Every year in July tourists converged on Santa Fe like swallows returning to Capistrano. With warmer, longer days, it was easy to forget how long and harsh the winter had been. This had been the second year in a row that residents had awakened in February to a two-foot snowfall with four foot drifts, yet the hard times were easily forgotten once spring arrived and tulips and daffodils pushed their way up for warmth and sunshine. Summertime heat made everyone forget there had even been a winter.
Several events were scheduled in the coming weeks for both tourists and locals. In addition to the ethnographic art shows, there was an International Folk Art Market held on the museum grounds just around the corner from the McCabe residence. This event was attended by hordes of buyers looking for bargains from a country they would most likely never visit. On the final weekend was the Spanish Market, which took up the entire area surrounding the Plaza. It was the only time of year Native American vendors were not allowed to hawk their wares under the portal of the Palace of the Governors, their shiny silver jewelry, pottery and beadwork spread out on colorful rugs and blankets over the cold brick sidewalk.
Detective Romero liked to wander around and look at the traditional handcrafts, retablos, Santos and tinwork offered for sale by regional artists. His sister Maria was a regular participant in the market. Last year she gave him a small carved angel whose dress was decorated with flowers. She said it would bring him a new romantic interest. Romero thought the angel was falling down on the job so far.
In late August came the final event: Indian Market, which attracted a huge crowd. Over a hundred thousand people swarmed over every square inch of the downtown plaza. Most locals stayed home and waited for the Fiestas in early September.
Sauntering up Canyon Road, Romero was amazed how little it had changed over the years. Canyon Road remained a tourist draw, although its eateries and galleries regularly changed names and management. The last time he had been on this street was Christmas Eve. He could still remember walking up Acequia Madre Road, circling around to Canyon Road and seeing the whole area ablaze with lights. Hundreds of walls and rooftops were lined with small paper bags filled with sand called farolitos. The candle inside was lit just as darkness set in and burned for about twelve hours. Local citizens and tourists alike braved the sometimes sub-zero temperatures and foot-high snow to trek through the area for a taste of a Santa Fe Christmas straight out of a travel magazine article. Every couple of hundred feet, the warmth from blazing bonfires gathered small crowds around them. Even then Romero felt the loneliness. He missed his parents and the interaction Spanish families enjoyed. All he had was memories.
For a city of its size, Santa Fe was still a small town. Discovery of Anna Mali’s body fueled rumors of the presence of a serial killer in the area. All three Albuquerque television channels kept vans parked outside the County Detention Center waiting for the Sheriff to explain what progress his office was making. He was going to have to come up with something they could chew on pretty quick, but for now, all he said was, “No comment.”
Romero came to a newspaper stand and fumbled in his pocket for coins. A headline story reported: “Several weeks back, well-known resident Tim McCabe was shot while excavating at the San Lazaro Indian ruins south of Santa Fe. Police are still investigating whether the shooting was deliberate or if he was hit by a stray bullet.”
On page five, a story in the same newspaper said: “Relatives called police to say a young woman was reported missing after she failed to show up at work and left her dog with the groomer. Police say there is no connection with the disappearance of a woman reported the previous week.”
That’s how the paper reported it. Young girls came and went around here. They quit their jobs, moved in with boyfriends without telling anyone, and eventually returned home.