Grammar Kills

So I come home each day to discover that someone has broken into my house and left me a gift--a quilt here, an embroidered pillowcase there. By the time the intruder has left me a shoebox diarama (horses made out of cottonballs painted blue) I've discovered that the gifts coincide with a string of murders. I write a letter asking the intruder to stop; he returns it with grammar corrections.