Mojave, California -- September 13, 2007

A candle lit dinner under the Mojave moon. The theme for the dinner certainly sounded a lot more romantic than it was.

A large concrete slab in the desert was all that remained of the now infamous ranch. Grills had been set along one edge where two men in chef’s hats grilled Santa Maria barbeque and corn on the cob. There were two cash bars, one at the front where a podium and portable screen were set up, and one at the back. Then, about twenty feet away from the concrete slab, an area had been cleared in the desert and cordoned off by a white sheet. This was where the majority of the food was plated and put on trays for the servers.

With a heavy sigh, Mia Fairbanks hefted a tray of cheesecake slices. She carried them toward the white curtain snapping back and forth in the wind. Beyond that barrier sat one hundred people, and one or more of them could hold the key to her past. But, getting to the other side was akin to crossing the Great Sahara Desert. Nearly impossible. Only the ‘trained’ servers were allowed to pass into the dining area, and she was untrained temporary help.

She hadn’t been able to talk to a single guest yet, and it didn’t look as if that was going to change. Right now, servers passed around the trays of dessert. Later, while the main entertainment, speeches, a slide presentation, and a commemorative video were presented, she’d be washing hundreds of dishes and repacking them into padded containers. Needless to say, she’d be here long after the guests had gone home.

What had seemed like a dream come true a week ago when she got the job was turning into yet another dead end. Mia fingered the locket around her neck. To her amazement, it popped open. After five years of fruitless fidgeting with the clasp on the locket to get it open, she’d given up on seeing what was inside. She glanced at the pictures. On the left, she recognized the smiling face of her grandmother. On the right, was a faded picture of a man in uniform? A sudden flurry of activity caught her attention so she hurriedly tucked it back under her shirt, vowing to take a closer look at it later.

“You, there.” Giselle, the owner of the catering service, motioned to her.

“Yes?” Shit, had she done something wrong or had the woman somehow guessed she was here under false pretenses? Mia started toward Giselle, feelings of guilt washing over her.

“Mia?”

“Yes.” The word came out in a hoarse whisper.

“Dawn tripped over one of the electric cords along the floor and sprained her ankle. You’re about the right size for this uniform.” Giselle held out a black skirt and white shirt. “I need you to put it on and serve the cheesecake.”

“Oh, okay.”

Giselle thrust the clothing at Mia. “And hurry.”

She sat the tray back down on a table and took the uniform and hurried over to the row of bright blue portable toilets. She slipped into the handicapped one, as it was slightly bigger than the others, and quickly squirmed out of her clothing. She pulled on the white off-the-shoulder peasant blouse and tight black skirt.

When she was dressed, she quickly washed her hands and went back to work. She grabbed the tray filled with slices of New York style as well as strawberry-topped cheesecake and headed out into the dining area. Hopefully fate would be kind enough to dish up information along with this chance to mingle with the only people who knew her grandmother and might have more information about her. Along with the locket, the only other clue was an article torn out of a long-defunct newspaper. It stated only that her grandmother had been incarcerated as a German spy. There had been no further information and other searches Mia conducted had turned up nothing. None of the books she’d read about the ranch, or the autobiographies she’d been able to uncover of the people who had lived and worked mentioned the discovery of a spy. Finding information at this birthday dinner was a long shot, but she couldn’t help the sudden surge of hope that filled her heart.

As she slid out into the dining area, Giselle gestured her toward a large table at the front.

Mia strode toward the head table with the elderly aviatrix sitting at the place of honor. What wonderful luck. These were the exact folks she wanted to talk to. At first, she took the stunned silence to be a result of the whistling feedback of the microphone. Damn, her timing sucked. She had hoped to catch snippets of conversation, although the chance of the discussion focusing on a spy sixty-odd years ago was slim; however, stranger things had happened. She distributed the plates quickly, hoping to loiter by the side of the tables and catch a few minutes of the presentation.

As she passed out the last piece of cake from the serving tray, she looked up. All of their eyes were on her, a shocked expression on each and every face.

“Oh my God, it’s Betty,” someone said.

A dry claw of a hand grabbed her arm. Just then, a jet flew overhead, breaking the sound barrier. The resulting sonic boom made Mia shriek and jump. She blinked. And when she opened her eyes, she couldn’t believe what she saw.

Instead of the open desert, there were now rough adobe walls. A few empty tables were scattered across the white tile floor. The smell of roasting meat was gone, replaced by the scent of beer and stale cigarette smoke. The biggest difference was in the faces staring back at her. No longer ancient, a young and vital aviatrix stared at her with big brown eyes.

Like an echo, a voice said, “Oh my God, it’s Betty.”