Free The Cat Who Robbed a Bank by Lilian Jackson Braun

slice of her famous apple pie. Lois Inchpot was a loud, bossy, good-hearted woman who had been feeding downtown shoppers and workers for decades—in a dingy backstreet lunchroom. The shabbier it became with the years, the more the customers cherished it; they felt comfortable there.
    When Qwilleran arrived, the place was empty, and Lois was in the kitchen, working on dinner. “Whaddaya want?” came a demanding voice through the pass-through window.
    â€œApple pie and a cuppa!” he shouted back.
    â€œApple's all gone! You can have cherry.”
    He walked to the pass-through and said, “I'm not enthusiastic about cherry pie.”
    â€œHow come? You un-American—or something?”
    â€œI did my patriotic bit when I helped choose the queen for the cherry festival.”
    Lois shoved a mug of coffee across the shelf and then banged a plate of cherry pie beside it, chanting, “Cherries every day keep the gout away!”
    â€œIs that propaganda for the cherry-growers? Or are you practicing medicine without a license?”
    â€œEat it!” she ordered. “You'll love it!”
    He had to admit the pie was good—not too tart, not too sweet, not too gelatinous, not too soupy. Obviously it had never been in a freezer or a microwave oven. “Not bad!” he declared as he returned his empty plate. “Keep practicing, and someday you'll get it right.”
    â€œOh, pish posh!” she said grouchily but with a half smile. She liked Qwilleran.
    â€œWhere's Lenny?”
    Her voice softened. “He has classes 'most all day on Wednesday, and I don't allow nothin' to interfere with that boy's education. He'll finish school if I hafta scrub floors! Did you know he's workin' part-time at the hotel?—I mean, the inn? Six to midnight. And he's captain of the desk clerks,” she said proudly.
    â€œSomeday he'll be chief innkeeper,” Qwilleran predicted, knowing that was what she wanted to hear.
    â€œLenny says old Mr. Muckety-Muck is here again, registered in the fancy suite on the third floor. You seen him?”
    â€œTo whom  . . . are you referring?” Qwilleran asked to tease her.
    â€œDon't get la-de-da with me! You know who I mean.”
    â€œNo, I haven't seen him. I thought I might catch a glimpse of him here, eating cherry pie.”
    â€œHah!” she huffed with contempt, banging the lid on a soup kettle for emphasis.
    Just then her son burst into the restaurant and threw his textbooks on a table in the rear booth. “Got any pie, Mom?” He helped himself to a mug of coffee. “Hi, Mr. Q! Going to the games this weekend? The inn's booked solid for Friday and Saturday nights.”
    â€œDo you participate in the athletic events, Lenny?”
    â€œOnly the footraces. I leave the hammer-throw and all that to the big guys, but our night clerk tosses the caber. He has the strength for it. I introduced him to you at the party Saturday night. We call him Boze, short for Bozo.” Lenny moved his coffee mug to Qwilleran's table. “I'm sort of his manager. He needs somebody to prod him, make his decisions, keep him on track, you know.”
    â€œHow long have you known him?”
    â€œSince high school. I was managing the football team, and Boze was a great tackle. Not much of a student, though, and he wanted to drop out. So my mom and I took him on as a private crusade. I tutored him, and she fed him and read the riot act. She's good at both of those! . . . And he managed to squeak by with a diploma.”
    â€œWhat were his parents doing all this time?”
    â€œHe's an orphan. Grew up in different foster homes. After graduation he got a job as woodsman with a forestry company, and I worked at the old hotel until it was bombed.”
    â€œWhat brought Boze out of the woods?” Qwilleran asked.
    â€œA soft job at the hotel, a small scholarship to MCCC, and a berth on the Moose County team for the