Speaker 1: Part one, The Empty Chair. Detective Margaret Peggy Sullivan pulled
her Forward Ltd. To a stop outside the Pilgrim's Rest,
snow crunching beneath the tires. The restaurant's colonial facade, usually
warm and inviting, looked ominous in the pre dawn November light.
Red and blue lights from patrol cars painted the fresh
snow in alternating colors, turning the scene into a macabre
Christmas display. Another holiday ruined, she muttered, straightening her tweed
blazer as she stepped into the bitter cold. At forty five,
Peggy had seen enough crime scenes to last a lifetime,
but something about murders on holidays always struck her harder, Hey, Sully,
a familiar voice called out. Detective James Chen jogged over,
his perfectly pressed suit and clean shaven face, making her
feel even more rumpled than usual. At twenty nine, her
new partner was nearly two decades her junior, fresh out
of the FBI Academy, with modern ideas about forensic science
and criminal profiling. What have we got? Jimmy Thomas Preston,
owner of the Pilgrim's Rest, found in the walk in
freezer by his prep cook around five am. Chen flipped
open his notepad. The page is already stiff with cold.
Maria Vasquez. She came in early to start the turkeys
for their annual charity dinner. Peggy nodded. The pilgrim's rests.
Thanksgiving Dinner for the homeless was a Plymouth institution. Preston
did that dinner every year since sixty two. You knew him,
Everyone knew Tommy Preston. Peggy ducked under the police tape.
Local boy made good, started as a dishwasher, worked his
way up, bought the place five years ago when old
man Whittaker retired. The restaurant's interior was warm, filled with
the controlled chaos of uniformed officers and crime scene photographers.
The decor was pure colonial New England, dark wood paneling, reproduction,
courier in ives prints, pewter sconces on the walls. A
half decorated Christmas tree stood in the corner. A box
of ornaments abandoned beside it. Bodies this way, Chen said,
leading her toward the kitchen. But there's something else you
need to see first. He guided her to the restaurant's
private dining room. Peggy stopped in the doorway, breath catching
in her throat. The massive oak table was set for thirteen.
Each place setting laid out with exquisite precision, fine china,
silver cutlery, crystal glasses, the works. But it was the
centerpiece that drew her eye. A turkey already cooked to
golden perfection, surrounded by elaborate garnishes. Preston lived alone, Chen said,
no family in the area, so who was all this for.
Peggy moved closer to the table, studying the arrangements. Each
place setting included a small card with a number one
through thirteen written in elegant calligraphy. This wasn't for the
charity dinner. This is something else. There's more. Chen pointed
to the wall behind the head of the table, written
in what appeared to be cranberry sauce, where the words
grace has been said. Well, Peggy sighed, guess we know
this wasn't a robbery gone wrong. She turned to her partner,
show me the body. The walk in freezer was a
stark contrast to the dining room's allecins. Thomas Preston lay
face up on the floor, his chef's white stained red.
What caught Peggy's attention wasn't the obvious knife wounds, but
the peculiar arrangement. His arms were crossed over his chest,
and a dinner napkin had been carefully folded and placed
over his face. Maria Vasquez says nothing was disturbed in
the freezer. Chen reported everything still organized, exactly as it
should be. Whoever did this knew their way around a kitchen.
Peggy knelt beside the body, careful not to disturb any evidence.
Time of death Emmy's preliminary estimate is between midnight and
two am. Chen consulted his notes. Temperature in the freezer's
making it tricky to be more precise. What about the
turkey in the dining room? When was that cooked? That's
the thing. According to Maria, there shouldn't have been any
turkeys ready, yet she was supposed to be the first
one in to start cooking them. Peggy stood her knees,
protesting the cold, so our killer not only murdered Preston,
but took the time to cook a turkey and set
an elaborate table for thirteen people. She shook her head.
Get me everything you can on Preston's recent activities, especially
anything related to that private dining room and find out
if he had any dinner parties planned already on it.
Chen smiled called in some favors at the FBI lab too,
they're sending up their new blood spatter analysis kit. Blood
spatter analysis. Peggy raised an eyebrow. In my day we
called that looking at the blood trust me Sally, science
is the future of criminal investigation. Maybe so, Jimmy, but
right now I'm more interested in the past. She took
one last look at Preston's body, specifically why someone would
go to all this trouble on Thanksgiving net As they
walked back through the kitchen, Peggy's eye caught something, a
small bronze plaque near the door. It read in memory
of the Harvest Feast Fire, November twenty eighth, nineteen sixty three.
Chen make a note, I want to know everything about
that fire. Peggy spent the next hour interviewing Maria Vasquez
while Chen coordinated with the forensics team. The prep cook
was a st eddie woman in her fifties who had
worked at the Pilgrim's Rest for over a decade. Mister
Preston was always first in on Thanksgiving. Maria explained, her
hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. He'd start the
turkeys himself, tradition, he said. When I found the door
unlocked this morning, I thought nothing of it. Then I
saw the dining room. She shuddered. Tell me about this
private dining room, Peggy prompted. Did mister Preston use it often?
Only for special occasions? But last week was strange. Maria
leaned forward. He had me polish all the silver twice,
spent hours arranging those place cards. Said everything had to
be perfect for Thanksgiving. Did he mention who was coming? No,
but Maria hesitated. Last night, before I left, I heard
him arguing with someone in his office, a woman. She
kept saying something about the thirteen and how he couldn't cancel.
Chen appeared in the doorway holding his notepad. Selly got something.
Preston made thirteen calls yesterday, all to different restaurants in
the area. Peggy excused herself and followed Chen to Preston's office.
It was a small room dominated by a massive desk,
its surface meticulously organized. A wall of photographs caught her attention,
images spanning decades showing Preston with various people in chef's
whites and formal attire. Look at this one, Chen said,
pointing to a yellowed photograph dated nineteen sixty three. It
showed thirteen people posed in front of a restaurant called
the Harvest Feast. Preston was there much younger standing next
to a striking woman in a chef's coat. That's the
restaurant that burned down. Peggy studied the image. I remember
that fire. Three people died. It was all over the papers.
She squinted at the caption, the thirteen chairs supper Club,
Thanksgiving nineteen sixty three. The thirteen chairs, Chen raised an eyebrow,
like our murder scene. Pull the file on the Harvest
Feast fire, Peggy instructed, and get me names for everyone
in this photo. She turned back to the desk, opening
drawers methodically. In the bottom one, she found a leather
bound ledger, its pages filled with menus, dates and names. Jimmy,
call Dispatch. I want units sent to check on every restaurant.
Preston called yesterday. Something tells me Ah. The office phone rang,
startling them both. After three rings, Peggy picked it up.
Detective Sullivan another one. A gruff voice said, the lobster
pot better hurry, dinner's getting cold. The line went dead.
Chen was already moving. I'll get a trace on that call.
Don't bother, Peggy said grimly, the lobster pot, that's Stanley
Chen's place, any relation. My uncle Chen's face went pale.
He's one of the most respected chefs in New England.
They took the Ltd, Chen driving while Peggy radioed for backup.
The lobster Pot was twenty minutes away in good weather.
In the snow, it took them thirty five. Every second
felt like an hour. The restaurant's parking lot was empty
except for a single car of pristine nineteen sixty five
Mustang that Peggy recognized immediately. That's Stanley's pride and Joy,
Chen said, drawing his service weapon. He'd never leave it
out in this weather. They approached the entrance carefully. The
door was unlocked. Inside the scene was a mirror image
of the Pilgrim's rest, an elegant table set for thirteen,
complete with place cards and centerpiece. But here the turkey
was carved thirteen plates served with mechanical precision. They found
Stanley Chen in the kitchen, posed exactly like Preston, crossed arms,
napkin over his face on the wall above him, written
in what looked like gravy, thirteen gathered, eleven remain Call
it in, Peggy said, softly, putting a hand on her
partner's shoulder. I'll check the rest of the building. But
Chen stood frozen, staring at the wall. Sully, he said,
his voice barely a whisper. My uncle. He used to
tell stories about a supper club thirteen chefs who did
everything together. Said it all fell apart after the fire,
the harvest feast fire. Chen nodded. He never talked about
it much, just said some traditions are better left in
the past. Peggy's mind raced two murders, both members of
a DeFi unk's supper club. Thirteen place settings, eleven remaining members.
The killer was working through a list at back in
Preston's office. She'd seen something else in that old photograph,
a young woman standing in the background, her face half hidden.
She'd been wearing a server's uniform, but her eyes, they'd
been fixed on the camera with an intensity that, even
in a decade's old photo, sent chills down Peggy's spine. Jimmy,
she said, we need those names from the photo, all
of them, and we need them fast. She looked at
her watch. Ten forty seven a m. Something tells me
our killer's got a very specific dinner schedule in mind.
As if confirming her fears, the kitchen phone began to ring.
The ringing phone echoed through the lobster pot's kitchen. Peggy
and Chen exchanged glances before she reached for the receiver.
Happy Thanksgiving, Detective Sullivan. The voice was different, this time,
a woman's voice, cultured and eerily calm. Are you enjoying
the dinner party so far? Who is this? Someone who
believes in tradition, in paying debts, in serving just desserts?
A soft laugh? The thirteen gathered every year, you know,
breaking bread while others burned, But not this year. This
year they're the main course. Listen to me, no, detective,
you listen. Every year they celebrated while the Coopers lay
cold in their graves. Every year they raised their glasses
and pretended nothing happened. Asked them about the locked door.
Detective asked them about the key. The line went dead.
Chen had been frantically signaling dispatch, but Peggy already knew
it was futile. She replaced the receiver slowly, her mind
racing Jimmy, what do you know about the harvest feast fire?
The details? Not much, Uncle Stanley never, He paused, faced darkening. Wait,
there was something at my graduation dinner. He got drunk,
started talking about the old days, said something about a
terrible mistake. How they all agreed to keep quiet. Before
Peggy could respond, her radio crackled, Detective Sullivan, Please, respond Sullivan. Here,
We've got officers at the captain's table. Donald and Patricia
Ross aren't here, but there's something you need to see.
Twenty minutes later, they stood in yet another elegant dining room.
The table was set for thirteen, but this time each
place setting included a newspaper clipping about the Harvest Feast fire.
At the head of the table lay a single key
blackened by fire. The Rosses, Peggy asked the uniformed officer.
According to their son, they left for their cabin in
Vermont yesterday. No answer on their phone. Chen picked up
one of the newspaper clippings. Questions remain about locked service entrance,
he read aloud. Fire Marshal unable to explain why emergency
exit was secured during business hours. Peggy felt the pieces
starting to click. The locked door, Jimmy, what if it
wasn't an accident. What if someone locked those people in?
But why the Coopers were respected detective? An officer called
from the kitchen found something in the office. It was
another photograph, more recent than the one in Preston's office,
dated nineteen seventy three. It showed the same group at
what appear to be a Christmas party. But what caught
Peggy's eye was a figure in the background, a young
woman with intense eyes, wearing a server's uniform. She looks familiar,
Chen said, squinting at the image. She should look at
the first photo again, the one from sixty three. Peggy
pulled it from her case file. See same woman, ten
years younger, and look at the name tag Alice Alice Cooper.
But she died in the fire, did she? Peggy studied
both photos carefully or did everyone just assume she did.
Bodies were badly burned, identifications were rushed. What if Alice
Cooper didn't die that night? What if she's been watching
them all these years waiting The pieces were falling into place.
Alice Cooper would be in her late twenties now, about
the age of the woman in the nineteen seventy three
photo working in restaurants. She could have kept tabs on
all of them, learned their routines, planned her revenge. We
need to get to the Record's office. Before heading to
the Record's office, Peggy made one stop Hutchins Diner on
Water Street. If anyone knew the old stories about the Cooper's,
it would be Martha Hutchins. The diner had been a
favorite haunt of Plymouth's restaurant workers since the fifties, and
Martha remembered everything. The bell jingled as they entered. Despite
the holiday, the counter was half full of regulars. Martha,
now in her seventies but still sharp as ever, was
pouring coffee with one hand and making change with the other.
Peggy Sullivan, She called out, shouldn't you be home basing
a turkey working case? Martha, need to pick your brain
about the Coopers, Will Sarah and Alice. The coffee pot
stopped mid Poor Martha's face tightened. Sit down, both of you.
This requires pie. Over slices of pumpkin pie that neither
detective touched. Martha painted a picture of the Cooper family
that made the tragedy even more poignant. Will Cooper could
make sauce sing, Martha said, her voice soft with memory.
Started as a dishwasher, just like Tommy Preston. But Will
he had a gift. French chefs would come up from
Boston just to learn his techniques. Sarah was his perfect
Mas ran the front of house like a symphony conductor.
And Alice Martha paused, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin.
That girl was the best of both of them. What
do you mean, Chen asked, had her daddy's talent and
her mama's grace. Started helping in the kitchen when she
was twelve. By sixteen, she was creating her own dishes.
The night of the fire, Martha's hand trembled as she
reached for her coffee. She was supposed to debut her
first original menu item, Cranberry glazed turkey with chestnut stuffing.
The recipe died with her. Peggy leaned forward, Martha, what
do you remember about the other restaurant owners, the ones
who formed the Supper Club, bunch of social climbers. Martha sniffed, Oh,
they acted friendly with the Coopers, but there was always tension.
Will and Sarah built the Harvest Feast from nothing, while
the others they all had money connections. The Rosses especially,
always looking down their noses, despite Will teaching Donald Ross
everything he knew about seafood stock. Did you ever hear
anything about problems between them? Chen asked, argument rivalries. Martha
glanced around the diner before lowering her voice. Two weeks
before the fire, Sarah Cooper came in here crying. Said
she'd overheard something terrible at a meeting of the supper club.
Wouldn't tell me what. Next day, Will was telling everyone
they were thinking of selling the restaurant, but they never did.
Peggy said, fire happened first. Martha's face darkened. Strange thing
was next day, Tommy Preston and the others, they all
showed up here for coffee, sat right at this counter.
Not one of them. Shed a tear. Been serving them
Thanksgiving breakfast every year since until today. She looked at
Peggy sharply. That's what this is about, isn't it? The murders.
Peggy nodded slowly. Martha, one more thing, the photos from
back then, would you recognize Alice Cooper. Martha reached beneath
the counter and pulled out a yellowed newspaper clipping. It
showed a teenage girl in a chef's coat beaming at
the camera. This was from the week before the Fire
Food section did a piece on her upcoming debut, Dish
Keep It to Remember Her By. Peggy compared it to
the crime scene photos in her case file. The woman
in the nineteen seventy three photograph had the same distinctive
tilt to her smile, the same arch to her eyebrows. Martha,
what color were Alice's eyes green? Martha said, immediately, unusual shade,
like sea glass, just like her mother's. Chen was already
on his feet, reaching for the radio. Sully, the woman
who's been serving at the garden Room for the past year,
Elizabeth Blackwood's new waitress, Peggy finished, the one with the
green eyes. The pieces weren't just falling into place now,
they were slamming together. Alice Cooper hadn't just survived. She'd
spent a decade infiltrating the world that had destroyed her family,
learning everything about the people who'd wronged them, working in
their restaurants, serving their food, waiting for the perfect moment
to strike. Thank you, Martha, Peggy said, leaving enough money
on the counter to cover a month of pie. Lock
your doors tonight, and if anyone from the old supper
club comes in, call you immediately. Martha nodded, Peggy, when
you find who did this to the coopers, remember, sometimes
justice doesn't always wear a badge. Back in the car,
Chen looked at his partner. She knows more than she's saying.
Everyone in Plymouth knows more than their saying. Jimmy, that's
what happens in small towns when old money covers up
its sins. Peggy started the engine. But after today, I
think all those secrets are finally coming to dinner. The
snow was falling harder now, but Peggy barely noticed. She
was thinking about a sixteen year old girl watching her
dreams go up in flames, spending ten years planning the
perfect revenge, about a daughter setting a table for thirteen
serving cold justice one course at a time the Record's
office first, she said, pulling away from the curb. Then
we need to find Elizabeth Blackwood before her new waitress
serves the next course. This has been a quiet please production.
Head over to quiet please dot ai to hear what
matters