Free The Laughter of Dead Kings by Elizabeth Peters

work.”
    “Hi, Alan,” I said.
    “Vicky!” He sprang to his feet. “Do forgive me. John so dominates his surroundings, one fails to notice more attractive objects.”
    Superficially he resembled John—fair hair, slim build, and that indefinable air of superiority produced by a public school education. At close range one couldn’t have mistaken one for the other. To put it as nicely as possible, Alan was a watered-down version of John, paler, slighter, less well defined, as if he was trying to imitate his boss and not doing it very successfully.
    “What are you making?” I asked.
    It was obviously a hat—large, broad-brimmed, with a white plume drooping dispiritedly over one side. Alan was polite enough to avoid making a sarcastic remark about my dumb question. He picked up the hat and pushed the plume up. It fell over again. “It’s for the reenactment,” he explained. “I’m a Cavalier.”
    “Of course,” I said. “It’s the Roundheads and the Cavaliers this time? Cromwell and the head of King Charles?”
    “Don’t show off,” John snapped. “Or encourage him. Of all the childish occupations in the world, reenacting old battles is the silliest.”
    “I’d offer to help,” I said, as Alan pushed the plume up again and watched it slowly subside. “But I can’t sew either. May I suggest superglue?”
    Alan pursed his lips. “It isn’t authentic, but it’s a very bright idea. Thanks.”
    “I hate to interrupt,” John said, raising both eyebrows, “but might I venture to inquire whether anything of interest has transpired in my absence? Anything in the way of vulgar business, that is?”
    “A couple of messages about the Egyptian piece. They’re on your computer.”
    “I don’t know how to thank you.” John stalked into the office. Alan made a face at his back. “What’s new in dear old München?”
    “Not much.” I followed John into the office. He was already at the computer and into his e-mail.
    “Anything from…him?” I asked.
    “Mmmm,” said John, staring at the screen.
    I leaned over his shoulder. Feisal had written a nice chatty letter, full of irrelevant gossip about what was going on in Luxor. It ended with fondest regards and the hope that we’d be able to pay him a visit in the not too distant future.
    “So we can assume that everything is okay so far?” I asked.
    “Mmmm,” said John.
    “Do you want me to go away?”
    “Mmmm.”
    He shifted position so that I couldn’t read the screen. I took the hint. The bells over the door jangled as I entered the showroom. Alan looked up. “Would you mind demonstrating an inordinate interest in the amber necklace?” he hissed.
    A woman of what is known as “a certain age” had sidled in. What I could see of her hair, under her enormous hat, was an odd shade of grayish blue. The hat was eye-catching: bright scarlet, with a floppy brim that drooped down over her brow, leaving only nose and mouth exposed. Seeing me, she stopped just inside the door.
    “Oh,” she said.
    Alan advanced, smiling winsomely. “Come to have another look at the necklace?” he asked. “I put it aside for you, but I’m afraid you’ll have to come to a decision shortly. This lady is also interested.”
    “Oh,” said the hat. “No. I, um…Thank you.”
    The door closed after her. Alan shook his head. “One does meet the most peculiar people in this business.”
    “What’s so exciting about the necklace?” I asked, leaning over the case of jewelry. “It’s just rough chunks of amber.”
    “According to our esteemed chief, it came from a fifth-century Viking hoard. He’s got the papers to prove it.”
    “I’m sure he does.”
    “Some people,” Alan rattled on, “buy not for the intrinsic value or the artistry of the piece concerned; they focus on specific periods or areas.”
    I stopped listening, since he was telling me stuff I already knew or didn’t care about. “This is nice,” I said, moving along the length of the