Free CONFORMITY (Book Two of The Criminogenic Trilogy) by BT Murphy

Chapter One             
    Peter Ronin hated the summer. He was glad that the university had closed its doors to give the students a reprieve from the unforgiving heat wave that had lasted the whole season. He missed having something productive to do, even though he wasn’t entirely sure that his students even liked him.  They attended his classes, and he was grateful to share his knowledge with willing listeners, even if they were only pretending.  Today was mercilessly hot, and the sun beat down on Peter’s shoulders, encouraging even more sweat to drench his shirt. He was gardening today. He tolerated gardening, and the fresh air was soothing for him, so he endured the sunburn and dirt caked fingers. Since he had so much time on his hands during the summer closure at the university, he had to fill the empty hours with something productive.  He had grown up around gardeners, and their air of dirty fingernails and grassy perfume.  The chore he saw it as provided him with a hint of nostalgia for a simpler time in his life.
    Beatrice, the president of the Community Garden Club, came over to Peter, beaming her forced fluorescent smile at him. Peter had to stifle a scowl, twisting his mouth into a grimacing grin. It was as authentic a smile as he could manage for the woman.  Her sun-weathered features and affection for minor beautification procedures had left her with a tight seam of leather skin.  Beatrice used her position within the Garden Club to her full advantage - a former beauty queen and trophy wife – she needed some way to stay in the spotlight.  Being in command over flora allowed her that minor control over her surroundings.
    “Peter, darling!” she drawled. “Be a dear, and help Marguerite with her bulbs.  She’s such a klutz with those bulbs, aren’t you Marguerite?” Beatrice proclaimed with her condescending discontent toward the colorful, stout woman.
    Marguerite was a plump woman.  She was kneeling in the dirt in front of him, tending to her garden plot.  She turned around to face Peter, and acknowledged Beatrice with an empty smile.  Her muddy, brown eyes gave away her dissatisfaction, while freckled cheeks plumped up under false smiles of contentment. 
     
    “Oh, umm, of course, Beatrice. Marguerite, let me, umm, help you out there.” Peter shuffled to his feet and over to Marguerite’s plot. Beatrice had moved over to Peter’s plot to give it a disapproving snort.
    Peter knelt down beside Marguerite, and caught a malicious scowl on her face. He smiled at her, genuinely comforted that someone else shared in his suffering. She looked up at him and caught his moustache-hidden grin. She nervously started straightening invisible creases on the skirt of her dress, silently adjusting her expressions.  Replacing the unpleasant giveaway of her unhappiness with another strained smile, Peter realized that he looked ridiculous holding his unnatural smile, and ducked his head down to handle the plants. He was coming to the realization that she may have been scowling at him and his eager gardening techniques as well.  She too may have felt the same distain for Peter that Beatrice didn’t bother hiding anymore. Looking at the progress Marguerite was making with the bulbs, he saw the damage that she had done.  Crushed bulbs and soggy ground, with a dirt covered Marguerite looking quite like a tubby toddler playing in the mud.
    “Okay, Marguerite,” Peter said, exasperated, “the best way—“
    “Maggie!” Marguerite hissed sharply.
    “Excuse me,” Peter replied with forced politeness. He studied her for a moment while she struggled to overcome her frustration. With inner monologues and deep breaths, she seemed to calm herself down enough to reply.
    “I prefer to be called Maggie.”
    “Oh, I, umm, I didn’t know.  My apologies.”
    “Of course not, how could you?” she said, her irritation returning. “But Beatrice knows. She just insists on calling me by my whole