The mean neighbor and Swedish angst: Current New Yorker story set in Stockholm

The Apartment, the short story in the current New Yorker, by Jensen Beach (first I've heard of this author) is set in Stockholm - takes a bit before we realize this - so of course it's a story I read w/ some interest; to a degree, I felt it could have been set in New York or just about any city, but as I read further I came to see that there was a quality in this story particular to Sweden: a repression and sense of shame so typical of the Swedish psyche and much recounted in Swedish literature and, especially, cinema. The story is entirely about a 50-something woman who lives w/ her cold and distant husband in a small apartment complex in Stockholm; a new neighbor moves in (stranger comes to town), taking over the unit of an elderly woman who died in her sleep and whose body rotted for several days in the apartment before the stench aroused anyone's attention (this, too, is a Swedish motif - the loneliness and isolation, even w/in the urban crowd). The story at first seems quite dull and even insipid in its style: a series of short, declarative sentences that seem at first just the trivia data of the events her day - lunch w/ her (adult) son, and so forth. But we very gradually realize that this woman is troubled and has a secret life - she has a serious drinking problem that she conceals, or tries to, by buying some of her alcohol outside of her neighborhood. Through her afternoon of drinking alone at home, she ponders the new neighbor, who she believes may be the daughter of a professor w/ whom she'd had a relationship shortly before her marriage. The story becomes even creepier at the end, when she visits the new neighbor, ostensibly to welcome her, but manages, in her drunken state, to say some incomprehensible things - I think you could be my daughter - and some reprehensible things: A woman died here; it took months to get rid of the stench. The story takes us by surprise - as Swedes can do - seemingly a placid and rather dull series of events, but the dull style is a mask for great turbulence and trouble. On a final note, however: somehow, somewhere I recently read a story or saw a film or somehow heard of an event like this: someone cruelly informing a new neighbor about the troubled history of the house/apartment they'd just bought: A Shirley Jackson story? Alice Munro? I can't remember.