Speaker 1: Part three, Just Desserts snow fell steadily as they led
Alice Cooper from the ruins of the Harvest feast. Emergency
lights painted the white ground and shifting patterns of red
and blue, while firefighters methodically dismantled her elaborate system of
cooking fuel bombs. The Christmas music still echoed from somewhere inside,
a tiny reminder of two Thanksgiving nights ten years apart.
Peggy watched as Chen helped the EMTs check the rescued restauranteurs.
All would survive, though their reputations might not. Already, reporters
were gathering at the perimeter drawn by the scanner, chatter
about multiple kidnappings and a standoff at Plymouth's most notorious landmark.
Detective Sullivan. Officer Jenkins approached holding an evidence bag. Found
this in the kitchen upstairs. Looks like some kind of journal.
The notebook was old, its leather cover scarred by fire.
Inside and careful handwriting was a decade's worth of planning.
Each page detailed the habits, schedules, and vulnerabilities of the
thirteen Supper Club members. But mixed among the surveillance notes
were recipes, dozens of them written in different hands. My
mother's collection, Alice said quietly from the back of the
patrol car. The only thing I saved that night. Peggy
flipped through the pages. Between instructions for surveillance and breaking
and entering were careful notes about brazing temperatures and sauce reductions.
The last entry was dated that morning. Final menu, the
last supper. You really were going to serve them dinner,
Peggy said. A chef never wastes food. Alice's cultured voice
had gone flat, and I wanted them to taste what
they destroyed, real food, food made with love, not pretension.
Before Peggy could respond, Chen hurried over Sully, We've got
a problem. The press is asking questions about Elizabeth Blackwood's involvement,
and Donald Ross is already talking about a deal with
the DA Of course he is. Peggy closed the recipe book.
The rich always protect themselves first, not this time. Alice's
voice drifted from the patrol check the cabinet above the
old prep station behind the burned panel. Chen returned from
the prep station carrying a waterproof metal box. Inside were files, photographs,
and a stack of audio tapes, all meticulously labeled. I
recorded everything Alice said, every meeting, every conversation, ten years
of them bragging about how they got away with it,
about the other restaurants they forced out of business, the
health inspectors they bribed, the critics they paid off a
bitter smile. People say such interesting things to their servers,
as if were invisible. Peggy began examining the evidence. Polaroids
showed private meetings in back rooms, handshakes over manila envelopes.
The audio tapes were carefully indexed dates, locations, participants. One
was simply labeled confession eb Elizabeth knew you were gathering
evidence she helped. Said if she couldn't stop them ten
years ago, she could at least help expose them now.
Alice's voice caught. She wasn't supposed to die, None of
them were. I just wanted them to feel trapped, to
know what it was like. Chen pulled Peggy aside, keeping
his voice low. This is bigger than the fire, Sully.
These records go back decades. Half the restaurant seen in
New England is implicated. And now they'll all try to
make deals, Peggy muttered, turn on each other to save themselves,
just like they did to the Coopers. The sound of
breaking glass cut through the night. Donald Ross had broken
free from the EMTs and was running toward his car.
Chen moved to pursue, but Peggy held up her hand.
Let him go. What but trust me? Peggy turned back
to Alice. That cabinet, it wasn't just for storage, was it.
Alice's smile was razor thin. The old prep station connected
to the main gas line. Anyone opening that cabinet without
knowing exactly where to reach, she shrugged, Cooking fuel is
so volatile. The explosion lit up the parking lot. Donald
Ross's Mercedes erupted in a fireball, though Ross himself had
barely touched the door handle. As EMTs rushed to treat
his burns, Pegg he noticed his right hand, specifically the
old fashioned key still chained to his wrist, gas soaked.
Alice explained, all their keys a little insurance in case
anyone tried to run the same accelerant they used on
my parents. Chen stared at her, You turned their own
weapon against them. Poetic justice is still justice, detective Chen,
and revenge properly prepared is a dish best served with symmetry.
The night air filled with more sirens as fire trucks
responded to the car blaze. Peggy watched the flames reflect
off the falling snow, creating a dreamlike quality that made
the whole scene feel unreal. But the evidence in the
metal box was solid enough. You could have just turned
over the evidence, she said to Alice. Why the elaborate
revenge plot. Would you have believed it would anyone? Alice's
eyes reflected the flames. Rich people don't face consequences, Detective,
not really. They pay fines, they make deals. They go
to country club prisons and come out to start over
toward the burning car, but now with kidnapping charges hanging
over them, with attempted murder charges for what they did
to Elizabeth, with their own voices on tape confessing their crimes,
a cold smile. Now they'll turn on each other, destroy
each other, just like they destroyed my family. More reporters
were arriving, drawn by the latest explosion. Peggy could already
see the headlines Thanksgiving revenge, Plymouth restaurant wars turned deadly, Deadly,
dinner party reveals, decades of corruption. What happens now, Chen
asked quietly. Peggy looked at the recipe book, then at
the metal box of evidence. Now we do our jobs,
process the scene, interview the witnesses, build the case she paused,
and make sure all of this evidence makes it into
the right hands, not the DA's office. Oh it'll get there,
but first I think our friends at the Boston Globe
deserve a look. Martha Hutchins nephew works there. You know,
the one who writes about corruption in high places. Alice's
laugh drifted from the troll car. My mother always said,
the secret to a perfect meal is timing. Serve it
while it's hot, Detective. The next few hours passed in
a blur of activity. More arrests were made as other
members of the Supper Club tried to flee. Patricia Ross
attempted to board a private plane at Plymouth Municipal Airport,
only to find state police waiting. Michael O'Malley barricaded himself
in Irish eyes with a shotgun, leading to a brief
stand off that ended when his own staff let the
police in through the kitchen. By dawn, the snow had stopped.
Peggy stood in the ruins of the harvest feast one
last time, watching the sunrise through the broken windows. The
Christmas music had finally stopped, leaving only the sound of
dripping water and creaking timbers. Chen joined her, carrying two
cups of coffee from Martha's diner. Me's preliminary report on
Elizabeth came in. No powder burns on her hands. The
angle was wrong too. She didn't kill herself, Peggy said no.
But with all the chaos proving who did, he let
the sentence hang. Sometimes just takes different forms, Peggy sipped
her coffee. The evidence will bury them, Jimmy, all of them.
The rich can't protect themselves when they're too busy destroying
each other. And Alice. She'll do time, But with Elizabeth's
death ruled suspicious, the kidnapping charges complicated by evidence of
prior conspiracy, Peggy shrugged. A good lawyer could argue temporary
insanity trauma. She might even serve her time in the
same country club prisons. She was worried about the irony
the justice, Peggy corrected him. She'll have time to work
on her cooking, maybe even teach classes. Turned destruction back
into creation. They walked out of the ruins together, past
the crime scene tape and evidence markers. Martha Hutchins was
there handing out coffee and donuts to the officers while
her nephew interviewed witnesses. The morning papers were already hitting
doorsteps across Plymouth, leading with the explosion at the harvest
feast and promises of more revelations to come. You know
what I don't understand, Chen said, as they reached their car.
Why didn't she just kill them? Why go through all
the elaborate staging because death is quick. Peggy replied. She
wanted them to live with the consequences, to watch their
reputations burn, their empires crumble, their friends turn against them,
she smiled grimly, just like she had to live with
what they did. Back at the station, Peggy finally sat
down to write her report on her desk sat Alice
Cooper's recipe book, saved from the evidence locker by a
clerical error. She opened it to the last page, where
beneath the final menu was a note in Elizabeth Blackwood's handwriting,
the secret ingredient isn't revenge, Alice, It's justice. Serve it well.
Peggy closed the book and began to type case report
The Thanksgiving Murders date November twenty eighth, nineteen seventy three.
Reporting Officer Detective Margaret Sullivan summary. Sometimes the perfect crime
isn't murder. Sometimes it's making the guilty destroy themselves. Peggy's
fingers hovered over the typewriter keys. There was more to
the story, so much more than could fit in a
standard police report. The evidence from Alice's waterproof box had
already sparked three separate state investigations. The Health Department was
reviewing every restaurant inspection in Plymouth from the past decade.
The tax board had frozen assets belonging to all surviving
members of the Supper Club, and the state police were
investigating two other suspicious restaurant fires from the nineteen sixties.
Sully Chen appeared in her office doorway. You're going to
want to see this. He held up the morning edition
of the Boston Globe. Martha's nephew had worked fast. The
headline screamed, Plymouth restaurant empire built on ashes of murder.
Below was a photo of the original thirteen members of
the Supper Club, their smiling faces now seeming more sinister
than sophisticated. There's more, Chen said, Dropping a stack of
papers on her desk, we found Elizabeth Blackwood's personal records,
She didn't just help Alice gather evidence. She was building
her own case, documenting every illegal deal, every bribe, every
threat going back to when she first opened the garden
Room insurance. Peggy murmured, in case they ever turned on
her and this, Chen pulled out a legal document. She
changed her will last week, left everything to a trust
dedicated to helping working class kids attend culinary school, the
Alice Cooper Memorial Scholarship. She knew. Peggy stared at the document.
She knew she wasn't walking out of that cellar. There's
something else, Chen hesitated. The Emmy found this in Elizabeth's
coat pocket. He handed over a small envelope. Inside was
a single key, not one of the old brass ones
from the fire, but a safe deposit box key. The
note with it read simply for after when the truth
needs seasoning. It took them three hours to get a
court order for the box. Inside they found Elizabeth's final confession,
along with photographs that proved who had really locked the
kitchen door at the harvest Feast. It hadn't been a
group decision. Three members of the supper club had acted alone,
Donald Ross, Patricia Ross, and Thomas Preston, the others knew
Elizabeth's confession, explained, but only after we all chose to
stay quiet, to protect our investments, to protect ourselves. Alice
is right, the rich protect themselves first, but maybe it's
time the working class had some protection too. By Christmas,
the story had gone national. Food critics were revisiting decades
of suspicious restaurant reviews, health inspectors were being indicted, and
in prison, Alice Cooper was already teaching cooking classes to
her fellow inmates. Rehabilitation through cuisine. The warden explained to reporters,
She's got a gift. Peggy kept the recipe book on
her desk, a reminder that justice, like cooking, required precise
timing and careful preparation. Sometimes it needed to simmer for
years before being served. One snowy evening, a month after
the case closed, Peggy and Chen sat at the counter
in Martha's Diner. The place had become a stop on
unofficial true crime tours, with visitors asking to see where
the restaurant mafia had plotted their crimes. You know what
I keep thinking about, Chen said, stirring his coffee. That
first crime scene, the table set for thirteen. Alice had
it planned down to the minute, like any good chef,
Martha interjected, sliding plates of pie in front of them.
This was Alice Cooper's recipe, by the way, found it
in her mother's book before they logged it into evidence.
Peggy took a bite of the cranberry apple pie. It
was perfect, sweet and tart and just a little bitter.
She'll be out in seven years, Chen said, good behavior,
mental health considerations, cooperation with ongoing investigations, and the others.
Donald Ross got twenty years, Patricia Ross took a plea
deal fifteen years. The rest are looking at five to
ten plus asset forfeiture, he smiled grimly. No more country
club prisons for the country club set, and the restaurants
being sold off, most of the proceeds going to the
scholarship fund. Chen finished his pie. You know the applications
are already coming in, working class kids who never thought
they'd get a chance at culinary school. Elizabeth would have
liked that. So would the Coopers, Martha added, Will and
Sarah always said talent shouldn't be measured by your bank account.
Peggy glanced at the wall where Martha had hung a
framed photo of the Harvest Feast in its prime. Through
the window, she could see the Cooper family, Will, Sarah,
and young Alice captured in a moment of perfect happiness.
You know what else I kept from evidence? She reached
into her bag and pulled out a small, weather beaten sign.
It had hung in the Harvest Feast's kitchen, surviving both
the original fire and Alice's revenge. The words were still legible.
Good food like justice takes time, serve with love. Martha smiled.
Will Cooper wrote that first day they opened, and now
it's true again, Peggy said, finishing her pie. Justice was served,
just took a while to get the recipe right. Outside,
snow fell on Plymouth's changed restaurant seen. Old empires had fallen,
but new ones would rise, built on talent, not privilege,
on creation not destruction. In her cell, Alice Cooper was
teaching a young inmate how to make the perfect cranberry glaze.
In his office, Martha's nephew was writing about other cities
where restaurant empires needed investigating, and in a culinary school application,
a teenage dishwasher wrote about her dream of owning her
own restaurant. Someday inspired by the true story of how
justice was finally served in Plymouth. Some said the case
changed the town forever. Others said it merely exposed what
had always been there, simmering beneath the surface like a
well tended stock. But everyone agreed on one thing. In Plymouth, Massachusetts,
Thanksgiving would never be the same. And this has been
a quiet Please production. Head over to quiet Please dot
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