Time for another exciting chapter for this story, albeit a shorter one. Lots of OCs in this one, but I think you'll survive. And we'll get to see Miguel later. So let's jump right in.

Martín Pérez-López Campos's phone rarely stopped ringing for long. It was one of the side effects of his career. He was almost always receiving calls or making them. Chasing after a story often involved that kind of legwork. But since he was between projects at the moment, he wasn't expecting a call.

So when the shrill ringing filled his apartment that morning, he knew it was either an informant with the first crumbs of a new story or a personal call.

Picking up the receiver on the fourth ring, he greeted, "Hola?"

"Martín? This is Esther López. Your papá's prima?" said the voice on the other end of the line.

"Prima Esther?" He remembered her fondly from growing up in Santa Cecilia, but he certainly didn't expect to hear from her out of the blue. "Is everything all right? Did something happen at home?"

"Nothing is wrong. But I have a question for you, Martín."

Settling into his chair and resting his elbow on the desk next to the telephone, he said, "Anything."

"I need you to break a story. One that a lot of people aren't going to like. But the world deserves the truth and I know you'll give it to them."

Martín smiled, already intrigued by her vague words. It sounded like a challenge and he always did like a challenge. It was why he moved to Mexico City in the first place. It was why he moved away from the rest of his family, though he made certain to visit them around the holidays. There were far more opportunities for an investigative reporter there. Especially when it came to interesting and difficult stories.

And Esther wouldn't bring him a story unless it was particularly interesting.

"Some of the groundwork is already done," she continued. "I can mail you a copy of the research so far. And a list of authors who might be useful to contact."

"And what story am I supposed to be investigating, Prima Esther?" asked Martín.

For a moment, the phone was silent. All that Martín could hear was the ceiling fan overhead and the traffic outside his apartment. He took this moment to pull his notepad and pencil across the table.

"You remember those stories about Ernesto de la Cruz?"

Picking up the pencil with his free hand, Martín said, "I grew up in Santa Cecilia like the rest of our family. And I haven't been gone that long. I remember the stories, sí."

"Well, we may have proof that early in his career," she said slowly, "Ernesto had a partner. He toured with another musician named Héctor Rivera."

"All right," said Martín, scribbling down the name. Then he frowned thoughtfully. "Rivera? Any relationship to—"

"The Rivera shoemakers? The ones with the music ban because their ancestor left to play songs and never came home? Sí. And there's more."

"More than a possible connection between a family of music-hating shoemakers and the greatest musician in Mexican history?" asked Martín.

"There's evidence that Héctor Rivera wrote all of Ernesto's songs years before Señor de la Cruz claimed to," Esther said.

Martín dropped the pencil. The story was just as interesting as promised. Possibly even more so. Investigating the topic would stir up more controversy than he could imagine, even if turned out to be a dead end. And since Esther was the one bringing it to him, he doubted it was a false lead.

"You know that if I pursue this story, I'll be facing every lawyer that his old records company can dig up, right? They won't want anything to threaten the song rights and their money. Which is exactly what this story would do," said Martín.

"Would that actually stop you?"

Laughing, Martín said, "No. Not even slightly."

Yes, he got into this job because he thought people deserve to know the truth, no matter the subject. It was why he investigated every story so thoroughly. Even when he ended up in a few tight spots over the course of his career, he refused to back down and compromise his integrity. He truly believed that people deserved the truth.

But he also became an investigative journalist because he liked it. He liked uncovering all these hidden facts and unraveling lies. He liked solving the mystery of it all. He liked the challenge.

And this was going to be the challenge of a lifetime. He was going to have so much fun unraveling this.

"Go ahead and mail me the research," he said. "I'll see what you've got so far and move forward from there."

"Gracias. I appreciate it."

"De nada. You know that I'd probably pay for a chance to investigate a story like this. But then," he said, still grinning excitedly at the prospect, "you and Tía Helena always loved a good mystery. Are you surprised that I like them too?"

Tomás didn't often ask his abuela for stories. He listened around Día de Muertos, but that was what the holiday was supposed to be about. But Miguel kept talking about his Papá Héctor, his mysterious musician ancestor. He'd even pointed out how the man would have been in Santa Cecilia at the same time as Ernesto de la Cruz. Tomás liked to entertain the possibility that they could have played together a few times before Ernesto de la Cruz left. And that sparked an idea. What if he had someone in his family that interesting too? And thus Tomás was quizzing his abuela that evening.

She worked her way through an old photo album, naming each face, their relation, and brief stories about them. Tomás recognized most of them from the ofrenda. But he wanted more than that. He wanted to learn about the more obscure members of the family. So with each member, Tomás asked if they had siblings, if they had primos, or if they were married. Anything to spark her memory.

If Miguel had cool relatives, then Tomás was going to find some too.

"I don't suppose he's a musician," he muttered as she turned to an older foto.

Mamá Lucía paused, frowning thoughtfully. After a few moments, she blinked in surprise.

"No, Mario wasn't a musician," said Mamá Lucía slowly. "But… there was…" She shook her head a little. "I haven't thought about him in ages. I'd almost forgotten about him."

"Who?"

"A distant primo of mine from before we moved to Santa Cecilia," said Mamá Lucía. "He died before I was born. The Spanish Flu. It wiped out most of that part of the family. I heard a few stories when I was a little girl though. He never married and never had children, but he could make even the most worn out instrument sing. He wasn't as famous as Señor de la Cruz, but they apparently liked him. He survived the Revolution through sheer luck only to die from illness. Such a shame."

Well, it wasn't much so far, but it could be interesting. A musician relative who lived through the Revolution. Maybe there could be some cool stories, even if he didn't know any celebrities. Technically, he didn't even know if Miguel's great-great-grandfather did. It would still be something semi-interesting to share with his classmates. Maybe Miguel would be impressed whenever he stopped being completely distracted by his new baby sister.

"Tell me what you remember, Mamá Lucía. What was his name?"

Smiling with a distant look in her eyes, she said, "Carlos. Carlos Mata."

Miguel stared through the bars of the crib, humming softly as the baby slept on her back. Socorro wasn't the first baby that he'd seen. Benny and Manny were this small only a few years ago. But that was different. He was just a little kid when they were born, a nine-year-old kid hiding a big secret and trying to learn how to play a guitar in his spare time.

And Socorro was different than those two. His little sister, with her big eyes and tiny fingers, fascinated him. And when she heard music, she would stop crying and calm down. Socorro loved music and Miguel loved her.

"And you'll have music," he whispered. "You'll be able to sing and dance as much as you want. You won't have to sneak around and hide it. You'll never live with a music ban."

Reaching through the bars, Miguel stroked her hand. A quiet whimper of complaint slipped out of her, but Socorro didn't wake up. She was so small and cute. He couldn't stop staring at her even after a couple weeks of watching her.

"I'll sing you all sorts of songs," he continued. "And I'll tell you all about our family. All of them. Papá Héctor, Mamá Imelda, Papá Julio, Tía Rosita, Tía Victoria, Tío Oscar, and Tío Felipe. I'll tell you all the stories."

He continued to stroke her hand. Her skin was soft and smooth. Her fingernails looked too tiny to be real. Miguel couldn't believe how much time he was spending with her. It was probably a good thing that he didn't need to do the research anymore. He just couldn't leave her alone.

Was this anything like how Papá Héctor felt about Mamá Coco?

"I'm going to be the best big brother possible," he said quietly. "You'll see. I'll even show you how to keep Abuelita from completely stuffing you with food. And I'll take you to Mariachi Plaza when you get bigger."

Miguel reluctantly pulled his arm back through the crib bars. He couldn't stay there all day. Mamá would probably be in soon to check on Socorro. And he should work a little more on learning to read music. He was starting to remember a few of the symbols now.

"I'll be back later," Miguel whispered.

Rosa ran her fingers over the smooth dark wood, staring at the way the light reflected off the surface. The violin was absolutely beautiful. The texture of the strings, the darkness she glimpsed through the carved openings, and the slight heft in her hands didn't seem real. And she'd never expected Abuelita to choose such a gift. A musical instrument…

She reached for the bow and the small cube of rosin from the case. After a few visits to the plaza to question the musicians and looking over a few books, Rosa believed that she knew the basics. She carefully tightened the horsehair on the bow and ran the rosin along the length, finishing up the basic preparations as far as she remembered.

Rosa paused, glancing at the bedroom door to make certain it was closed. She wasn't breaking any rules and she wasn't doing anything wrong, though part of it still felt like it. The rest of the family knew what she was probably doing. But for her first attempt, Rosa wanted a little privacy. There was no reason to start off with an audience.

Taking a moment to straighten her glasses and shifting her position on the edge of her bed so she felt more comfortable, Rosa wrapped her left hand around the neck of the instrument and lifted it from the case. She carefully slipped the violin under her chin, her fingers resting on the strings. Her right hand came up with the bow to the proper position. Everything looked right so far.

With a slow and steady motion, Rosa pulled the bow across the string and—

Squawk

Rosa flinched at the harsh sound, nearly dropping the bow. Okay, that didn't work. Even someone who spent a lifetime under a music ban could tell that sounded bad. She must have pushed down too hard or something.

She could figure this out. If she could get good grades in school and learn the basics of making shoes, then she should be able to work out how to play at least a few notes on her own. Maybe she would get proper advice and lessons later on, but she wanted to do this part on her own.

If her primo could teach himself to play entire songs while hiding up in the attic, then she could manage a few notes that didn't make her grit her teeth.

Readjusting her grip slightly, Rosa positioned the bow lightly on the thinnest string. Only the first string and with only the faintest pressure. Once more, she drew the bow across the instrument.

Soft and sweet, a wavering note rang out. It wasn't loud, but it was pretty. Reversing the direction so that she was pushing instead of pulling continued the sound.

Growing a bit bolder, Rosa pressed her index finger down on the string and listened to how it altered the pitch. A few more minutes of careful experimentation produced a variety of sounds. Not all of them were as pretty, but none of them were as bad as her initial sound.

She certainly wouldn't be playing songs by morning, but she at least felt a bit more confident about this now. She at least had an idea of what she was doing. Rosa was also beginning to see why Miguel went to so much trouble to seek out music in the first place.

"Are you kidding me? You already have that lying, murdering músico on film!" shouted Imelda into the telephone receiver. "A whole crowd of people saw him trying to kill my great-great-grandson! You have a recording of him throwing Miguel off a building! What more do you need?"

Julio cringed as she listened to the response on the other end of the line. The telephone in the workshop mostly served to discuss shoe orders, but not today. The entire family had paused their work when Mamá Imelda's polite professionalism upon answering gave way to her current displeasure. Julio greatly pitied the poor soul talking to her.

It was probably a good thing she answered in the workshop rather than in the house. Héctor probably didn't need to listen to this.

"No!" snarled Imelda. "You have that man's confession. You have the recordings of his other crimes from Día de Muertos. And if we must, we'll come in. But you will leave him alone. You will not make him go anywhere near Ernesto. Never again. And you will ensure we remain out of the public's sight. Ernesto has caused this family enough issues and I won't let him or his fame harm us any longer. Do I make myself clear?"

She listened for several moments, her expression fierce. Imelda nodded a few times and gave one-word responses to questions that her family couldn't hear. They just stayed frozen and silent at their workstations, wondering what was happening. Finally, she snapped a sharp farewell and slammed the receiver down to end the call. It was a miracle that nothing cracked on impact.

While Imelda was still gritting her teeth and breathing hard, Victoria crossed her arms and asked her abuela, "And what was that about?"

"Ernesto de la Cruz and his trial," she said, practically spitting out the words. "Apparently in order to get through this legal mess and lock him away, they can't just do the obvious thing and just lock him up. They need to hear the story from half a dozen people even when everyone knows the truth. Even when they have his actions on film and his confession to murder."

"They want Héctor to give his testimony?" asked Rosita.

Barking out a harsh laugh, Imelda said, "They can want whatever they like, but we're not putting him through that. The last few months have been hard enough already. Anything that Héctor could tell them, Ernesto has already confessed. Those people will gain nothing by trying to make him sit there in front of a jury and talk about how his best friend betrayed and murdered him!"

"Then," said Oscar carefully, eyeing her furious expression, "what else—"

"—do they want?" Felipe continued.

Taking a deep breath in a visible attempt to calm herself, Imelda said, "Julio."

"What?" he yelped, pulling his hat down tight. "Why me?"

"Since you are the closest dead relative to Miguel, you get the final say on what happens with Ernesto's belongings when they find him guilty of trying to murder our boy," said Imelda. "But it shouldn't be difficult, míjo. All you'll need to do is describe what happened to Miguel that night and tell them what to do with Ernesto's property, belongings, and offerings when he's officially found guilty. Just go along with what I say and it should go smoothly."

"And what are you going to do about the paparazzi, Mamá Imelda?" Victoria asked as Julio tried to push down the waves of panic. "We managed to stay out of the spotlight so far, but I've heard enough of the news reports. The courthouse is surrounded by reporters trying to catch a glimpse of the closed court. If they see you and Papá walk in, they'll swoop in on the workshop within an hour."

"Apparently they have an inner courtyard out of sight of the crowds that they use to ferry in witnesses and such via alebrijes," said Imelda. "The only ones who'll see us will be the judge, the lawyers, and the jury. We should be able to keep our names out of the mess for a little longer."

Julio was thankful for that much. He dreaded the idea of fame and didn't want it seeking them out. Having that many people watching constantly seemed wrong. Even thinking about it felt suffocating. How could anyone live like that?

"When do we need to go?" Julio asked.

"Tomorrow, bright and early. They offered their own alebrije for transportation, but Pepita should be fine. She isn't too distinctive at a distance, so riding her shouldn't lead back to our home or business."

Oh… Flying on Pepita wasn't exactly his favorite activity. She made him almost as nervous as Imelda in one of her more intense moods. Maybe it was her size or her large fangs, but the alebrije was intimidating and her unnerving eyes always made him feel like a cornered mouse.

But as anxious as he was about flying to the courtyard on Pepita, the idea of arguing over it with Mamá Imelda was even more terrifying.

So he was going to fly across the city in the morning, give his statement, and tell them to give all of Ernesto's stuff to the people of Shantytown like Imelda suggested. He could handle it.

"And now that we've got that sorted out, let's get back to work. We have orders to fill," said Imelda.

Thankful to focus on more comfortable and familiar things again, Julio picked up the in-progress wingtips on the bench. The workshop filled with the sounds of sewing machines and light hammering once more. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Mamá Imelda had pulled back out those shoes again. The ones that she kept undoing and redoing, never satisfied with even a single stitch. Maybe she claimed that she was working on a special order, but the family could guess the truth.

But if Imelda didn't want to admit that she was making the shoes for Héctor, just as Julio gave Coco the first pair that he made and Elena made Franco boots and so on, then they could keep quiet for now. They knew what the gesture implied. They didn't have to discuss it.

Though things would be so much simpler if Mamá Imelda would stop avoid Héctor.

In music, a "call and response" is a succession of two distinct phrases usually written in different parts of the music, where the second phrase is heard as a direct commentary on or in response to the first. Like the "shave and a haircut… Two bits!" knocking pattern.

In this case, it is also a pun on the phone calls that begin and end this chapter.

And while I played brass instruments when he was older, I played a violin briefly when I was around eight. It probably seemed obvious with Rosa's section.