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Velma’s not a detective for nothing. She knows what Daphne and Fred get up to when they all “split up to look for clues,” even if Shaggy and Scooby are oblivious. That ascot and the scarf don’t really hide much and Fred’s pants are a little tight and Daphne’s dress too clingy to disguise anything (What? She can’t help but look. Observation is her stock and trade after all). She also knows that Fred is not as dim as he seems sometimes and when they run into each other in a darkened room (flashlights coincidentally absent), he knows the bust he’s groping is (considerably) bigger than Daphne’s pert-nippled A-cups and the stockings he has his hands on, the pleated skirt his hands are up, are not the same. But she doesn’t say anything. After all, Daphne’s as silent when Velma “loses” her glasses and runs her hands all over body in the dark, though she’s more responsive than any fake monster. Velma’s used to flimsy excuses and she’s not about to meddle with these. And if they blame Shaggy’s special cigarettes for the mutual giggly groping they finally get up to in the Mystery Machine, well who’s to say otherwise?