bliss series will welcome her solid sixth suspense novel to feature the plucky art historian, last seen in Night Train to Memphis (1994). In Munich, where Vicky is an assistant curator at the city's National Museum, she and her longtime love, John Tregarth (formerly Sir John Smythe, notorious art thief), are shocked when their friend Feisal, the Inspector of Antiquities for all Upper Egypt, arrives unexpectedly and informs them that King Tut's mummy has been stolen from its tomb in the Valley of the Kings and that John is the prime suspect. Vicky and company, including her inquisitive boss, set off on a whirlwind quest beginning in Europe and ending in the Egyptian desert to clear John's name and recover the famous corpse. In compensation for a slower pace than in earlier books, Peters offers vivid descriptions of Egyptian landmarks, which will resonate with readers of the MWA Grand Master's beloved Amelia Peabody historical series. (Sept.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved All rights reserved.
Library Journal Review
In Vicky Bliss's final adventure, the art historian is reunited with her reformed art-thief boyfriend, John Tregarth, on a mission to Egypt to help her old friend Feisal out of a jam. Imagine the ramifications of the most iconic symbol of your homeland going missing on your watch. Feisal finds himself in just this situation, and it necessitates intervention by Bliss, her boss at Munich's National Museum, and Tregarth. In addition to mystery and intrigue, the characters embroil themselves in a philosophical/legal discourse-turned-fracas on the repatriation of Egyptian artifacts held by foreign museums. Armchair travelers and amateur Egyptologists alike will enjoy Peters's expert narration, which, while never approaching the pedantic, brings ancient Egypt to life and makes modern Egypt accessible. And those still wondering whether the Vicky Bliss series is connected to the Amelia Peabody series will at last find the answer here. Although this series' entries can be enjoyed in any order, enthusiasts will find it rewarding to reread the books from the start, beginning with Borrower of the Night. Highly recommended for all popular fiction collections. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 5/15/08.--Ed.]--Laura A.B. Cifelli, Lee Cty. P.L., Fort Myers, FL (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
The Laughter of Dead Kings LP A Vicky Bliss Novel of Suspense Chapter One I cover my ears, I close my eyes, Still I hear your voice, and it's tellin' me lies . . . My singing doesn't inspire thousands of fans to emit screams of delight, but I was a trifle hurt when my dog jumped up with a howl and streaked for the stairs. Usually he likes my singing. He's the only one who does like my singing. Otherwise his hearing is pretty good. John was coming down the stairs. He halted Caesar's headlong rush with a peremptory order--something I've never succeeded in doing--and sauntered toward me. I hadn't seen him for two weeks. My toes went numb. He was wearing a blue shirt that matched his eyes and those of the Siamese cat draped over his shoulder. One of his hands supported Clara's front end, his long fingers as elegantly shaped as the small seal-brown paws they held. Clara had not cared much for John at first, but he had set out to win her feline heart (the alternative being bites and scratches) and he had succeeded, with the aid of frequent offerings of chicken. They looked sensational together. He looked sensational. So I said grumpily, "Right on cue. Why can't you come in the front door like normal people instead of climbing up to my bedroom window?" "It brings back such fond memories." Memories of the time when Interpol and a variety of competing crooks had been looking for him and the art treasures he had made off with. He was now a respectable antiquities dealer, if I could believe him. Which I probably shouldn't. Tellin' me lies had been one of his favorite activities. I picked up the grubby wad of white yarn and the crochet hook precariously attached to it, which I had dropped onto my lap, and pretended to study it. Playing it cool, so as not to be beguiled by the winsome smile and melting blue eyes. Damn him, he hadn't showed up for two damned weeks. London is less than two hours from Munich by air. I should know, I'd made the trip often enough. Thanks to an indulgent boss I could get away from my job at the museum more easily than John could get away from his antiques business. Or so he claimed. Tellin' me lies? "So how's business?" I inquired. No answer. A thud and a loud Siamese complaint made me look up. Clara was on her feet--at HIS feet, glaring at him, and John was . . . not glaring . . . staring at me with a look of glazed disbelief. No, not at me. At the misshapen object I held. "What is it?" he croaked. "You needn't be so rude," I said defensively. "It's a baby cap. I'm not very good at crochet, but I'll figure it out eventually." John staggered to the nearest chair and collapsed into it. He was white as a sheet, a lot whiter than the mangled little cap, which had suffered from Clara's occasional attempts to play with it. "What the hell is the matter with you?" I demanded. "Bob--you know, my brother Bob--his new wife is expecting her first and I thought it would be a nice gesture if I . . . if I . . ." He let out a long gasp of air, and then it hit me. Like a sock in the solar plexus. "Aaah," I said. "Aha. Sometimes I am so slow. Is that what you thought? That is what you thought! Not only that I was about to become a mummy but that I--wait a minute, it's coming, I'll get it eventually--that I had got myself pregnant in order to trap you into unholy wedlock. And the very idea made you sick! You low-down skunk! You son of a bitch! I'll bet your mother has been hinting for months, 'Watch out for that worthless trollop, she'll try to--' " "Vicky!" His voice is usually a mellifluous tenor, but he can outshout me when he has to, and believe me, he had to. He jumped up and came toward me. I threw the baby cap, complete with crochet hook, at him. He ducked. The ball of yarn rolled off the couch and Clara went in pursuit. John grabbed me by the shoulders. "Stop yelling and listen to me." "You did, didn't you? Believe it." "Believe what? That you'd be dim enough to pull an antiquated stunt like that one? Never in my wildest fantasies. But you must admit my initial impression was justified by the evidence available to me at the time." "Stop talking like a lawyer. It wasn't what you thought, it was your reaction. The very idea terrified you. You looked as if you were about to pass out." "Yes." I was gearing up for a loud, satisfying fight, but that quiet-voiced confession took the wind out of my sails. The best I could come up with was a feeble "So you admit it." "I may be all the things you called me and more, but I'm not so complacent as to be blind to the consequences of my own misdeeds. Bloody hell, Vicky, I'm terrified all the time! Admittedly I'm one of the world's most flagrant cowards, but I'm also afraid for you. There are a lot of people in the big bad world who hate my guts and who harbor grudges." The words came spilling out, his face was flushed and his fingers bit into my skin. "When we agreed to be together, I tried to talk you out of it. I put you in danger simply by associating with you. But as you pointed out with considerable eloquence, you were an adult and it was your choice. You convinced me against my better judgment, and the few remaining shreds of my conscience. How do you suppose I felt, for one ghastly moment, when I thought there might be another hostage to fortune, a helpless, totally vulnerable, completely innocent potential victim of my various sins? The people I'm referring to wouldn't feel the slightest compunction about using a child to get back at me--and you." The Laughter of Dead Kings LP A Vicky Bliss Novel of Suspense . Copyright © by Elizabeth Peters. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from The Laughter of Dead Kings by Elizabeth Peters All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.