Mr. Murder

beyond a mere desire for entertainment and distraction from one's troubles. It was more profound and mysterious than that.
        When a hush had fallen on the room and the moment seemed just right, Marty began to read. Because Charlotte and Emily had insisted he start at the beginning, he recited the verses they had already heard on Saturday and Sunday nights, arriving at that moment when Santa's evil twin stood at the kitchen door of the Stillwater house, intent upon breaking inside.
        "With picks, loids, gwizzels, and rocks, he quickly and silently opens both locks.
        He enters the kitchen without a sound.
        Now chances for devilment truly abound.
        He opens the fridge and eats all the cake, pondering what sort of mess he can make.
        He pours the milk all over the floor, pickles, pudding, ketchup, and Coors.
        He scatters the bread-white and rye and finally he spits right in the pie."
        "Oh, gross," Charlotte said.
        Emily grinned. "Hocked a greenie."
        "What kind of pie was it?" Charlotte wondered.
        Paige said, "Mincemeat."
        "Yuck. Then I don't blame him for spitting in it."
        "At the corkboard by the phone and stool, he sees drawings the kids did at school.
        Emily has painted a kind, smiling face.
        Charlotte has drawn elephants in space.
        The villain takes out a red felt-tip pen, taps it, uncaps it, chuckles, and then, on both pictures, scrawls the word "Poo!" He always knows the worst things to do."
        "He's a critic!" Charlotte gasped, making fists of her small hands and punching vigorously at the air above her bed.
        "Critics," Emily said exasperatedly and rolled her eyes the way she had seen her father do a few times.
        "My God," Charlotte said, covering her face with her hands, "we have a critic in our house."
        "You knew this was going to be a scary story," Marty said.
        "Mad giggles from him continue to bubble, while he gets into far greater trouble.
        He's hugely more evil than he is brave, so then after he loads up the microwave with ten whole pounds of popping corn (oh, we should rue the day he was born), he turns and runs right out of the room, because that old oven is gonna go BOOM!"
        "Ten pounds!" Charlotte's imagination swept her away. She rose up on her elbows, head off the pillows, and babbled excitedly, "Wow, you'd need a forklift and a dump truck to carry it all away, once it was popped, 'cause it'd be like snowdrifts only popcorn, mountains of popcorn. We'd need a vat of caramel and maybe a zillion pounds of pecans just to make it all into popcorn balls. We'd be up to our asses in it."
        "What did you say?" Paige asked.
        "I said you'd need a forklift-"
        "No, that word you used."
        "What word?"
        "Asses," Paige said patiently.
        Charlotte said, "That's not a bad word."
        "Oh?"
        "They say it on TV all the time."
        "Not everything on TV is intelligent and tasteful," Paige said.
        Marty lowered the story notebook. "Hardly anything, in fact."
        To Charlotte, Paige said, "On TV, I've seen people driving cars off cliffs, poisoning their fathers to get the family inheritance, fighting with swords, robbing banks-all sorts of things I better not catch either of you doing."
        "Especially the father-poisoning thing," Marty said.
        Charlotte said, "Okay, I won't say 'ass."
        "Good."
        "What should I say instead? Is 'butt' okay?"
        "How does 'bottom' strike you?" Paige asked.
        "I guess I can live with that."
        Trying not to burst out laughing, not daring to glance at Marty, Paige said, "You say 'bottom' for a while, and then as you get older you can slowly work your way up to 'butt," and when you're really mature you can say 'ass."
        "Fair enough," Charlotte agreed, settling back on her pillows.
        Emily, who had been thoughtful and silent through all of this, changed the subject. "Ten pounds of unpopped corn wouldn't fit in the microwave."
        "Of course it would," Marty assured her.
        "I don't think so."
        "I researched this before I started writing," he said firmly.
        Emily's face was puckered with skepticism.
        "You know how I research everything," he insisted.
        "Maybe not this time," she said doubtfully.
        Marty said, "Ten pounds."
        "That's a lot of