ELIZABETH PETERS was born and brought up in Illinois. She is a prolific and successful novelist with over fifty novels to her credit and is internationally renowned for her mystery stories. Mrs Peters lives in a historic farmhouse in Frederick, Maryland, with six cats and one dog.
Praise for Elizabeth Peters
‘A writer so popular that the library has to keep her books under lock and key.’
Washington Post Book World
‘Elizabeth Peters has always known how to romance us.’
New York Times Book Review
‘I really do think Elizabeth Peters’ books are great entertainment.’
Angela Rippon
‘The perfect recipe for splendid entertainment!’
Maxim Jakubowski, Guardian
Also by Elizabeth Peters
The Amelia Peabody
murder mystery series:
(Titles listed in order)
Crocodile on the Sandbank
The Curse of the Pharaohs
The Mummy Case
Lion in the Valley
The Deeds of the Disturber
The Last Camel Died at Noon
The Snake, the Crocodile and the Dog
The Hippopotamus Pool
Seeing a Large Cat
The Ape Who Guards the Balance
The Falcon at the Portal
Thunder in the Sky
Lord of the Silent
The Golden One
Children of the Storm
Guardian of the Horizon
The Serpent on the Crown
Tomb of the Golden Bird
The Vicky Bliss
murder mystery series:
(Titles listed in order)
Borrower of the Night
Street of the Five Moons
Silhouette in Scarlet
Trojan Gold
Night Train to Memphis
Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the USA by Warner Books Inc., 1995
This UK paperback edition published by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2008
Copyright © Elizabeth Peters, 1995, 2008
All rights reserved.
For Sharyn McCrumb
with love and thanks
Acknowledgments
AT THE RISK of sounding like a giddy young first-published author who thanks everybody except the electrician, I must acknowledge the assistance of many friends and friendly experts in writing this book. I couldn't have got myself or Vicky to Amarna without the help of Dennis Forbes, editorial director of K. M. T. (A Modern Journal of Ancient Egypt), and that journal’s special projects editor, George B. Johnson. They were mines of information and the most congenial of fellow-travellers. Kent Weeks of the American University in Cairo good-naturedly informed me that I couldn't possibly get Vicky away from Amarna via the route I had proposed, and suggested an alternative. Peter Dorman, director of the Oriental Institute’s Epigraphic Survey, and his wonderful crew at Chicago House fed me, instructed me, entertained me, and dragged me up and down the cliff of the West Bank searching for an imaginary tomb. Practically everybody connected with the American Research Council in Egypt amiably endured my pressing inquiries and pervasive presence: Terry Walz, executive director; Mark Easton, Cairo director, and Mark’s associate Barbara Fudge and Amira Khattab. To all of them, my affectionate thanks.
The basic inspiration for the book came from an earlier trip to Egypt and the two friends who accompanied me on a Nile cruise. One couldn’t ask for more delightful companions than Charlotte and Aaron Elkins, and there is no truth whatever to the rumour that I stole my plot from Aaron. I tried, but he was too clever for me.
The title of the book originated while I was meeting with a group of fellow mystery writers. This group convenes each year, purportedly for the purpose of carrying on professional discussions, and we actually were carrying on a professional discussion when I asked plaintively, ‘What the Hades am I going to call this book?’ The answer came, as it usually does, from Sharyn McCrumb. I thought it was a great title, but I failed to recognize the source; my ignorance prompted Sharyn to lecture me on the subject of country-western music and to supply me with various research materials. As a result I am now a convert, which may explain some of the esoteric references in this volume. I would offer a prize to the reader who can spot the most songs, except I’m sure Sharyn would win it.
Sharyn is also the author of ‘You’re a Detour on the Highway to Heaven,’ in which endeavour she acknowledges some assistance from Joan Hess and Dorothy Cannell. Joan and Dorothy claim the assistance was considerable, amounting to actual collaboration. I have no further comment to make on this subject, except to say that my debt to these writers and the other non-members of the organization to which they and I belong is profound.
None of the individuals mentioned is responsible for any errors I may have made in recording the information they gave me. The views expressed are those of the characters, who are, I hardly need say, entirely fictitious. The tomb of Tetisheri is also fictitious. For reasons that should be apparent I could not use an actual, known tomb, so I invented one. (A real tomb of Tetisheri may yet be found, though such an eventuality is, in my opinion, unlikely. If this happens, bear in mind it isn’t the same tomb as mine.) The particular Fourth Dynasty cemetery at Abydos to which I have referred is also apocryphal. I think. One never knows what is going to turn up in Egypt.
There are, of course, many museums in Cairo. The proper name of the one to which my characters constantly and carelessly refer is The Egyptian Museum.
Vicky’s comments on the problems of conservation faced by overworked and underfunded antiquities organizations are unfortunately only too accurate. The problem is acute; positive, public support is badly needed, especially for organizations such as the Epigraphic Survey, which for many years has concentrated on making accurate copies of fading reliefs and inscriptions. If we cannot preserve all the monuments – and we cannot – we can at least record them before they vanish forever.
YOU’RE A DETOUR ON THE HIGHWAY TO HEAVEN
(To: Great Speckeld Bird)
When Mama lay a-dyin’ on the flatbed,
She told me not to truck with girls like you;
But I was blinded by the glare of your headlights,
And went joy-ridin’ just for the view.
CHORUS:
You’re a detour on the highway to heaven,
I am lost on the backroads of sin,
I have got to get back to the four-lane,
So that I can see Mama again.
Your curves made me lose my direction,
My hands from the steering wheel strayed,