Speaker 1: Part two, The Bitter Feast. The Plymouth Record's office was
housed in the basement of City Hall, a maze of
filing cabinets and flickering fluorescent lights that smelled of dust
and forgotten paper. At eleven thirty on Thanksgiving morning, the
only person present was Harold Watson, the ancient clerk who
seemed as permanent as the building itself. Harvest feast fire.
His roomy eyes brightened with interest. Now that's a name
I haven't heard in a while. He shuffled toward the
back room, returning with a thick folder tied with string.
Funny thing. Someone else was asking about this just last week,
first time in years. Peggy and Chen exchanged glances. Who
young woman said she was writing a book about Plymouth restaurants.
He adjusted his glasses. Pretty thing, green eyes. The file
contained more than just the official report. News clippings, photographs,
and witness statements spilled across the desk as Peggy opened it.
The first photo showed the harvest feast in flames, orange
light reflecting off the snow. The next showed the aftermath,
blackened walls, collapsed roof, three body bags in the foreground.
Look at this, Chen said, holding up a blueprint the
service entrance that was locked. It wasn't just any door.
It was the only exit from the kitchen that didn't
go through the main dining room. Peggy studied the layout,
so when the fire started in the dining room, the
coopers were trapped. Chen's voice was grim. But something's odd
about these photos, Sully. The bodies. They're too far from
the kitchen. Peggy saw it too. If they were trapped
in there, why were the bodies found near the main entrance.
They dug deeper into the witness statements. Most were brief,
clinical except one. Elizabeth Blackwood's account spanned three pages describing
how she'd left early that night with a headache. But
what caught Peggy's attention was a detail in the margins.
Girl's coat and shoes found in office, not kitchen, Alice's things.
Peggy murmured, she wasn't in the kitchen when the fire started.
She was in the office, which had a window, Chen added,
checking the blue print, small but big enough for a
teenager to squeeze through. The radio crackled. Detective Sullivan responded, Sullivan, here, yeah.
Officers at the garden room reporting smoke from the kitchen chimney.
No response at the doors. Want us to break in? Negative,
Peggy ordered, secure the perimeter, but do not enter. We're
ten minutes out. They were halfway to the car when
Harold called after them. Detective found something else you should see.
He held out a yellowed envelope. Inside was a photograph
Peggy hadn't seen before. All thirteen members of the supper
club standing around a table, but this one was different.
In the background, reflected in a mirror, someone was holding
what looked like a key. This was taken the night
of the fire, Harold said, quietly, found it filed with
some insurance papers. The garden room sat on two acres
of manicured grounds, its Victorian architecture a testament to old
money and refined taste. By the time they arrived, four
patrol cars had formed a perimeter around the property. Smoke
still curled from the kitchen chimney despite the closed sign
in the window. Doors unlocked. Officer Jenkins reported, and there's
music playing inside. Sounds like Christmas carols. God rest you merry, gentlemen.
Peggy identified it same song that was playing at the
Pilgrim's Rest. They entered through the kitchen weapons drawn. Everything
was immaculate, pristine, except for the turkey basting in the
oven and the place settings for thirteen in the main
dining room. But this table was different. At each place
was a small box wrapped in Christmas paper. Careful, Peggy
warned as Chen reached for one check for triggers. The
box contained a single item, a book of matches from
the harvest feast. Each place setting had the same it's
a message, Chen said, twelve boxes, twelve sets of matches,
eleven potential victims. Peggy finished one box for the killer.
They found Elizabeth Blackwood in her office, posed like the others,
crossed arms, napkin over her face, but there was something
different about this scene. On her desk sat an old
fashioned camera, the kind that developed pictures instantly. Next to
it lay a photograph still developing, showing Elizabeth at her desk,
very much alive, time stamped thirty minutes earlier. She was
here when it happened. Chen said, we just missed her.
The phone rang, making them both jump. Peggy put it
on speaker. I see you found my Christmas presents. Alice
Cooper's voice was calm, cultured. Did you like the photograph?
I wanted Elizabeth to see herself as she truly was
frozen in that moment of recognition, the same moment my
parents felt when they realized what their friends had done.
Alice Peggy kept her voice steady. We know what happened
that night. We know they locked the door. Do you
do you really a bitter laugh? They locked more than
a door, Detective, They locked away the truth. Every year
they gathered, raised their glasses, celebrated their success, success built
on my family's ashes. But now a pause. Now they're
the ones being served. Where are the Rosses, Alice? Safe?
For now they're my guests of honor, just like my
parents were their guests that night. You see, Detective, I've
planned a very special dinner party, all the original recipes
from the harvest feasts last night, including my cranberry glaze turkey.
Another pause, the one I never got to serve. In
the background, they could hear music, the same Christmas Carol
growing louder. You can't save them all, Alice said, softly.
Even now the next course is being prepared. But I'll
give you a chance, just like they gave my parents.
Behind Elizabeth's desk, there's a key, one key, many locks
choose wisely, detective, and remember dinner is served promptly. At three,
the line went dead. Chen was already moving. Searching behind
the desk, he found it taped underneath an old brass key,
blackened with age. It's the original, Peggy realized, from the
service entrance. But which lock is it for now? Chen
checked his watch, twelve forty five p m. And which
restaurant is next? Peggy looked at the developing photograph again.
Something caught her eye, a reflection in Elizabeth's window, a
sign partially visible Michael O'Malley's irish eyes. The key's not
for a restaurant, she said. Suddenly. Alice said they were
her guests. She's not going to them, She's bringing them somewhere, somewhere.
That means something. Chen's eyes widened. The Harvest Feast the
original location. It's been abandoned since the fire. Peggy was
already moving. Call dispatch, get every available unit to sixteen
twenty seven Harbor Street, and Jimmy tell them to bring
fire trucks. As they raced through Plymouth's snowy streets, Peggy
thought about Alice Cooper, the sixteen year old girl who
lost everything, who spent a decade planning her revenge, who
was recreating her families? Last night with methodical precision. The
old Harvest Feast Building loomed ahead, its burned out shell,
a black scar against the white sky. Smoke rose from
what remained of the chimney. Right on schedule, Chen muttered.
Peggy gripped the blackened key Somewhere inside. Eleven places were
set Somewhere inside. Alice Cooper was finally serving her family's
last supper, and the dinner bell was about to ring.
Snow swirled around the abandoned Harvest Feast Building, the flakes
disappearing into the dark maw of its broken windows. The
front door hung askew, its once elegant sign now a
rusted ghost above the entrance, but light flickered from within,
warm dancing light that shouldn't have been there. Multiple entry points,
Chen said, studying the blueprint he'd taken from the Record's office,
main entrance, kitchen, door, seller access in back. Peggy nodded
to the gathering police units, their lights off to maintain surprise.
Split into three teams, but nobody moves until we're all
in position. She held up the blackened key, and we
still don't know what this opens. The original service entrance
had been sealed with plywood after the fire. As they
crept around the building's perimeter, Peggy noticed fresh tool marks
in the wood. Someone had recently cut a door size panel,
then carefully replaced it. She's been planning this for months,
Chen whisp, maybe years. Ed Through gaps in the boards,
they could see more than just firelight. Electric lanterns had
been strategically placed, creating pools of illumination in the ruins,
and there in what had once been the main dining
room stood a long table set for thirteen. But it
was the smell that hit Peggy first, not decay in abandonment,
but the rich aroma of roasting turkey, sage, cranberry sauce.
Alice Cooper wasn't just recreating the scene, she was recreating
the entire meal movement. Chen hissed second floor, ed that
through a broken window they caught glimpses of someone moving
purposefully between rooms. The figure wore a chef's whites, and
even from this distance, Peggy could see the glint of
something metallic in their hand. Detective Sullivan Officer Jenkins called
softly from the cellar entrance. You need to see this.
The cellar doors had been recently oiled, opening silently on
new hinges. A string of electric lanterns led down the stairs,
illuminating what had once been the restaurant's wine cellar, But
the wines were long gone, replaced by something far more disturbing.
Eleven chairs had been arranged in a circle, each occupied
by a bound figure. In the center stood a serving
cart bearing covered silver dishes. The air was thick with
the smell of food and fear. Donald and Patricia Ross.
Peggy identified two of the figures, Michael O'Malley. They're all
here alive, Chen asked. Peggy checked the nearest captive, Michael O'Malley,
owner of Irish Eyes. He was conscious, but Groggy likely drugged.
All of them wore formal dinner attire, as if dressed
for a special occasion. The thirteenth chairs empty. Chen noted no,
Peggy corrected him, look at the place setting. It's for Alice.
Above them, floorboards creaked rhythmically. Footsteps moving from the kitchen
to the dining room and back. The same Christmas carol
they'd heard before drifted down. God rest you merry, gentlemen.
We need to get them out. Chen started forward, but
Peggy grabbed his arm. Wait. She pointed to thin wires
running between the chairs. She's rigged something. Closer inspection revealed
an elaborate system. Each chair was connected to the others,
and all were linked to what looked like containers of
cooking fuel positioned around the room's perimeter. One wrong move
and the cellar would become an inferno, just like the
original fire. Chen breathed. She's going to make them feel
what her parents felt. A voice floated down from above,
Is everyone ready for the main course? Footsteps on the
cellar stairs. Peggy and Chen pressed into the shadows as
Alice Cooper descended, wearing immaculate chef's whites and carrying a
covered silver platter. Even after ten years of planning revenge,
she looked eerily young, as if part of her had
never left that terrible night. I hope you've all enjoyed
the appetizers, she addressed her captive audience. Though I noticed
none of you touched the soup. Afraid of a little seasoning,
she laughed softly. Don't worry. The main course is my specialty,
the one you never let me serve. She set the
platter on the serving cart and lifted the cover. With
a flourish steam rose from a perfectly roasted turkey, glazed
to a golden brown and garnished with cranberries, my mother's recipe.
Alice continued, her cultured voice, taking on an edge, the
one she spent weeks teaching me. Cooking is about love,
she always said, about bringing people together. She picked up
a carving knife, testing its edge. Well, here we are
together at last, Alice. Peggy stepped from the shadow's gun
drawn put down the knife. Alice didn't seem surprised. Detective
Sullivan rite on time for dinner, She smiled, but it
didn't reach her eyes. Did you figure it out about
the key? It's not for any of the doors, Peggy said,
it's evidence, the original key that locked your parents in.
Very good. Alice nodded approvingly, but incomplete. Show her, she commanded,
the bound figures. Show her what you did. One by one,
the captives raised their right hands as far as their
bonds would allow. Each wore an old fashioned key on
a chain around their wrist. Thirteen keys, Alice explained, one
for each member of the club. They all locked that door.
Detective every single one of them. Then they watched my
family burn while they sipped wine in the parking lot.
Her voice cracked slightly. I saw it all from the
office window, the window they forgot about when they checked
to make sure everyone was trapped inside. So you survived,
Chen said, escaped through the window. Survived? Oh no, Detective Chen,
the old Alice Cooper did die that night, but she
was reborn in the flames. She gestured to her captives.
Ask them, they've seen me nearly every day for years,
serving their food, refilling their wine, listening to their jokes
about the tragic fire that made them all rich. Insurance
money does wonderful things for failing restaurants, doesn't it. She
began laying out plates with mechanical precision. I worked in
all their kitchens, learned their secrets, their habits, their sins.
And now she lifted a wine bottle a toast to
family traditions. Alice Peggy took a step forward. Your parents
wouldn't want this. My parents wanted me to be a chef.
Alice's hand tightened on the knife to create beauty through food. Instead,
these people turned our restaurant into a crematorium. She turned
to her captives. But tonight you'll finally taste my cooking,
every bite, every morsel, just like my parents tasted the smoke.
Ada Chen had been inching along the wall, trying to
get behind her, but Alice saw him. I wouldn't, she warned,
revealing a remote detonator in her other hand. The wine
cellar has excellent ventilation. All these cooking fuels, one spark,
and history repeats itself, she smiled, sadly, except this time
everyone's invited to dinner. Peggy kept her gun steady, but
her mind raised. The cellar's stone walls would contain an explosion,
possibly bringing down the entire building, and with the cooking
fuel positioned as it was, they'd have seconds at most
to react. Tell me something, Alice, she said, carefully. Why
Christmas carols? Why not Thanksgiving music? A flicker of emotion
crossed Alice's face. God Rest you merry gentlemen was playing
when they locked the door. They had started decorating early
that year. She gestured to the bound figures, ask them
they remember, don't you all? Several of the captives nodded weakly,
tears streaming down their faces. It was Elizabeth's idea. Donald
Ross spoke up, his voice trembling the Christmas preview dinner.
Said it would bring an extra revenue, but the insurance
paid better, didn't it. Alice's voice turned sharp. Tell them,
tell the detectives what really happened. Patricia Ross began to sob.
We were all failing, every restaurant except the Harvest Feast.
Will Cooper's Food was drawing crowds from Boston, New York.
They were going to franchise, expand, and you couldn't let
that happen. Peggy finished, because they'd started as working class,
because they hadn't come from money like the rest of you.
The fire wasn't supposed to kill anyone. Michael O'Malley burst out,
just enough damage to collect and assurance maybe forced them
to sell. But Will wouldn't leave. Sarah went back for
him and Alice, and Alice was supposed to be at
a school event. Elizabeth Blackwood's quiet voice came from the shadows.
Everyone turned. The restaurateur stood in the cellar doorway, snow
dusting her elegant coat. She held a small revolver. Elizabeth
Chen's hand tightened on his weapon. I didn't die in
my restaurant, Elizabeth said, calmly. I followed your instructions. Alice
came here just like your notes said, because it's time,
isn't it time for the truth. Alice's grip on the
detonator wavered. You were supposed to be tied up with
the others. I was the one who gave her the idea.
Elizabeth continued, descending the stairs, told her parents about the
franchise opportunity, encouraged them to dream big. Because I knew,
she took a shuddering breath. I knew what the others
would do, what they always did to people like the Cooper's,
people like me. What are you talking about, Peggy demanded.
My grandmother would was a cook for the Ross family,
Elizabeth said, put me through culinary school with her savings.
But old money looks after its own. When I opened
the garden room, they made sure I understood the rules.
Join them or burn Like the Coopers. You helped me,
Alice whispered, all these years left the window unlocked, made
sure you had somewhere to go after helped you get
jobs in their restaurants. Elizabeth was crying now because I
was a coward, I chose to join them instead of fight.
But you. You were braver than I ever was. The
seller fell silent, except for the Christmas music drifting down
from above. In the distance, sirens wailed. It won't bring
them back, Peggy said, softly, any of this. Your parents
wanted you to create, Alice, not destroy creation through destruction.
Alice murmured, isn't that what they did, destroyed my family
to create their empires. She lifted the detonator higher. Twelve keys,
twelve guilty parties, twelve places at the table, thirteen. Elizabeth
Carey raising her revolver, but she wasn't aiming at Alice.
The gun pointed at her own temple. I'm the thirteenth key, Alice,
the one who could have stopped at all, but didn't,
the one who chose wrong. Elizabeth no chen started forward.
The gunshot echoed through the cellar. Elizabeth crumpled, her blood
mixing with the snow melting from her coat. The revolver
clattered down the stairs. Alice stared at Elizabeth's body, her
hand shaking on the detonator. For a moment, she looked
sixteen again, lost, terrified, watching her world burn. She chose,
Alice whispered, She finally chose the Christmas music skipped, then
started again. Above them, the wind howled through the burned
out building. Peggy took a careful step forward. You can choose, too, Alice,
right now, be the chef your parents wanted you to be,
not the weapon these people turned you into. Alice looked
at the turkey she'd prepared, steam still rising from its
perfectly glazed skin, then at Elizabeth's body, finally at the
bound figures who had destroyed her family. My mother always said,
She spoke softly, that the secret to a perfect Thanksgiving
dinner isn't in the recipes. A tear rolled down her cheek.
It's in knowing when to take things out of the fire.
The detonator dropped from her hand, Chen lunged, catching it
before it could hit the ground. Peggy moved forward, gently
taking the knife from Alice's unresisting fingers. I had the
timing perfect, Alice said, as Peggy cuffed the temperature, the seasoning,
everything it was going to be beautiful. It still can be,
Peggy replied, quietly, Just not here, not like this. As
they led Alice up the cellar stairs, the first snowflakes
of a new storm began to fall through the broken
roof behind them. Twelve places remained set at a table
that would never be used, while the thirteenth chair stood empty,
a silence at the heart of a feast that had
taken ten years to prepare. The Christmas music played on
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