I woke up the next morning with my ear stuck in an afghan hole. There was so much rustling and commotion behind my curtain wall, I stood up, rubbed my eyes, and peeked around the edge.

If I hadn’t seen his long dangly earlobes and the creases on his scruffy neck, I wouldn’t have known it was my dad, but there he stood with his back to me, adjusting a yellow top hat in the rearview mirror. The mystery suit bag was crumpled behind him on the floor.

I squeaked out a little gasp that made Dad look back over his shoulder.

“Oh!” he said, turning all sorts of red. “Good morning, Cass.”

He swiveled his whole self to face me.

“So what do—” His voice cracked the first time, so he had to start over. “So what do you think?” Dad made some nervous Ta-da! arms and pointed to himself.

The afghan fell into a lump at my feet. From head to toe, back to head again, I took in the whole scene. There stood my dad in the yellow top hat, big round green glasses with no glass in them, and a wide-striped, green-and-yellow suit jacket that was a bit snug and buttoned over a crispy white shirt. The jacket had tails in the back and two pockets in the front, one big and one tiny, with a piece of tarnished metal chain looping out of the tiny one. The pants flared at the bottom, and peeking out from the flares were some yellow snakeskin loafers with golden buckles on top. He looked just like the cover of a cheap comic book.

I was utterly flabberwobbled.

“Are you heebed out?” he said. “You’re totally heebed out, aren’t you?”

It was so quiet you could have heard a jaw drop.

“I realize it leaves a little to be desired in the fit, but check it out,” he said. “Two of your new favorite colors.”

It was indeed chartreuse and goldenrod, just like Mom’s shimmery makeup.

“Did you get all that at the Then Again?” I asked.

“Honestly, Cass,” he said. “I know I’m no Toodi Bleu when it comes to fashion, but don’t you think I would have picked something a bit more flattering for myself?

“In fact,” he added, “I think this is a good time for the brand-new, made-up-on-the-spot Rule of The Roast Number Four. Don’t hate the suit—it came with the loot.”

Dad tried to bend over to get the old brown suitcase from under the driver’s seat, but his pants wouldn’t let him.

“Cass, would you mind giving me a hand sliding this thing out?”

I lifted the case with both hands and ran my fingers across the embossed MBM under the handle.

“What do you mean, loot?” I said.

“Gently, gently!” Dad said when I let it drop too hard onto the table. “Delicate stuff inside there.”

He wiped the dust off the lid with his cuff.

“This is the loot I speak of,” he said. “There’s a big family secret inside this case here, Cass, and you and the people of Nimble Creek are about to find out.”

“But what kind of secret?” I said. “And who’s MBM?”

“He’s M. B. McClean,” Dad said. “And you’re looking right at him.”

I thought to myself in my best Aunt Jo voice, You don’t mean it.

“I realize it’s a big transformation,” Dad continued, tugging at his jacket sleeves. “But the thing is, Cass, you and I are in possession of something lots more thrilling than plain old Douglas Nordenhauer has the skills to introduce. It’s going to take an all-out spokesperson to do this job right.

“Now, be honest,” he said, trying to see himself section by section in the rearview mirror. “Are the glasses too silly? No, it’s the hat, isn’t it? The hat’s too much, right?”

Honestly, I figured we’d reached Too Much one green-and-yellow suit ago. My own dad stood before me in someone else’s clothes, second-guessing himself and rambling on about a suitcase full of mystery. I wasn’t sure if I should feel excited or worried. “I’ll take your silence as a resounding yes,” Dad said, tossing the hat onto the couch. “I know the outfit is pretty outrageous. I felt the same way when I found it.”

“Found it where?”

“In the attic with the other things,” he said, nodding toward the suitcase.

I reached for the brown suitcase immediately and was met with a quick “uh-uh” from my dad.

“Not just yet,” he said, pulling a lint roller from his duffel bag.

“Cass, would you mind giving me a good once-over with this? I don’t want to make my first appearance as M. B. McClean looking like a ferret herder or something.”

I made three passes over his back with the sticky roller and let out four sneezes before saying, “I just don’t…I don’t get it.”

“I know,” said Dad. “But just trust me on this. It’s still me under here.”

He took the lint roller and ran it over his pants. By the time he was through, the roller itself could have been mistaken for some kind of critter.

“Bottom line is, you and I are in for some much-needed sparkle today, Cassiopeia,” he said. I knew by the nickname that there was indeed some semblance of dadness under all that getup.

“Now, could you get that big roll of paper from the floorboard in the front?” Dad wheeled the glittered wagon from under the rolltop desk with his foot. He loaded the wagon with both the suitcase and the paper.

“And there’s just one more thing I need your help with before we start our day, partner,” he said. “A folding table that’s stored under the couch. Would you mind getting it and carrying it outside with us?”

I scooted the plastic table away from the couch and laid flat on my tummy to reach under. While my hand patted from one dust clump to another, I could see Dad’s yellow loafers wandering around The Roast in a circle as he mumbled, “Now, where in the world did I put that tambourine?”

“On the floor under the wagon,” I said, remembering that Aunt Jo had once told me to be nice to crazy people because you never know when you might be crazy someday too. And that Mom had mentioned something to me about people being so shocked by a traumatic event, they sometimes act a little weird and unpredictable for a while. Even Uncle Clay wasn’t himself for a whole year or so after his stroke. But try as I might, I sure didn’t remember Uncle Clay ever wearing a stripy costume.

“Come on out whenever you get ready,” Dad said, throwing open the door of The Roast so hard it bounced right back and smacked him in the nose. “The good Nimble Creekians await.”