The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree (Berkley Prime Crime)

wondered if his trip to Monroeville had anything to do with it. And perhaps he no longer feared that he was in danger of being targeted as a suspect.
    “Sure thing,” he said, in what just missed being a patronizing tone. “What’s up? Did one of your pets run away? Got a little problem with the girls in your garden club?”
    Lizzy replied quickly, because it looked like Verna might explode. “Oh, no, nothing like that,” she said, dismissing his offensive remark sweetly. In her experience, even the nicest of men often had lapses. The best thing to do was ignore them. She smiled at him. “But the subject is a little ... well, touchy, I’m afraid. May I get you a cup of coffee? Then we can sit down and talk about it.”
    “Wonderful,” Mr. Moseley said warmly, returning her smile and proving (in Lizzy’s mind, anyway) that you really can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.
    “Now, then,” he said, as they sat down in his office, he behind his desk with a steaming cup of coffee, Lizzy and Verna across from him. “How can I help you two pretty ladies?”
    Lizzy and Verna exchanged glances, Verna trying not to roll her eyes. Then Lizzy leaned forward and laid Bunny’s photograph on the desk in front of Mr. Moseley. She sat back, not saying a word.
    He frowned. “What? What’s this?” He was staring at the photo now, his eyes getting big.
    Verna spoke up. “I think you can see what it is. Or who it is, rather. Bunny Scott, posing in her underwear.”
    He set his coffee cup down so hard that the coffee sloshed into the saucer. “Yes, of course. But—”
    “The car is the Pontiac that was reported stolen by Fred Harper,” Verna went on.
    “How do you know?” Mr. Moseley asked sharply.
    “It’s the same license plate,” Lizzy said. “You can confirm that with Charlie Dickens. He copied it from the wreck.”
    “Her underwear,” Mr. Moseley muttered, still staring at the photo. “Out in public like that. Such a sweet little thing—I wouldn’t have thought she could be so—” He sighed. “But she lied to me. Her whole story was a lie, from start to finish. So I don’t suppose I should be surprised that she’d pose for ... for cheesecake.”
    “You are entirely missing the point, Mr. Moseley,” Verna said firmly. “This has nothing to do with underwear or cheesecake. We found the photograph in the drawer of Bunny’s dressing table. It proves that she was associated with that car before last weekend. It was no accident—if you’ll pardon the pun—that she died in it.”
    “The car belongs to Dr. Harper, the dentist in Monroeville,” Lizzy said gently. “I’ve spoken to him. It turns out that he knew Bunny quite well—well enough to give her a pair of pearl earrings.”
    Mr. Moseley made a noise deep in his throat.
    Lizzy gave him a sympathetic look, but went on. “Bunny also knew the owner’s brother, Mr. Fred Harper. He lives here in Darling now. He works at the bank.”
    “He’s the man who reported the car stolen,” Verna put in. “He told the sheriff he didn’t know the woman he saw stealing it, even though he described her to a T.” She added, with only the slightest hint of sarcasm, “Harper knew her, all right. In fact, his brother says that’s him.” She pointed to the shadow of the man in the fedora. “The man who took this photo.”
    Mr. Moseley raised his eyes from the photo. “You say you found this in Bunny’s room?”
    “Yes,” Lizzy replied. She put an envelope on the desk. “The same place we found this letter.”
    Mr. Moseley leaned back, breathing out a gusty sigh of relief
    “We didn’t think,” Lizzy said softly, “that it was a good idea to leave it where we found it. Since we knew that your connection to Bunny had nothing to do with her death, we thought you ought to have it back.”
    Quickly, as if he were afraid that she might snatch the letter away from him, he picked it up and slipped it into his desk drawer. “Thank you,” he said. His glance went to Verna and back to Lizzy. “I know I’ve been ... foolish. I’m grateful for your help.”
    “That’s good,” Verna said. “Because we need yours.”
    He tilted his head warily. “What kind of help?”
    “We think Fred Harper shot Bunny Scott,” Lizzy said, and told him about the .22 revolver Dr. Harper had loaned his brother.
    He stared. “How do you ... Why—?”
    “We’ll tell you,” Verna said, and when she had finished, he shook his head.
    “How in