Fiction Review: The Laughter of Dead Kings

I wanted to love Elizabeth Peters's "The Laughter of Dead Kings" because I know how much even a single quibble in an otherwise laudatory review can sting. I'm afraid, however, this is the kind of book I ordinarily toss aside after the first page.

Her publisher claims that Peters is a renowned Egyptologist and "America's premier author of archaeological whodunits." This new novel is the conclusion to her Vicky Bliss suspense series, which began in 1973 with "Borrower of the Night."

Vicky is a beautiful and brainy art historian. She has a handsome, aristocratic British boyfriend who used to be an international art thief known as Sir John Smythe. He's gone legit now, but someone has stolen King Tut's mummy, and everyone thinks Sir John dunit. Vicky must find the real thief and clear John's name by the end of the story, so he can ask her to marry him.
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Sometimes good prose can make up for a dumb plot and cardboard characters, but Peters is not a stylist. White is pearly, skies are azure and Rome is eternal. And then there's the Nancy Drewish narrator, who tells us that upon seeing her boyfriend, "My toes went numb." Vicky calls herself a sleuth and actually talks about "clues."

And talks and talks and talks. I felt as though I were trapped in a small room with Vicky, overhearing her half of a relentless cellphone conversation. To be fair, Vicky isn't the only one who talks. It just seems like it because the characters all sound alike: male, female, Egyptian, British, American, Italian, German.